It was finally here. Our first appointment
with the gynaecologist. Why was I so nervous? For the last couple of days
I had been preparing mentally, going over answers to possible questions they
may ask, terrified that I might say the wrong thing and be sent away with
our dreams trailing sadly behind us.
As we sat in the waiting room I looked nervously around me and couldn't help
but think about the other women and couples. Had they been trying for as
long as we had? Did they want it as much? Did the two pregnant ladies go
through all of this too?
Our name was suddenly called by a rather serious looking chap who introduced
himself to me, completely ignoring the man of my dreams. We sat down in
his office and he began asking me a long list of questions:
- How long have you been trying to get pregnant?
- Have you ever been pregnant?
- Have you ever had an operation?
- Do you smoke
- etc. etc. etc.
That went okay I thought. He hasn't told us
to leave yet.
Next it was time for an internal. Lovely.
At least I had taken extra care in the tidying department that morning -
just in case! The man of my dreams (who had still not been acknowledged
in any way) looked increasingly uncomfortable and sat perched on his chair not
quite knowing what to say or where to look.
As I stepped behind the curtain to "remove
everything below the waist" I was suddenly faced with a dilemma.
Obviously I needed to take off my jeans and knickers but what about my
socks? Now, I do realise that my socks would of course in no way hinder the
examination but let's face it; socks are not a good look. But to take them off
did seem a little informal. I must have stood there, knickers off, for at
least 30 seconds debating this before realising my priorities may have been a
little skewed that morning. The socks stayed on.
"Are you ready?" the jolly
nurse chaperone called from behind the curtain. I resisted the
temptation to respond with some witty remark ("I was born ready"
etc.) and simply responded with a subdued "yes". All this time
the man of my dreams was sat in the same room on the other side of the curtain.
A very strange and somewhat uncomfortable state of affairs not helped by
the doctor announcing he was now going to insert his finger and have a feel
around. I could only imagine the horror in his eyes as he tried to
digest this information.
It was over. I dressed and sat down next to
the man of my dreams who looked visibly shaken by this point. The doctor
told me (I say me as he really did seem to think I was the only other person in
the room) he would refer me for a couple of other tests and that I would need
to go back and see him in three months to decide what to do next. I think
my face must have dropped at this point but he kindly explained that it was a
long process and that these things had to be done in the right order. I
nodded stoically, trying to hold back the tears.
So we left the hospital that day:
- me feeling happy that things were moving forward but upset as the
magnitude of the next few months/years hit me
- the man of my dreams debating whether it would have
been inappropriate to get his book out and read it rather than
sit there being ignored/forced to listen to my examination by a doctor he
would now only refer to as Igor
we held hands and headed off to pay
the extortionate hospital car parking fees.
