Week 3: I'm What?!

Contents: unintentional pregnancy

Patient Zero

Finding out that I was pregnant was...interesting. First of all, we were not trying. And I know that that is just the way of the world, proof of God's sick sense of humor. 

My mother, a nice woman from New Jersey, had wanted to have children her entire life. After she and my dad got together, they tried for about a decade to have kids the old-fashioned way. However, her equipment was not up to code. The doctors didn't have an explanation for it (my dad had had children with his first wife, so his fertility was not in question), so my parents decided to adopt. 

My sister and I are from China, adopted as a toddler and infant, respectively. As kids, we used to peel the MADE IN CHINA stickers off things and put them on our foreheads. When asked about being adopted, I tell people, "My parents couldn't make their own at home, so they went with store-bought." 

We were raised reading children's' books about adoption, told that our biological (not "real", mind you) mothers loved us very much, and that's why they made the difficult decision to give us up. Frankly, I think my parents did a great job raising us with a good relationship with our origin stories. 

The way I see it, being adopted is no different than anyone else's origin story of being twelve pounds at birth, popping out in the car on the way to the hospital, or being born premature. It's just details from a chapter we've already gone through. 

That is the abridged version, but you may trust me when I say that I am well-adjusted to my status as an international adoptee. 

I never assumed that I was infertile; I was a biology nerd in high school and a health sciences major in college. I knew how babies got made, and I knew how to prevent it. But a little part of my mind knew there was a chance I would have kids the way my mom did. In other words, I didn't want to take my fertility for granted. 

I didn't want to assume that I would be able to carry my own children. It wasn't until I was older that my mom really discussed with me what it was like to long for kids, especially then when adoption was not as common. 

People would look at my parents, look them in their eyes, and say things like, "I just don't understand how you could love a child that isn't yours." 

My parents would then say, "Well, do you love your dog?" 

Now, my sweet mother and father love me more than the dog (I think), but the sentiment is like this: you do not need to share DNA with something to love it. Or, if you do, you have a seriously weird hang-up on your ballsack/ovaries. 

Anyway, all of that is to say that in my nuclear family, when it comes to pregnancy, I am patient zero. 

Birth Control, Schmirth Control

My boyfriend I were careful, though. I was using the patch as a form of hormonal contraceptives, and we used condoms. 

We moved in together in my hometown the summer after he graduated from college—I had graduated the previous year, got out on good behavior. Plan A was for us to live together in my little, Christian hometown and save up money to move on to our masters' programs. His goal is to become a therapist, and mine is to become a physician's assistant. So, we were not trying to have a baby. 

The long and short of it is I developed a skin allergy to medical adhesives. I would take off the patch to change it for the week, and my skin would be broken, swollen, and bleeding underneath. This is after having been on the patch for years with no other side effects. So, the doctors advised me to stop with that brand, and I would try another brand. 

In the week between removing the old patch and the new ones arriving, we had a broken condom happen. Luckily, I had a Plan B pill on-hand (which is not the same as an abortion pill) that I promptly took. And for the record, I am also aware that Plan B has a dramatic decrease in effectiveness if the patient is above a certain weight—a weight I was well below. 

We didn't have sex again after that, figuring that we should not tempt fate and ought to wait for my next cycle to come and go so I could start the new patch. 

Three or so weeks after C Day ("C" for conception), I felt off. My period was not late yet, but something just didn't feel right. "Something" being my nipples. 

My nipples felt sensitive, tingly. I normally have tender breasts as part of my premenstrual hell, but this was different. And of course, I remembered our accident. 

While my boyfriend was on his lunch break from work, we went to Walmart to pick up some tests. This particular Walmart has them behind locked glass, and I made him ask for them because I was too shy. And I had taken pregnancy tests for peace of mind before with him; he is used to my paranoia. And frankly, neither one of us mind spending twelve dollars to put the topic out of our minds entirely. 

Not Our First Rodeo

Early into our relationship, we had a different kind of pregnancy scare: I skipped a period. Completely skipped it! Just hop-scotched over it. I took, quite possibly, six tests that month. I kept thinking that I was getting false negatives because I do not usually skip cycles like that. 

I thought I was going to have this dude's baby, two months into our relationship. I had done the math about how far along I would be, and I had time to graduate before I delivered. I would move back home with my mother, and I wouldn't expect him to be involved, but he would pay child support at least. 

Of course, he promised to be involved if we were expecting a baby, and I did believe him, but I didn't believe him. I believed his intentions were honest, and I believed (and now, I know) that he was a good man, but almost all my friends in high school were children of divorce, and I know that babies change things. 

Lo and behold, I was not pregnant. 

I wish I had known that before I called my mother, though. My lovely mother, who struggled with infertility, was a labor and delivery nurse for a big chunk of her career and spent the last thirteen years or so as a mother-baby nurse before her retirement. Many of my friends would rather chew off their left leg than share the details of a pregnancy scare with their mamas, but mine is an expert. 

I asked her if the over-the-counter pregnancy tests are accurate. 

She said that yes, they are. And then she asked why I was asking, naturally. 

I explained to her that my period was dangerously late. And in talking to her, I recalled that I was very sick for days about the time I would have ovulated. 

In case you didn't know, the body is a somewhat intelligent machine. Shedding an egg and the uterine lining is a largely wasteful process, so if the body detects a deficiency, you may just skip a period to conserve resources. Those suffering from eating disorders may not have cycles for years because of this. 

Anyway, all of that is to say that pregnancy tests are not uncommon in my Walmart basket. 

Book Club

This time was different, though. 

I felt so sure, in my very bones, that this test would be so much like the others: just something to ease my mind. 

Wrong. 

I'm pregnant! 

What do you do when you find out you're pregnant? 

Well, I don't know what you do. But I started hyperventilating, crying, and shaking just a little. 

My boyfriend didn't need me to tell him the results, obviously. I had it written on my face, so he got up off our bed and hugged me in the bathroom. He held me tightly, gave me one of those big, calming bear hugs, and told me that everything would be okay, that we would figure it would. 

Once I started breathing, he let me go and held my hands. He looked me in my eyes and said that he would stand by me, by this baby, whatever I wanted to do as long as I let him. 

I started crying again. 

Once I calmed down a little, I called my mom to tell her the news. 

She was in her book club, so she did not answer the first call. Considering the circumstances, this was quite rude of her, whether she knew it or not. So, I called again. 

She picked up and said, "Hey, I'm in book club." 

I word-vomited in response, "My nipples felt weird, and my period's not late, but my nipples feel really weird, so I took a test, and I'm pregnant." 

Silence, followed by, "What?" 

"I'm pregnant." 

And do you, Dear Reader, know what her reply was? 

"I gotta say, Mel, I'm pretty excited!" 

I am paraphrasing, mostly, because I do not remember the fine points of what happened at the test called me pregnant. But she did say that she was excited less than two minutes after finding out that she could be a grandmother. 

And like a chicken, I let her tell my dad. 

His response, you ask? 

"I need to lie down."