We chose an OB recommended by my lovely general practioner, whom I adore. So we’re waiting in her nice, clean, baby-picture filled office one morning before work about a week and 10 pregnancy tests after the first positive. Except in this office, the nurse practioner sees you first, especially since “they’re not sure I’m pregnant yet.”
So we’ll call this nurse practioner … Hagrid. Now we didn’t learn this until after the appointment, but Hagrid, who looks like she’s pushing 70, is retiring in two weeks. Anyway, the hubbs sits in a chair in the exam room and I get “into the stirrups” while Hagrid warms up the ultrasound machine to see just how far along we are. And in the early appointments, its an … ahem … INNER ultrasound that they do, so she’s waving the wand around in there like its a party and its 1999, and suddenly cackles, “OHMYGOD. THAT’S A BIG CYST.”
Excuse me? Baking powder? Sphincter says WHAT?!
And I’m suddenly all tense, because maybe I’m not pregnant, maybe its just a big cyst and ohmygod and the hubbs is just squeezing my hand and looking firm when she says. “I can’t find a baby in here. But that is a BIG cyst.”
And I’m looking at the ceiling, numb, but starting to feel tears well up when she mutters: “Oh, there it is. I see the placenta.” And she zooms in and there’s a tiny little bubble in that bigger, yet smallish bubble. And that little bubble? That’s my sea monkey. She prints the picture for us, but can’t stop talking about how big that cyst is.
Not even a congratulations. Or a smile. Stupid Hagrid.
So they make us an appointment with the REAL doctor for a month later. And as we leave, while I feel elated that yes, there’s a baby in there, the shadow of THE.REALLY.BIG.CYST. is looming large.
The hubbs will later say that Hagrid ruined the moment for him. I don’t blame him.