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Whoo-hoo! I'm Pregnant!

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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.

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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 to pieces.

I carried 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.

Which is 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?”

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“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.

Three weeks 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.)

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