I haven’t written in exactly 30 weeks.
Fear of jinxing my pregnancy maybe. Or a bit of irony considering the last gut-wrenching entry.
On June 11, I woke up feeling like I wanted to rip my Kleenex-abused face off and cut down every tree in Oklahoma. I’ve never experienced allergies like I have in this pollen-ridden state. Jake suggested I call my doctor and get an allergy shot since I’d be spending a week in the “mountains” for Young Women’s camp — like a spiritual retreat filled with hundreds of girls, bugs, pranks and late-night stories.
Since my own Doc. P didn’t have to work until 12:30 that day, I convinced him to come with my to my appointment because I am in love with my family practice doctor. It was time my two bffs met each other. We drove separately since he’d have to leave immediately after. (Good man, eh? Tagged along just for me.)
After my two favorite doctors finished making small chat, we discussed getting a shot. Per my usual the last 12 months I said, “But if I’m pregnant by chance, can I still get the shot? I mean, I’m two days late.” Usually by that point I’ve taken three tests, but up until now I’d only taken one. Like a script she said, “Well no, if you’re pregnant you can’t get the shot. We’d better do a urine test.”
She and I have been through this before. She looks me in the eyes and repeats, “It’s a God thing. When it’s supposed to happen, it will. I promise.” Deep down we both know it will be negative but instead of bursting my bubble, she lets me take the test. I usually go “tinkle” (as Mama Willie still says) in the cup only to find out it’s negative. So this time I told her, “If it’s negative, please don’t tell me. Just come in with the needle for my shot and pretend I never took the test.”
Almost in tears I retreated to the bathroom. Nervous, anxious, doubtful — I felt it all. Yes, there were even “signs” right then that indicated I was starting — to the point where I set the cup down and decided not to subject myself to another letdown. After a minute of mental ping pong, I changed my mind and peed, just in case.
I moseyed back to the room and took my place on the scrunchy paper, prepared to drop my pants and get my shot. Jake and I talked about the pictures of Ireland on the wall and how cool I was that I went there. Obviously. Then the doctor walked in: “Sorry, Brooke, (cue meltdown) but you won’t be getting your shot today — you’re pregnant.” (Instant switch from meltdown to shock.)
Tears welled up from 13 months of waiting barreled down my face. And his. And hers. After she grabbed me for a hug, I buried myself into Jake’s chest with my hands over my mouth, sobbing like our future newborn. She quickly left the room and told us to take our time.
After having those sacred minutes to ourselves, we walked out of the room with much bigger smiles than when we entered. And at the end of the hallway were two nurses and our doctor — waiting to congratulate us with our positive pregnancy in a bag to take home.
Now I’m sitting here in Jake’s OSU sweatshirt and Christmas pajama pants, just five weeks and five days away from meeting Baby P. It’s been a crazy eight months and I am still in shock that I'm even pregnant.
I can’t explain what a tender mercy that was, to find out like we did. I had taken so many tests in the bathroom, usually with Jake gone, expecting to find out the news that way. But to have someone come into a room and announce it to both of us was so special. And exciting.
And the funniest part? I haven’t even had any allergies since.
One of his excited faces. In case you couldn't tell.
|His forced excited face upon my request. In case (ahem) you couldn't tell.|
|My favorite take-home prize from any doctor's appointment I've ever had.|
|Just after the news. Crossing my fingers Baby P looks just like him.|