“I knew,” my Greek husband told me when I shoved the positive pregnancy test into his line of sight, “it was the eggs.”
I should have also guessed – after the eggs. For the past week I’d been craving hard boiled eggs. My Greek husband pointed out that I didn’t even like hardboiled eggs, but I said it didn’t matter. I still wanted them. I didn’t even know how to cook them – that’s how much I dislike eggs. I chalked up my desire for eggs to it being winter (you’re always hungrier in winter) and the fact that I just finished a terribly depressing book where one of the characters talked a lot about how his mother used to make him hardboiled eggs.
In fact, the desire for hardboiled eggs was really the first symptom – a craving – that I just disregarded.
The cramps that I had the week of my period only solidified the fact – I was definitely getting my period, I definitely wasn’t pregnant. We’d just have to go through another month of the whole calendar tracking waiting game, I thought, trying not to be bitter. (That waiting game includes: 10 days after the first day of your period until ovulating, the next five days are your best bet to get pregnant and then it’s a two week waiting game while you pray that for once your period won’t show up.)
Then my period didn’t show up.
I didn’t get my hopes up. I mean, the cramps. My period would come while I was sleeping, I rationalized. It was just a little late because the side effects of birth control were slowly leaving my system. It takes months, sometimes even a year, to get pregnant, I told myself. Don’t get your hopes up, I thought, you’ll just be sad tomorrow when you wake up and your period’s there.
But it wasn’t there the next day.
I figured what was the harm, I’d take a pregnancy test. We had a leftover one from months ago – when I was still on birth control, when we weren’t even trying. It would show me that I wasn’t pregnant and I could blow out the little flame of "what if?" that burned silently in my brain. I took the test and went ahead with my morning routine – waiting for the “no” to show up on the stick.
Five minutes went by, then five more. I wasn’t paying attention – putting off seeing the “no.” When I finally looked at it, I was floored.
I ran into our bedroom to throw on the lights to show my sleeping husband that we had done it, I was pregnant.
I was pregnant, and I had to wait two weeks to see a doctor. The next two weeks were the longest, most terrifying weeks. I kept thinking of the worst possible outcomes – what if something bad happened? What if I wasn’t actually pregnant?
Finally the first doctor’s appointment came along and it was just bloodwork – which didn’t settle any of my fears. I have a major phobia of getting bloodwork, but I thought that – now that I’m pregnant – I’d suddenly feel some sort of maternal instinct kick in and I’d be fine. No. That was not the case. While I did have a much more subdued anxiety attack than normal, it took my Greek husband stroking my face and me crying with my eyes closed to get the first round of bloodwork done. I will say that my nurse, who I pre-warned about the potential for an anxiety attack, was great. Nurses have changed a lot since the last time I got bloodwork – when I was sixteen and they thought I had mono and just continuously jabbed my arm, complaining about my veins.
I reminded myself that I needed to keep calm and as stress free as possible, but it was definitely a struggle. It looked like I’d be waiting another week to finally see what was going on inside my body.