On Thursday morning, we arrived at the doctor's office still bleary-eyed and depressed about the night before. The nurse cheerfully brought us into her office to give us the rundown on prenatal care, the cost and jot down our family histories. She said congratulations and asked us if this was planned.
I looked at Brent, eyes wider than my face. As the nurse waited for an answer, I turned back to her overly happy face and her lipstick-stained teeth.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "What is going on? We were in the ER last night, and now we're having a conversation about a baby that might or might not still be alive inside of me. I need you to help me!"
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I started shaking all over again. (Then, I just felt badly for the unsuspecting victim of my stress.) She fumbled for the mouse and clicked away trying to find my charts from the emergency room.
"Looks like everything is fine," she cautiously said, as she looked up from her keyboard. "You have a subchorionic hematoma, but the baby is OK."
Then, Brent teared up. WHAT? (OK, breathe.)
She finished up the paperwork with us, threw a bunch of freebies into a canvas bag and ushered us into the officially appointment. At the end, all she good stammer was a "good luck."
Luck? After this crappy year, we're going to need more than luck.
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