Obstetrician Interview Narrative
Sitting in the bathroom waiting for the dip stick to tell our fate. A minute passes and two pink lines light up the test strip. It’s official we are expecting again. Flushed with delight and apprehension of confirming my pregnancy, I call the doctor to confirm. It’s a Friday, they cannot see me until Wednesday. With emotions raging through my head, feeling elated and nervous, I can’t wait to tell my husband. I know I should wait for confirmation but I am too excited. He is overjoyed at the news. Over the next few days, we are giddy with the possibility of another child. Already thinking of the future and what plans need to be changed. I set up the appointments and have my first obstetrician visit. The doctor’s office does all the vital tests, the blood results are fine and point to me being pregnant. They set up an ultrasound for me, so that we can check the baby and how far along I am. At the ultrasound appointment, I drink what must have been a gallon of water. Sitting there with a full bladder I wait to be called back. During the ultrasound, the technician is a friendly yet experienced lady. The room is dark and only the screen of the ultrasound gleams through the darkness. She makes small talk as she took her time doing her job. She is thorough and
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. .. What my missing baby would have looked like? What kind of person would it have grown to become? I will never have a chance to hear that first heartbeat, feel the first kick, or find out if the baby was a boy or girl. I will never get to go through the pains of labor and see that light at the end of the tunnel, the one where you would have been placed in my arms. My arms will forever mourn with emptiness because I will never be able to hold you. I may have only known of you for two weeks, but I carried you for two months. My child should have entered this world in October, instead my baby will never see the light of
. .. What my missing baby would have looked like? What kind of person would it have grown to become? I will never have a chance to hear that first heartbeat, feel the first kick, or find out if the baby was a boy or girl. I will never get to go through the pains of labor and see that light at the end of the tunnel, the one where you would have been placed in my arms. My arms will forever mourn with emptiness because I will never be able to hold you. I may have only known of you for two weeks, but I carried you for two months. My child should have entered this world in October, instead my baby will never see the light of