On the day the doctor called with the test results is a day I’ll never forget--February 7 to be exact. For ten straight days leading up to that moment, I googled every teeny little symptom hoping it was a sign I could be pregnant. I examined the color of my breasts, counted the number of times I urinated in a day, I searched for implantation bleeding and tried to gauge if I felt nauseous. Was my sense of smell heightened? Did I feel dizzy or lethargic?
On February 7th, I asked the nurse from the fertility clinic to leave a voicemail with the test results so that way your dad and I could listen at the same time. When the envelope on my cell appeared indicating I had a message--I drove to San Carlos, a midway point between Burlingame and your dad’s new job in Palo Alto. On the way to our meeting spot, I nearly threw up from anxiety and nerves--and of course another part of me reasoned it’s morning sickness! So much was riding on this news. But I gave myself a spiritual pep talk and said--if the answer is no, it will still happen on God’s timeline, and it will happen.
I jumped in your dad’s car. I put the phone on speaker and we held hands as I bit down on my bottom lip. My heart thumped out of my chest, and the nurse's voice was slightly above her natural pitch.
“We were looking for an HCG level of 30 or more for a positive test result. Your HCG level is soaring at 82. Congratulations!”
Even though I’d cried in front of your dad before at different times, I was glad I had sunglasses on. My eyes welled up and I couldn’t stop the waterworks. Your dad wore shades too--we’ll call it a real sunny day but I think he got pretty emotional. You know men aren’t supposed to cry.
We ate lunch on the patio of Spazzo on Laurel Street, still in shock, our hearts very full. I realized for the first time, white wine was definitely not an option now. Neither was the Shrimp Louie salad.