Waiting

There is so much about this process that just feels like a cruel joke. The waiting room at the OB/Gyn is its own kind of torture.

The receptionist greets me with a smile and a form to sign and asks me if I'm looking forward to my ultrasound. She must not know.  So I feign a smile and simply respond, "Sure." As I sit among expectant mothers in the waiting room, there is an air of excitement: "how far along are you? Do you think it'll be a girl or a boy? We're almost done with our nursery. This is our first! This is definitely our last. Do twins run in the family?" Proud expectant fathers smile wide. And there I sit, surrounded by burgeoning bellies and newborn cries, fighting the urge to join the little ones' chorus.

Hands comfortably rest on swollen midsections. And suddenly I feel conspicuously thin. (For the first time ever.)

The nurse appears at the door and calls my name. As I get up I try to avoid making eye contact with the other women. The one in the purple, stretched-to-capacity maternity top catches my eye and gives me a smile and a slight thumbs up. She has no idea. I lay on the cold exam table, warm jelly on my stomach and probe pressing in on my full bladder and empty womb - all while the rapid thump, thump, thump of a baby's heartbeat can be heard through the exam room walls from the next room over.

Sometimes, it all just feels like a cruel joke.