From Blue
to Pink
Emily Rose,
Our snowless winter in Vermont was as dreary as late November, only
colder. And it lingered on. I suppose it was an ideal time to be
housebound. When I stared out the window and saw only the bleak and the
brown, I didn’t feel guilty for existing in slippers and pajamas.
At the time most pregnant women start to feel some relief from their
first trimester symptoms (around twelve weeks), mine were at their peak.
Evenings and nights were the hardest. I had trouble holding down a
protein-rich meal for dinner and if I chose something light to eat instead, I
would wake up in the middle of the night hungry and nauseous. Either way, I was
stumbling to the bathroom at least once a day.
I was starting to think I would never feel better. Even
though I had another OB appointment coming up, I doubted the
practice’s ability to help me. The first impression they made on me was a
lasting one. And if they didn’t pull through and make me believe they were
caring and competent enough to deliver you, Emily Rose, then I was determined
to take my business elsewhere.
When the doctor (a different one than last time–THANK GOD) came into the
exam room, I was surprised by his age. He was old enough for me to have
faith that he knew what he was doing, but still young compared to most of the
other doctors I’ve dealt with. As we chatted, I decided his age was a character
strength. He could relate to a thirty-something-ish woman without coming
across as unnatural. I certainly appreciated that. And since my
symptoms were severe, he prescribed an anti-nausea medication
and said, “You don’t have to suffer.”
I almost left the doctor’s office in tears once again, yet this time it
was for a different reason. I didn’t feel as alone as before because I
had a doctor I trusted. He became an essential member of the team that
would bring you, little one, into the world.
February was more endurable after that and by mid-March, winter had more
or less petered out. Even though it was cool and damp on the day of our
crucial, gender-determining ultrasound, I was dressed for spring and feeling
optimistic. My intuition told me you were a girl, but I had my doubts
too. Your father and I had reached a level of acceptance that things don’t
usually go according to plan. I was ready for anything, I guess, but I was
still biting my lip, hoping you were a girl from the moment the ultrasound wand
made contact with my rounding stomach.
After all the other essential parts of you were measured and
photographed, there was only one thing left to find out. I tried not to
move or even blink as the ultrasound technician circled and contorted the wand
around. She didn’t say anything for a long time. My lower lip probably had
deep trench marks by the time she said, “I’m not seeing any boy parts...”
Some parents would rather not know the gender of their baby before birth
because there are so few surprises in life to enjoy. While I admire the
fortitude of those who prefer to wait, I never regretted finding out
early. I instantly felt more connected to you. Those flutters and
tiny kicks belonged to a girl who will likely have blue eyes, wavy brown
pigtails, and freckles someday. And I needed that image to hold on to
because my pregnancy was about to become one wild ride.
Love,
Mother Dearest
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