It is no secret to everyone that
knows me that I have always longed for babies; little bundles of joy to hold in
my arms and murmur lullabies to while they still think my voice is the most
beautiful sound in the world. So it was
an enormous blow when my doctor broke the news to me early this year that there
was a very good chance I would struggle to have a child of my own.
Let me back up a bit. A couple of weeks previous to this
announcement I found myself in the emergency room with a gasping, stabbing pain
in my side. It turns out I had another burst ovarian cyst, the second
in less than two years. Luckily no
surgical intervention was required and I was released home with a terrifying
amount of pain pills and the instructions to follow up with my primary care
physician, which I did as soon as I could leave my bed.
Together we went over my chart,
over the fact that I now had a ‘history’ of ovarian cysts, over the fact that I
had been in just the month before complaining of excessive hair loss, over the
fact that I had certainly gained some weight in recent years. “There are a couple of things that can
explain your symptoms Lauren,” noted my doctor, “and there’s always the chance
that they’re not even related, but at the moment your chart is arguing a strong
case for PCOS, so let’s run some tests.”
And so in the following weeks I had
blood taken so labs could be run, and spent one afternoon back at the hospital
undergoing my first ever transvaginal ultrasound. At home, while waiting to hear all of the
results I was a mess. I absolutely fell
my phone around constantly willing my doctor’s number to pop up on the
screen. But when it finally did . . . I just . . . couldn’t answer. I let her leave a
message. And then I did not listen to
that message. I needed a couple more
days and a lot more Klondike Bars.
“Everything is fine, normal, great in fact,” I managed to whisper.
how it happened that the day I finally sat my butt down and listened to her
message, “Lauren, everything is fine, normal, great in fact,” was also the day
I found out I was pregnant.
In a tiny
little diner bathroom while my husband ordered me “as many pancakes as they
can fit on one plate and a Diet Coke,” five days before my errant period was
even due, I glimpsed that second little pink line. I must have
been unnaturally quiet for the rest of breakfast because when we left and got
into the car Ryan, my husband, asked, “Is everything OK?”
“Everything is fine, normal, great in fact,”
I managed to whisper. And then I found
my voice and in the middle of all manner of shrieks and squawks erupting from
my mouth, I managed to choke out the “I’m pregnant!” words while throwing the
pregnancy test at his face.
later I am officially, confirmed by my doctor, all sorts of pregnant and
anxiously awaiting this month, my second ever transvaginal ultrasound during
which we will hopefully hear the thrumming of a tiny little heart. I am so happy. (Now if only I could figure out what on earth
caused all of last year’s completely unexplained weight gain.)