WHAT??! Yes, I am dead serious, and here's a science lesson: When a fetus is still developing, they have what is necessary to be either male or female, depending on the surge of testosterone that either does (makes baby a boy) or does not (makes baby a girl) enter the system sometime late in the first trimester. Prior to that, basically the fetus has all that's needed to be either male or female, and once the testosterone makes that decision for the fetus, the cells become either male or female, and the baby's sex is determined.
Aaaaand here I was, 29 years old, undergoing surgery to remove what actually ended up being cells that would have formed part of my penis, had my body flooded with testosterone while I was still an embryo. Instead, my body was not flooded with testosterone, so I became a girl...and then my body held on to some of the boy parts, and in turn, was essentially making me sterile.
Yea, I know. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
Anyway, so they were somehow able to remove all this gross crap and in turn salvage my fallopian tube, because science is amazing. However at this point I was told I would likely need the intervention of science and technology, should I happen to change my NEVER, NO WAY, NOT ME stance on becoming a mother. And because I didn't want to be a mother, I was mostly okay with that. I had a bit of trouble accepting that the decision was now being made for me by my put-together-wrong body, instead of made by me mentally, but in the end I was glad it was me and not a woman who was desperate to bear children. Better me than someone else, ended up pacifying me, and I moved on with a few short chats with my therapist.
I then spent the next five years convinced that - as I was told by my doctors - I wasn't going to be able to get pregnant. I was relatively routine with my birth control, but not as careful as a single woman should be. The more time that passed that I didn't have a pregnancy scare, the more solidified I becae in the fact that it wasn't going to happen - after all, if I could get pregnant, certainly at some point of forgetting my pill for days at a time, I would get pregnant. And I never, ever did. So the not being able to have a baby thing, just firmed up in my mind as I moved through my single adulthood.
Which of course I now understand is not super responsible.
Anyway, so with that bit of back story, let's fast forward to September, 2017, shall we?
My BFF Kattie was getting married, and my other BFF Rachel and I were both in the wedding. Since we knew we would have lots of bridesmaid duties to attend to throughout the day, and since I was as single as ever at this point, we decided I should take Rachel's brother in law as my date, so that her husband had company to hang out with at the wedding. It was basically a brilliant plan devised by Rachel and I, adhered to by Josh and his brother Matt, because they tend to just go with the flow of what's asked of them.
Matt was the best wedding date ever.
Clearly.
Because as I type this - six months after the wedding - I am five-and-some-change months pregnant with our baby boy.
Now may be a good time to include the fact that Matt, too, was told by qualified medical personnel that he would not be able to conceive children. And in case you were thinking that we decided to try to have a baby anyway, let me just stop you right there. There was no efforts made, no plan in place, no hopes, no discussions, not even any fleeting thought. There were, however, several consecutive days and nights of two consensual single adults enjoying each other's company.
And at least one of them developing quite a crush on the other one of them (fortunately this crush has both been mutual and continued to develop over the last five months).
As time went on and we continued hanging out more, I was finding myself sick at all hours of the day. Really sick. Puke sick. Miserable. But for me, this is also a quite normal side effect of stress, and working at the building I was working at, was causing some stress. I thought literally nothing of this constant nausea. It mimicked a similar episode from a couple of years prior, where I was eventually regurgitating everything I ingested; at that time I had spent a lot of time and a lot of money for a diagnosis of "carries stress in the tummy, try to chill out." I had no intention of repeating the same expensive routine I had already, and wrote my symptoms off as stress.
So did my mom, for the record.
Every day, she was sending me Yoga apps and calming articles, reminding me to shut off my phone at night and to get more sleep.
Anyway, so Matt and I continued to hang out, I continued to throw up constantly, and I continued to think it was really weird. I failed to take into account other symptoms, like the fact that I was gaining weight even though I wasn't holding any food down, or the fact that I was exhausted. I didn't notice the increased chin acne or the fact that my boobs were bigger, nor did it ever cross my mind that I had not had a period in several months. Literally you guys, I am not exaggerating even remotely - my body was physically screaming that I was pregnant, and I was as oblivious as any human could ever be.
Finally, on Christmas morning, I sent a Snap to Rachel letting her know I was on my way to her house after Christmas breakfast. I was annoyed because I had just thrown up my breakfast. I had scheduled a doctor's appointment for like, March 12th and was frustrated about waiting such a long time when I was literally barfing non stop. She snapped back that maaaaaybe just to be safe, I should pick up a pregnancy test.
"To rule it out," we said.
I texted Matt and let him know I was taking one, and we literally both thought nothing of it. I was 1,000% certain the result would be negative, and that I was wasting six dollars on a two pack of Clear Blue tests on Christmas morning...where surely the cashier had judged the fuck out of me.
I get to Rachel's, and no one is home - Matt had tagged along with Josh to pick up Rachel's mom and brother for Christmas dinner. Rachel is in the kitchen, so I run up to the upstairs bathroom to pee on the waste-of-money stick. I go to set it down on the counter - because you know, they take two minutes to process or whatever - and the damn thing is already blue.
Not a little bit blue you guys. SOLID. FUCKING. BLUE.
Like, holy shit you are reeeeeeally pregnant, blue.
No Doubt About it Blue, as I will now refer to the shade of that solid bold blue line.
And all I can do in this moment is yell down the stairs for Rachel, while still having the wits about me to wash my hands. As she comes up the stairs, she's sighing and telling me that it hasn't been two minutes, and what do I possibly need from her. I hand her the stick (because apparently if it's a pregnancy test, no one cares that it's still your pee) and we have a shared heart attack before she gets the words out that we're both thinking: well, you are pregnant as fuck!
And that I was!
And that I am!
I called the doctor immediately on the 26th, and scheduled an ultrasound for as soon as humanly possible - which for them was January 3rd. Matt and I waited the eight day eternity for the appointment, where an ultrasound tech confirmed that I was, in fact, 16 weeks pregnant. The ultrasound image was not that of a kidney bean like most first ultrasounds, but rather of a human body, waving at us on the screen. He seemed to be saying, "it's about time, you morons," but in a cute baby way. We left the doctor, got back to my apartment, and shared the news to Facebook (news we had already divulged to parents and immediate family members): miracle baby on the way - don't listen to doctors who tell you that you cannot make a baby.
Because as it turns out, you maybe can.
Just don't think about it, ponder it, wonder about it, be curious over it. Don't worry or stress about it. Accept it as not happening, ever. Move past it and then don't be careful with your birth control, because why would you be? It's not like you can get pregnant. Oh and also choose a partner who can't get you pregnant; don't waste time with some Fertile Mertile.
Fully embrace that getting pregnant is impossible. Apparently that is the secret.
And of course, it makes total sense that I am having a boy...since my story started with my fallopian tube being essentially crushed and almost destroyed by my own leftover embryonic boy parts!
