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She peels the cuff away and jots numbers down in my chart. “Blood pressure looks good.” Grabbing the thermometer from the counter, she holds it a couple inches from my forehead until it beeps. “Temp is normal.”
Her warm gaze lifts from the stack of papers in my file and meets mine. Over the next few minutes, Ramona asks a series of questions. Most of which I am used to answering at my regular checkups. Today, though, new questions get added to the mix. Questions about sexual partners and methods of protection and what changes I have noticed in diet, sleep and mood. The questions aren’t awkward or uncomfortable. Devlyn knows the answers as much as I do.
Ramona rises from the stool and tucks my chart under her arm. “Dr. Webster will be in shortly.” Then she exits the room.
Wood squeaks against the linoleum as Devlyn scoots his chair closer to the exam table. He wraps my hand in his, then lifts it to his lips. “Doing okay?”
My blues lock onto his greens as a small smile plumps my cheeks. My shoulders lift in a half shrug. “Yeah. It’s just a lot.” I lift my free hand to cup his cheek and he leans into my touch. “But we got this.”
He rotates his head and kisses the inside of my palm. “We do.”
A soft knock on the door interrupts our quiet moment. Dr. Webster enters the room with a cheery smile on her face. Not a single visit to her office goes by without her beaming disposition.
Before I found Dr. Webster, I’d visited a couple other gynecologists in the area. Of the three doctors, Dr. Marianne Webster made me the most comfortable. Her office and staff were warm, inviting and relaxed yet still professional. Every time I walked through the doors, I never felt like a number or just another patient to cash in on. And that stood out the most.
“Hi, Shelly.” She smiles brighter then shifts her attention to Devlyn. “And you must be Dad. I’m Dr. Webster.” She extends her hand and Devlyn freezes for two breaths before taking it.
Dad. She just called him Dad. Cue the waterworks.
“Devlyn,” he chokes out before clearing his throat. “Excuse me. Devlyn. It’s nice to meet you.”
The next thirty minutes are filled with more questions—from Dr. Webster and us—answers and too much information. Of all the details she shares, one piece sticks out the most. Roots itself deep in my memory. Imprints itself on my heart. My expected due date.
September twenty-first.
The moment Dr. Webster says the date, Devlyn squeezes my hand a little tighter and we share similar smiles.
Dr. Webster tells us the date can change from one appointment to the next, but based on dates in my paperwork, September twenty-first falls in line. Next, she goes over what to expect in the coming months. The number of appointments and what to expect during visits at specific week markers. When she will order the first ultrasound. Changes I will experience, if I haven’t already, physically as well as emotionally and mentally. She discusses diet and exercise and creating healthy habits now. Vitamins and changes I should experience in the first trimester.
Information overload is an understatement, yet I feel as if I need more.
She removes a gown from the cabinet, asks me to dress down for a pelvic exam and excuses herself from the room. While I disrobe, Devlyn looks at his fumbling hands in his lap. Although we’ve had sex several times, his timidity as I peel off my clothes in the doctor’s office comes as a surprise.
Back on the table, I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together. “Doing okay?”
He nods and gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “Yeah. Just trying to remember everything she said.” His eyes widen for a beat. “It’s a lot of information.”
I chuckle and he joins in. “Agreed. Lucky for us, we’ll walk out with a folder full of brochures.”
Leaning forward, Devlyn kisses my temple. “Love you.”
I tighten my hold on him as his words wrap around my heart. “Love you, too.”
Dr. Webster performs a routine pelvic exam and Pap smear since my last appointment was more than six months ago. Since I had a blood panel done at the hospital and provided a copy with my paperwork, I luckily get to bypass more needle sticks.
Just when I think Dr. Webster is going to exit the room and let me redress, she rolls a cart closer to the exam table and grabs a tube of gel.
“Seeing as you’re roughly five to six weeks, I don’t want to set any expectations.” My brows pinch together as she holds the gel tube over my abdomen. “Going to see if we can hear a heartbeat yet.”
My own pulse kicks up a notch and whooshes behind my ears. In my periphery, Devlyn rises from his seat and inches closer to the exam table. His hand seeks mine once more and clutches it tightly.
This is really happening. I’m pregnant. With Devlyn’s baby. Our baby. And we may hear a heartbeat.
“Just relax,” Dr. Webster says, and I take a deep breath. “This might be a little chilly.”
She squeezes a dollop of gel onto my lower abdomen and I startle. Devlyn strokes his thumb over my knuckles. Back and forth. Again and again. Settling my nerves and steadying my heart.
Dr. Webster picks up a wand attached to the machine on the cart and presses it to the gel on my belly. For three breaths, the room falls completely silent. Not a peep as the goop smears my belly. And then a strange but quiet, pulsing sound filters through the air.
