Life comes with a lot of surprises. There are hard times and there are the good times, and then there are the times in between. There are the ones you can prepare for and the ones that no matter how much you prepare, you aren’t sure you’ll be able to make it through.
After a miscarriage and a year of trying to get pregnant, my little ClearBlue pregnancy test said “Pregnant” on it (because I’m awesome and need words rather than little pink lines that may or may not be telling me one way or the other). I was excited because my body was finally “working” again.
Week 5 goes by and things are going well and then it hits–the hit-me-over-the-head, let me die here on the couch sickness that causes just about every food item come up. I hadn’t dealt with it like this when I was pregnant with Little Roper. I had felt great for the most part and had only given up my groceries about 3 times.
So my pregnant brain starts reeling, thinking that if each of my pregnancies got worse, I would surely die by the time I got to kid #4. I’ve heard of women who’ve been sick their entire pregnancy and after those first few weeks, I have to give you a hand and applaud you for going through that time and again.
We were getting ready to move so a friend recommended a new doctor when I was around 8 weeks. After the nurse explained that they only meet for the first time around 12 weeks, I explain that I had miscarried and would love to just hear a heartbeat. She scheduled me for a couple of weeks before Christmas and I drove to the hospital/doctor’s office just hoping that a heartbeat would be there.
Some of you may ask why I didn’t take Cowboy or Little Roper to the appointment. Little Roper is pretty easy to keep entertained, to be honest. I pack him a little lunch and snacks in his Superman lunch pail (that was once Cowboy’s), bring a little Cars backpack full of little activities that my SIL made and he’s pretty much good to go for the next few hours. Cowboy on the other hand gets bored if we have to wait more than five minutes for anything. Then I feel like I have to entertain him when all I want to do is zone out for a few minutes and people watch (because people can be really fascinating).
I get called into the ultrasound room and lay down, a little nervous but also excited to see a little one on the screen in front of me. The tech began doing her assessment and at one point I looked up at the screen and thought I saw two different sacs, but remembering I have no medical training whatsoever, I brushed it off as pure craziness.
A few minutes later, the tech said, “Your husband couldn’t come with you, huh?”
“He’s working at our house with our son,” I said, laying a bit uncomfortable on that short little bed.
“Well, he’s not going to believe you when you tell him,” she said. I was a little confused and then she switched from the ultrasound screen over to all the information. The little mouse arrow clicked on the drop-down screen next to “Kids” and then she moved it down to 3, clicking to finalize it.
My hands hit the table and my head popped up to get all of 6 inches closer to make sure I was seeing it right. “3!?!” I said/shouted.
“Yep,” the tech said and began to show me each and every one of them. A while later she asked me how I was doing as I had gone quiet. Umm….just processing. And grateful there was no a reason I was so gosh darn sick. She printed out a little picture of three little dots, since she couldn’t get a pic of all three tiny babies in one shot.
I was met with every nurse already knowing the fact that we were having triplets, each saying, “Congrats!” or “Good luck!” The doctor gave me the low-down on triplets and then they scheduled my next seventy appointments (ok, it was really only 3) for every couple of weeks and I headed home. I was driving my husband’s truck and had about 25 minutes to go before I got to the house.
People have asked me why I didn’t call him and let him know as I was leaving. Are you crazy? And miss the look on his face when I told him? No way!
When I got back, he was working on something in the stairwell, up on a ladder.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“It was good. Here,” I said, handing him the ultrasound when he got down from the ladder.
“Why are you showing me this? I can’t read these things,” he said, not really paying attention to it.
“Count the spots.”
“Count the spots on it.”
A few seconds went by and then he looked up at me, his eyes wide. “Three? We’re having three?” I nodded my head and then he said, “No way! You’re totally joking with me!”
“There’s no way that they can fake an ultrasound picture like that!”
“What?!? No way! That’s totally awesome!” He said as he began dancing around the small landing. Then came the barrage of questions: Are they okay? What did the doctor say? etc.
“Basically they said you shouldn’t say I’m a wuss because I’ve got triple the amount of hormones going through me right now!” I said, teasing him.
I think he was even more stunned than I was and even though he isn’t the most sympathetic person when anyone is sick, he’s been all over every grunt, moan, and squeak, asking, “What’s wrong?”
At first, it seemed like a dream but now, as we get closer, my mind gets a little bit crazier and I wonder if we’re going to survive. But that’s for another post, for another day.
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