The Wait Begins

There I sat. Tapping my feet, crossing and re-crossing my legs thinking how cruel the whole situation is. No magazines to read and distract me. What kind of doctors office has no magazines?! Relaxed low lighting and the tinkly, tinkle, tinkle sound of muzak plays in the background.

"Dear God! I hope they call my name soon!", I thought.

This is torture! There is nothing to distract me from my incredibly full bladder except John McCain on CNN droning on about the irresponsibility of people who bought homes beyond their means. He sounds like some old crone yelling at kids to get off his sidewalk or else. Every time he opens his mouth I truly try to listen and then realize, "Wait. I don't have to!" Besides he just sounds like a cranky old person who is always pissed about something. He looks like he would yell at you for touching the produce too long at the grocery store.

I look across the room at an old man as my molars begin to float away. He is on oxygen and cannot walk without the assistance of a person and a walker. OK, so maybe simply having to piss my brains out is not such a bad thing I think as I wonder if I have a case of the Jimmy legs. Maybe if I use that bathroom right next to me and pee just a little it won't matter. Maybe no one will know.

Finally, my name is called and I practically sprint after the woman realizing that we pass no less than three restrooms as we walk down the corridor to the darkened ultrasound room. "Poor thing, you look like you might have overdone it. You really have to go don't you?" Uh yeah lady. I really do and if we stop and chat in this hallway I might flood it soon and your leather loafers will be the first casualty so can we just get on with this?!

It is painful just to lie down at the table and I look at my swollen stomach thinking, "Yes. I definitely drank more than 24 ounces in an hour. Damn! This is its own form of water torture." Almost as soon as the warm goo is applied the tech declares me ineligible for this type of ultrasound. We need to do an internal. Kick ass. For that my bladder must be emptied. Faster than a cat on crack I jump off the table and run to the nearest bathroom. I think the entire office building heard my sighs of relief.

Back on the table and back in business my uterus pops up on the screen. There it is the tiny little egg sac. As small as a pencil eraser. It's too soon to tell if it is one or two which is partly why I am here in the first place. My due date? The other reason I am at this appointment, "Oh I'm sorry. I can't tell you that information", says the tech. "You'll have to wait for your regular doctor to give you that information..."

Now I just want to pee on her shoes in pure frustration and spite. I have two weeks until that appointment. Two weeks of wondering if it will be a Thanksgiving or a closer to Christmas baby.