Monday, January 5, 2015

You Dropped A Bomb On Me, Baby---The Gap Band, 1982

I found out that I was pregnant in late September 2013.

The day started out like any other ordinary day. I had a midday appointment with my gynecologist because I wanted to get some information about the Depo-Provera shot.

Since January, I had had super unpredictable menstrual cycles and I was tired of not knowing what the hell was going on with my body. I had discussed my irregular cycles with my doctor earlier that year and he flippantly said something like, "Don't be worried. You're 43. Your hormones are changing. It's probably peri-menopause."

Awesome, I thought. Here comes the damn mustache.

Because I had recently returned from a cruise to Bermuda and spent almost the ENTIRE trip wrestling with Aunt Flo (ugh), I was annoyed. A couple of weeks after I got home, I read somewhere that by getting the Depo-Provera shot, you could halt your monthly cycle completely. Immediately, I knew that pending the side effects of said shot, in accordance with positive input from my doctor, that THAT was likely the road I was going to take until full blown menopause decided to rear its ugly head (or hairy chin…whatever).

When I arrived at the empty doctor's office (Yay! THAT never happens!), a young lady quickly took me into a receiving room where she checked my blood pressure and my weight. Then she handed me a plastic cup and told me to go take a pee.

When I got back from the bathroom, I handed her my cup o' urine, sat down, and began checking an email that I'd received on my phone (It was a work day). When I glanced up, I noticed the medical assistant looking at me oddly. Three times, I watched her peel this strip thingy out of a paper wrapper (like a band aid), dip it in the urine sample, take it out, study it, then glare at me.

Suddenly, she jumped up and said, "Um….Mrs. Costa, you can come with me." Then, she led me into the doctor's office, where I sat and continued to read my emails.

Within minutes, this doctor, who I'd never dealt with before (and never did again after this day), walked in, shut the door and leaned against the counter. Nonchalantly, He blurted, "I'm Dr. I-Think-I-Walk-On-Water. Your doctor is no longer with this practice….Also, there's no other way to say this….You're pregnant."



Me:  OH, F*CK!

Doctor:  Hehehehe…..

Me:  *sobbing* Oh, my God! I'm sorry! I'm an educated woman. I don't know WHY I said that! Um…But, this is impossible…I mean there's NO way….

Doctor:  Mrs. Costa, YOU ARE PREGNANT. From what I can gather, you're due date is May 10th.


Doctor:  Because you are of AMA (Advanced Maternal Age), I'm going to schedule genetic testing ASAP…just in case….


Doctor:  Well, just in case you need to make some timely decisions.


Doctor:  Also, I wouldn't tell anyone, except your husband, just yet. AT YOUR AGE, you have a very high risk of miscarrying.

Me:  *sobbing* Oh my God. I can't believe this….

Doctor:  Stop at the desk on your way out and they'll give you an appointment for a sonogram. Any questions?

Me:  *ugly crying* Unrelated, but, yeah…...Do you have any children?

Doctor:  One. Why?

Me:  If you don't mind my asking, why did you only have one?

Doctor:  Well, by the time my wife and I decided that we might want another one, she was already 44…and that's just too damn old! BAHAHAHAHAHA!

Me:  *sobbing* BASTARD.

Later that day, after dropping the F-bomb and calling him a bastard, I switched doctors. 

I never saw that a-hole again. 

True story.

***Stay Tuned for Part 3***


Catherine55 said...

What an @$$!! OMG -- that is one heck of a story!! So glad you are blogging about it!

Michele said...

So glad to see you blogging again!!!

It' said...

Wow. If that was an accurate description of your Dr's visit, I might have placed a steamy dog turd in a bag and set it on fire. In his office. What a jerk.

By the way, we missed you!