High-five? Fist bump? No? Ok…
I went in this morning for the second round of bloodwork to make sure everything is working correctly. Usually, this is very quick and (“little stick!”) relatively painless. I check in, they call us (she comes for reinforcements – also to ask the questions I forget to) back, there’s some “date of birth?”, “which arm today?”, followed by “you’re all set” and we’re out the door. I went solo today, though, since she had meetings, and there was literally no good time for either of us today or tomorrow.
The moment I checked in at the front desk, I was unexpectedly expecting praise and congratulations for my confirmed pregnant status. After all, the lady who checked us in is always the same lady. I feel like she’s the third person in our relationship. But no – a smile and a simple, “I’ll let them know you’re here” while I read the latest Sports Illustrated. I was called back a few moments later, given a form, and sent downstairs to the lab, “so I could get my results today.” Not like I mind going to the lab. Lab Shmab. Whichever. I smiled, and took the elevator to the first floor.
My lab form was very simple, with my name and information on it, along with a brief line item list of the things to test for, with a little diagnosis note to the side, which read “Pregnancy.” So now every person (three, total) I gave this form to while checking in, I was all of the sudden expecting a scene right from “Scrubs,” filled with hugs, congrats, high fives, nurse fist bumps and the like. But no – more smiles that I took as such, though.
I had to wait a bit before I could go to the the “sign this”, “sign that” part of the lab check-in paperwork process – the same waiting room area as the scene of the Hysterosalpingogram crime (another post all together). A shuffle to the lab waiting room, and I was greeted by Mr. Mustache nurse, who is not of the “little stick!” but of the “I’ll try to be easy” method of blood-taking, complete with inferior ouchy band-aid. Another triple-check of my name and birth date, and I was out the door.
Mostly, I think I was taken off guard by this feeling that I need to be congratulated by total strangers. Maybe it’s the hormones gearing me up for when people want to touch my belly, setting a new stranger-involvement expectation. At any rate, hey strangers! Don’t leave me hangin’!