Page 18 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Georgie glanced around the tiny room, hoping Nurse Gina and Dr. Rosenstein would materialize. Could she be hallucinating? Could an overabundance of pineapple cause delusions? She shook her head, trying to clear the gynecological mirage, but Dr. Beaver and Nurse Scowl were still there.
“Where’s Dr. Christine Rosenstein? I always see her,” Georgie stammered.
“Dr. Rosenstein got married about six months ago,” the man answered.
“She did?”
“Yes, some blog helped her meet her soul mate, and they moved to Australia,” the doctor answered over his shoulder as he washed his hands in the tiny sink.
Georgie blinked vacantly at the backside of the shiny doctor.
Every health professional she trusted with her vagina had left the continent thanks to her blog!
“Did you ask to make an appointment with Dr. Rosenstein when you called?” she asked her husband through a plastic grin.
“I called the office and said you needed to be seen today. I didn’t ask for a specific doctor,” he answered through a wide, fake grin of his own.
“I’m the new doc at the practice, and I’ve taken on all her patients. It looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other because someone is close to eight weeks pregnant,” the man answered, drying his hands with a paper towel.
“What?” she blurted.
If she’d had coffee in her mouth, she would have spewed it all over the room like an angry, spitting alpaca.
“It’s the number between seven and nine,” Joyce mumbled under her breath, then logged off the computer and left the exam room.
“Isn’t she the best?” Dr. Beaver remarked, watching the crotchety nurse leave.
Georgie couldn’t think about joyless Joyce or the fact that her obstetrician was named Dr. Beaver. Yes, it was the humor of a twelve-year-old to laugh at something as childish as that. But holy freaking semi-aquatic rodent! Her obstetrician’s last name was Beaver, and he just dropped that she was two months along in this pregnancy!
She stared at the doctor, her mind spinning. “How can I be eight weeks pregnant?”
The man sat down on a stool and leaned in. “Well, Georgiana, it all starts with a happy little egg who’s hoping to meet an eager little sperm.”
Georgie shared a look with her husband, who appeared as gobsmacked as a happy little sperm running into a hopeful little egg.
“Dr. Beaver, I know how it happens. I just didn’t expect to be so far along,” she offered.
The shiny ob-gyn pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I picked up your labs, and the blood doesn’t lie. According to what you reported as the first day of your last period and taking into account the amount of hCG hormone detected in your blood sample, I’d put your due date around the twenty-second of June.”
“You’re kidding,” Jordan breathed.
Dr. Beaver’s features grew pensive. “No, I’m science-ing.”
Her husband squeezed her hand. “Georgie, that was the date of the Denver Trot last year. What are the chances we’d have a baby due the same day a year later?”
“Fairly high if you’re not practicing safe sex,” the doctor answered, glancing at Joyce’s notes in the chart.
It didn’t seem real!
Last June, she’d met Jordan. They’d fallen in love while competing in the CityBeat Battle of the Blogs. They’d gotten engaged on live TV only a couple of months later, and now, they would be welcoming a child all in a year!
Talk about hitting life’s significant milestones like a speed racer!
“How accurate are those blood tests? Is there a chance it could be a false positive? Or could it be my cyclerecalibrating?” she asked, throwing out the equivalent of a pregnancy Hail Mary.
Dr. Beaver frowned. “There’s basically no chance that you’re not pregnant.”
“But how are you so sure?” she queried, like a spunky, prenatal Nancy Drew.
