So I go to every local gal’s favorite hangout, the place with the coziest stirrups ever. Metal triangles tucked lovingly into purple terrycloth stirrup-mittens! Peaceful pictures on the walls: a tropical waterfall, a charming National Geographic print of a mama wolf and wolf pup. I have heard of hangouts like this that have Brad Pitt’s picture on the ceiling, but ever since Jolie entered the real pic, reports of Brad on the ceiling have diminished considerably.
Routine deal. I go to the bathroom, pee in my cup, write my name on it, leave it for the nurses. I return to purple stirrupland. I park my bare bottom. I drape the paper sheet and make the required tent. My ob/gyn does the obligatory knock, then enters immediately, so if I had been stark naked and making bumprints on the window, she wouldn’t have missed the show one bit.
We get down to business.
“Scoot down, yup, perfect,” says she.
None of this ever feels “perfect,” but I catch her gynecological drift. I’m a Good Patient with perfect parking skills.
She reaches for the Thing That Looks Like a Big Metal Hole Puncher.
Knocking on the door, suddenly. We both swivel our heads as the nurse pops her head through the door. Her face has a Not Good Look on it.
“Um, can I see you outside for a moment?” says the nurse.
“Ooh,” says I to the nurse, “that doesn’t sound good.”
The nurse attempts a smile, fails.
The quizzical ob/gyn heads into the hallway with the nurse. The sound of frantic whispering. Then, silence.
I wait under my paper tent, admiring the wolf pup’s cute little paws.
Another obligatory knock, another immediate entrance.
The ob/gyn and the nurse park their own butts. They lean side-by-side against the counter and stare at me.
I stare back.
“Okay,” says the ob/gyn. “It seems you’re pregnant.”
I start laughing.
They don’t laugh. I stop laughing.
I say, “No, see, that’s not possible.”
They have heard this before.
“Well, now, why do you say that it’s not possible?” coaxes the ob/gyn. She has played this role before. Good Coitus Cop, and the nurse as Bad Coitus Cop.
I say, “Because we are talking Virgin Mary. We are talking, you know, no. No means no. And this is not the ‘no’ of a 15-year-old in denial. Trust me.”
“Are you sure you haven’t forgotten? Some…relations?” she says.
There are certainly some distant cousins I have forgotten about, but I have not forgotten any of the relations to which she is referring. “NO,” I say. “Trust me. No. Nada. Zip. This would be a bad time for that.”
“We tested her urine TWICE,” asserts the nurse.
I begin to sweat. The wolf pup no longer looks very cute. I look at the waterfall. I look out the window. I think. I think. No. Nope.
“Uh,” I say. “Hm. Well, that would certainly be something.”
“Yes,” says the ob/gyn. “It certainly would. When was your last period?”
“Not too long ago. Heavy. I mean, you know. And…just…no. Life is…pretty full right now.”
I start wondering if at night I somehow walked by a masturbating man in a trench coat and some of his icky pervert sperm leapt onto my ankle, and made its nefarious way up the inside of my leg. I resist the urge to ask if that is, in fact, possible. Ankle insemination. I am sweating harder now, racking my brain. They are Doctors and Nurses. They KNOW THINGS. What do I know?
“Can we test my urine again?” I ask.
“Do you think you can urinate again?” asks the doctor.
“I will drink the full contents of your water cooler if necessary,” I say.
They leave. I dress. I drink. I pee with great exertion. I hand it over. A trickle.
“Can I watch this time?”
The nurses look at each other. “Okay,” they say.
Three of us crowd around my tiny squirt of urine. They pop in a little pregnancy litmus test.
I feel sweat trickling down my back, thinking how difficult THIS is going to be to explain to the people who already think I’m nuts. I think of baby names gone unused. I think of welfare.
“Negative,” says the nurse.
“Huh,” says the other. “How about that.”
“Oh dear Jesus,” says I. “Let’s do another one.”
We do. Negative.
A mixup. Supposedly. Urine cups. Some dear unfortunate woman has been sent home with a free pass, no, not preggers! Let’s all hope and pray she gets a UTI soon so she can come back in and find out the news ASAP.
So I was pregnant for 15 minutes. By minute 14, I was almost okay with my virgin insemination.
At least it would have clinched a book deal.
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