In light of last night’s stabby surprise, I awoke this morning with a yuck cold, a whoozy head, and some level of determination to see the doctor about those tests I did last Monday and to quiz him about ’em weird cramps every time I sneeze.

Which, when you have a cold coupled with a genetic idiosyncrasy of sneezing in multiples of 3, happens more often than you would like.

So I see my lovely GP, who immediately makes a few calls and send me on my way to the ultrasound people about 3 doors down.

Complication: my mother’s in town, of course. And she’s under the impression that I’m here to see the doctor about the common cold. As I sneak out of my GP’s, my mother is standing outside Vinnies playing with her mobile. Vinnies is just 2 doors down from where I now need to be. If she looks up and sees that I’m about to slip into a clinic marked “X-rays and Ultrasounds Here!!!” (or something equally obvious), it just might raise a few too many confronting questions. It’s bizarre, but I’m telling myself that I can pull this off if I can juuuuust slip into the clinic unnoticed.

Thank goodness I’m wearing a pair of Skechers instead of my usual heels. I slip in like a cat with tiny bunny slippers on.

It’s 12.45pm and they tell me to drink 600ml of water and then to “hold it at all costs” until the ultrasound at 1.30pm, because they need my bladder to be full. I’ve just had a bowl of home-made Chinese soup, so I’m thinking I’m about halfway there, but in the spirit of not doing anything half-arsed, I nip out and get a 750ml bottle of skyjuice, slip back into the clinic, and drink about 700ml of it.

This is fine until about 1.15pm, when I feel like I’d really like to use the amenities. But I persevere.

1.30pm, and the receptionists are farfing around with a rather confused lady who got her dates mixed up, and an elderly couple who insist on reading out all the news highlights rotating on screen. I need to pee like you wouldn’t believe.

1.33pm, and I’m looking at the clock and wondering desperately what my options were if I were to wet myself. Perhaps there was another ultrasound clinic in Sydney I could use in future. A chain, wholly unaffiliated to this lot who will no doubt, after this episode, refer to me as The Bad Mother Who Couldn’t Hold It At All Costs.

1.37pm, and I waddle – waddle! – in pain to the receptionist, glare at the poor guy (“squinting in pain”, I prefer to think of it) and hiss at him in low, clipped tones, “When will the doctor be ready, because I can tell you that I am REALLY uncomfortable here.”

He tells me that they’re preparing the room now. I waddle back to my seat and try not to make any sudden moves.

Anyhoo, long story short – turns out I didn’t need to drink that much water. I also found I have fantastic bladder control, judging from the first “OMIGOODNESS HOW FULL IS YOUR BLADDER!” comment I received when the first picture’s taken. It’s such a cruel joke, methinks, to tell a n00b pregnant woman to drink lots of fluids and then NOT PEE. As if it’s not hard enough that my bladder seems to have shrunk by 50% in the last week.

But the ultrasound begins, and all is forgiven. For lo and behold – there’s blob!

Line across shows length of Blob. Ring underneath is egg sac from which Blob is feeding off until placenta is formed. Fearfully and wonderfully made.

 

“That flicker of light on screen?” the technician tells me as she waves the wand around. I notice some pixellation at the top of Blob, just where the sac is attached to the uterus. “That’s the heart beat.”

Six weeks, 0.43cm and a heart beat. Already.

My mother knows now. There’s no way of hiding it, not when I have to wait for the results at 4.30pm, drop off another wee sample, and hike back to the GP’s before 5.00pm. She is over the moon of course, but I tell her to tell no one. Then we run off to Big W and buy a swag of books.

So it’s confirmed – no ectopic pregnancy, even though it’s not cool that I’m getting stabby sensations now and then. I get to take today and tomorrow off, and meanwhile we’re dealing with letting the cat out of the bag very quietly. Tony’s just sent a cryptic email to his parents and attached the photo. Methinks they’ll be calling pret-ty soon…

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