***
“Please wait here,” the nurse tells me, gesturing to an empty chair in the waiting room. “Dr. Norwood will be with you shortly.”
“Thanks.” I sit down, resisting the urge to pace the room after the nurse has left.
Who’s Dr. Norwood? I’ve never heard of him.
I was with a Dr. Catherine Martin earlier, who said they were going to run some tests. Did they find something suspicious in my tests? Is that why I’m being referred to another doctor, a specialist maybe?
Am I going to die?
“Abigail Gomez?”
I look up to find myself staring into a pair of deep blue eyes.
Grant?
No. It’s not Grant. They may have the same blue eyes but the resemblance stops there. This man has jet black curls, a few of which are dipping down his wide forehead. His nose is more rounded toward the nostrils, his chin squarer, his lips narrower.
I suppress a frown. Now that I’m boiling with anxiety, I wish he was here.
“Yes, that’s me,” I say as I stand up, finding my head barely reaching his chin.
He’s tall. Not only that. He’s got a great physique, his chest and shoulders broad, his pectorals bulging against the fabric of his white dress shirt so much that I fear the buttons will fly off. And, in between the bottom buttons, I catch a peek of a ripped abdomen just before his shirt disappears into the waistband of his jeans that outlines his narrow hips and waist. His arms look like he can easily carry someone or maybe two someones while his legs look fit enough to have a few children on his lap. Or women.
What is he? An athlete? A triathlete? A double for Superman?
“I’m Dr. Norwood.” He offers me his hand.
Doctor?
Right. He’s got that stethoscope around his neck. How could I have missed that?
Because you were looking at other more important stuff?
Oh, hush.
I shake his hand, finding his firm yet smooth.
He places his hand back in his pocket. “Shall we?”
Shall we what?
He gestures to the hall.
Right. He’s a specialist, which means we’re headed to his clinic right now. Worse, they probably sent someone good-looking to break the bad news so that I won’t be so upset.
I take a deep breath. Relax, Abby. You’re going to be fine.
As he goes into a door, I pause outside, looking at the sign.
Brett Norwood, Obstetrician-Gynecologist.
Wait. What? Is there something wrong with my… reproductive organs? Ovarian cancer? Cervical cancer?
“Please come in,” Dr. Norwood says. “And take a seat.”
I obey, closing the door behind me and sitting on one of the chairs in front of his desk, dipping my clasped hands between my knees as I anxiously wait for news.
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” I plead with him.
“Oh, nothing’s wrong.” He goes through the papers on his desk. “In fact, everything about your pregnancy seems normal.”
I blink. “My what?”
“Miss Gomez, you’re pregnant – a little over five weeks pregnant.”
What? I’m relieved, of course, that I’m not dying. But pregnant? I never thought I’d have a child, though maybe I should have given it more thought. Now that I think about it, Grant and I didn’t use any contraceptives at all.
And this is the result when you don’t use contraceptives – pregnancy. That’s why I’ve been dizzy and nauseous and throwing up.
I clasp my hands over my mouth. “Oh, my God.”
“Congratulations.” Dr. Norwood stands up to squeeze my shoulder. “I know you’re feeling overwhelmed right now but that’s normal, too. After all, you do suddenly have a person inside you. Microscopic, yes, but still a person, one you helped create.”
A person inside me? I look at my belly. How can a person possibly fit there?
“It’s a miracle, really, and it never fails to astound me. That’s why I’m in this profession.”
I place my hand over my belly. “I don’t believe it. I can’t believe this is happening.”
He hands me the ultrasound picture and though it’s black and white, I can see the speck inside the hole – a baby inside my tummy.
I run my fingers over the picture then press it to my heart, a tear streaking down my cheek as the emotions I’ve been trying to hold back – fear, disbelief, excitement, joy – break through.
“I really am having a baby, aren’t I?”
Dr. Norwood nods. “Maybe at your next check-up at eight weeks, you can hear the heartbeat.”
“I’d love that.” I look at the picture again, smiling.
“I’m sure Mr. Gomez would be thrilled as well.”
“Oh, there’s no Mr. Gomez.” I put the picture down on my lap. “At least, none that I know of. I’m not married.”
“But you have a boyfriend?”
“Well, I used to,” I confess.
Suddenly, it occurs to me that I have to tell Grant. I have to tell Grant we’re having a baby.
“I won’t ask about the details. That’s not my job.” He raises his hands as he goes back to his chair. “But let me tell you that pregnancy can be a difficult journey and birth is a challenging event. It helps if you don’t make the journey alone.”