The BEST Kind of Surprises!

I met my new doctor yesterday. Because of insurance issues (i.e. not having any), I hadn't been to the doctor yet for this pregnancy. Stating the obvious - I was super freaked out about the baby's health. Waiting 12 weeks to see the doctor is just too long if you ask me, and I've been really anxious to make sure it's okay.

So there I go, 8 am, scared to death because I very clearly remember the misery that is The First Appointment. It's a combination of pap smear, breast exam, blood work, and anxiety. I was about to bolt when they called my name and asked me to come back to an exam room. My poor husband was having to talk me down off the ledge just to get me back there.

Then, there it was - the thing I had forgotten to be scared of. The SCALE.

I asked the girl to please not say the number out loud, so I could close my eyes and pretend I still weigh 127 lbs. She did as I asked, while laughing at me, and I moved on to worrying about the exam and needles part of the appointment.

"Dr Ward will be in to see you in just a minute," she lies, and walks away, closing the door behind her.

I'm thinking, where is the gown? (and no, I am not referring to a beautiful dress worn at special ocassions) Why haven't I been asked to undress and leave myself completely vulnerable (not to mention freezing) while I wait for impending doom?

My poor husband has to squeeze my hand and try to act like he's not freaked out as well, since this is a first for him. (Since he and I started dating AFTER Joshua was born, and he went to Basic Training immediately after finding out I was pregnant with Asher, he's never done this before. He did a VERY good job at keeping me calm and keeping his cool, in case anyone is keeping score.) He even somehow convinced me that the box of EXTRA LARGE gloves hanging on the wall weren't because the doctor had gigantic hands. (I now know better.)

The door opens, and who is it? Nope, not the promised doctor, but something resembling a nurse (CNA? You never know) carrying a huge tray full of a billion needles and other terrifying things relating to extracting blood from humans - and not in a sexy-Twilighty-way. I start to hyperventilate, and Steve starts to smile. (It's not his fault, he gets giddy when he's uncomfortable about pain. Once he broke his hand, and when they pushed the bone back into place, I watched him laugh hysterically like a mental patient.)

The girl looks at me like I'm a bit of a nutcase, while I breathe in and out and try not to pass out. She puts the tournaquette on my arm and I say, "I can't feel my toes." She looks at me with another twisted look on her face and sticks a needle in my arm. I start to compliment her good work (since there was minimal pain and I didn't even get the urge to hurt her), when I instead want to scream out in pain. Even with my eyes squished tightly shut, I can tell she's jerked the needle and there has GOT to be a lot of blood.

Can't feel my knees.

She says, "You're bleeding out," in kind of a 'hmm, how did that happen' sort of way.

Do I still have legs??

Steve looks shocked. Then he sees my terror and smooths out his face into a smile. He squeezes my hand, which reminds me that I'm unable to squeeze my other hand - which of course puts me over the edge. I feel her put a cotton ball where the needle used to be, and she says again, "For some reason you bled out," like she's still confused about how her SLASHING MY SKIN made me bleed.

Why do they let just anyone do this? I wonder for the 8 billionth time since I first got my blood drawn when I was 12.

She sees the look on my face (and, inevitably, notices how pale I am and wrongly assumes it's because of the blood). She says, "Maybe we'll just try to get the rest of the labs next time," and backs out of the room with her giant tray of sadistic tools.

Enter: Doctor.

This is it, I think. The next round of torture. Prepare to be told to strip.

But he never tells me to strip. After taking a bit of a history about my other two children and informing me I am in fact 15 WEEKS ALONG - not 12 or 13 like I'd been thinking, he says, "Ok Aubrey, we're going to do an ultrasound and take a look at that baby. We can probably tell the sex of the baby as well today if you'd like to know."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Seriously??" I say like an idiot.

"Seriously," he says, like he's speaking to a 12-year-old Valley Girl.

I practically jump off the table and hug him, I'm so excited, but instead I expose my stomach for the hot goo he squeezes on it and stare at the screen waiting to see my baby for the very first time.

THERE IT IS. A baby. A real, true, live baby, moving around.... heart beating and everything!!!!! Shaped like a BABY! Fingers, toes, legs, torso, eyes, mouth, nose, brain.... All there and looking happy to see me.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen long enough to check Steve's face, but I could feel through the back of my head that he was in awe. Then... after a bit of searching... it is located.

Penis.

I didn't have to be told to know what that was. Two ultrasounds in my past have revealed that exact same thing, and my heart sank a little. Don't get me wrong - I LOVE having boys! They are my greatest joy. But there is something about passing on your own gender that seems... important, for some reason. Almost necessary. So, in that moment I realized, that was it. My last shot at having a little girl. And it's a penis.

Then, something I didn't expect happened.

Whew.

Relief? Yep, relief. Predictability and experience suddenly feel more important than passing on my girl crazy. And I'm so happy to KNOW. No more guessing. No more, "I don't know yet, maybe it'll be a girl." Now I know, and it was the BEST surprise!

My next surprise? No internal exam. None. Not this time. :) I got to walk out of there - walk, not limp - with ultrasound pictures and joy on my face, husband in hand. What a phenomenal day.