I had my first positive pregnancy test on September 24th, 2012. I took my 11th test on the 27th: this is when I finally called my doctor and the father of my child. This is when I finally kind of believed this was happening. The doctor made me wait three more weeks until she would see me. Three weeks of worrying. Three weeks of conversations and arguments about what we were going to do. Three weeks of not being able to talk about it. Three weeks of pretending this wasn’t happening. Three weeks of praying my period would come and realizing this was just a big mistake. Three weeks of searching the internet for other causes of positive pregnancy tests. This couldn’t really be happening, so I figured there must be some other reason the tests were positive. Maybe I had some rare form of cancer that caused this to happen. There was just no way in my mind that I could be pregnant. Not now and not under these circumstances.
Those three weeks were torture. I could not think of anything else. I kept thinking this was some kind of test that the doctors gave mothers to see if they could handle the stress. I sat waiting in the reception room. I am sure it was only a few minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. Though he said he would be there, the father did not show up and I walked into that stark cold room alone. I was shaking as I filled out the forms and praying that this was not happening. The doctor confirmed I was pregnant, told me to take vitamins, and gave me a due date. The nurse gave me a huge bag full of samples, reading materials, and even more papers to fill out. I went out to my car, texted the father to let him know about the appointment, and sat in the parking lot and cried.
I had agreed with the father that I would give the baby up for adoption. I had agreed to this only 5 days after I told him about the baby. Somehow hearing the doctor confirm the fact that I was pregnant changed everything. Suddenly I felt an overwhelming sense of protection and connection to this child. I knew that I was supposed to have this baby and that there was no way I would ever give him up. Suddenly, I didn’t care what my friends or family thought, I didn’t care what people at work would think about me, and I didn’t care how angry the father would be with me. This baby happened for a reason and he had a purpose. Everything else would eventually work itself out and everything would be ok.
It has now been 12 weeks since that day. In the last twelve weeks, I told my family, my friends, my job, and announced this pregnancy to the world. I switched doctors and am now going to a place where all the rooms are warm and welcoming and the staff are helpful and friendly. I have gone from hiding this pregnancy and being ashamed of it to celebrating it and talking about it. I have gone from wondering if there really is a baby inside me to feeling him move every day. I have gone from being angry at the father to hating him to realizing that anger and hatred only hurt me. Now, I am just thankful to him for giving me such an amazing gift. In the last twelve weeks, my belly has grown and my skin has started to glow. In the last twelve weeks, a future that first seemed bleak and depressing now seems exciting, new, and hopeful.
Now I wait again. This time I wait for my second and last ultrasound. In less than 48 hours, I will see my baby once again and find out if he is a he or a she. I will be able to decide on a name and start to have an even more personal connection with my child. The next day and a half is going to drag on forever, but it is happier and feels so much better than the first time I had to wait.