Disclaimer:  I write this story as if you (the reader) are one of my best friends in the whole world.  Imagine we’re enjoying a fabulous cup of whatever warm drink you enjoy in my apartment.  There’s no other adults or children around, so I feel like I can be sassy and unfiltered.  In this situation, and if you know me, you can only imagine what would come out of my mouth.  Although I tend not to curse super offensively, I may use words or phrases to describe anatomical terms, life lessons, and comical moments with slang and slightly non-politically-correct statements.  If you find yourself feeling uncomfortable when you imagine what could be written in this blog, perhaps you should put your theoretical coffee mug down and excuse yourself off to some “emergency” and flee my home in horror.  If however, you can hang with some borderline-inappropriate humor about all the hideous details that go into “making the miracle of life,” please put up your feet, kick back and read away.

Looking back on the weeks that led up to the biggest discovery of my life, it’s almost hilarious that I didn’t think “Gee, maybe I’m pregnant.”  Here’s how it went, for your reading pleasure.

As you may recall, I was informed by my previous physician that I had “higher levels of free-floating testosterone in my system than most women.”  What I didn’t really explain to y’all during that post was another little, potentially life-shattering detail.  My physician probably didn’t want me to worry right off the cuff, so I think she tried to warn me as calmly as she could.  She started by reassuring me that I’m young and healthy and shouldn’t worry too much just yet, but I may “have a hard time getting pregnant.”  Apparently, many times when women have higher levels of testosterone, it usually signals that there is another underlying issue.  She went on to say that there would need to be more testing to confirm, but she thought I could have an infertility issue and if I indeed had one, it is “great” to know about it now so my husband and I could know what we’re up against and be able to treat it effectively.  She ended with, “but don’t worry, I’m sure you’re probably fine.”

Yeah, right.  Me?  Not worry?  About the possibility of being infertile and not ever having children of my own?  Good luck with that one, lady.

So let’s fast-forward from that doctor’s appointment last Summer and get to the good stuff.  Kyle and I were reunited (…and it felt soooo good…wait, was that inappropriate? whoops…) in January after months of separation.  We had just moved into our beautiful ONE BEDROOM apartment in San Diego and everything was going swimmingly.  Around the beginning of February, I was having some excruciating breast pain.  It was completely different from the tender, achy boobs one may experience as a symptom of PMS.  No ma’am, these fun-bags were killing me.  Like, take my breath away, bring tears to my eyes, hunch over in Ikea holding on to them (as if that would be helpful and not at all awkward) kind of pain.  So, I went to a new physician here in San Diego.

This new doctor gave me a breast exam and reassured me that I just have “dense breast tissue” and that I shouldn’t worry since “breast cancer is usually painless.”  So great, apparently I didn’t have breast cancer, but why were my boobs like ticking time bombs of painful death?  And why were they larger than usual?  “Oh, honestly it’s just hormones.  Your breasts should calm down as you go through your cycle.”  Oh okay, she was literally telling me to “calm my tits.”  Maybe they’re acting out because of my higher levels of testosterone? So I informed her of my previous lab work, blah blah blah, and she said, “Oh, did your other doctor think that you could have an infertility issue?”  She went on to say almost word for word what the other doctor said.  Great.  Two different doctors had informed me that I may have a hard time getting pregnant.  You would think that maybe they would say, “you know what?  Let’s see what’s causing this increase in testosterone so we can treat it,” then, if they find something, explain to me the possible life-changing consequences of the tests.  Not lead with, “oh your hormones are crazy, you’re probably a man, good luck getting pregnant, and sorry your hooters are on fire.”

So I walked out of her office and found Kyle.  We made it to the car and as soon as he entered the driver’s side after opening my door for me (yeah, he still does that), I lost it.  I explained to him what she said.  His advice? And I quote, “well, if those doctors are right, and I don’t think they are…but if they are, and we may have problems getting pregnant and it could take years, well…let’s remove the goalie and see what happens.”  Translation: stop using protection.  By using this soccer analogy, if we took out the goalie (stopped using condoms), it would be a lot easier “to score.”  Gotta love Kyle, my soccer champ.

Anyway, right around that time I apparently was ovulating.  Ovulation was kind of hard for me to track since my cycles were all jacked up on Mountain Dew.  But whatever.

Fast forward to the week before I should have started my period.  I was exhausted.  Like, passed out on the couch for 3 hours every afternoon, unashamed to wake with drool on my face exhausted.  I must have been fighting the flu, right?  Well that would make sense since I had been feeling nauseous.  And on top of what was probably some nasty flu bug, my boobs were still stabbing me off-and-on and I was having THE WORST cramps of my entire freaking life.  Sheesh.

So it was the morning of February 18, the day I should have woken up with my period.  But where the heck was it?  That was weird.  It always graced my life in the morning.  Humph, okay maybe it would come later on as the day progressed.  I mean, I couldn’t have been pregnant.  These cramps and painful boobs were evidence enough.  I even took precautionary measures with girlie products because I was 100% certain that I was FTSing.  Translation: PMSing.  Growing up, my dad never referred to the week leading up to the women in his life’s periods as “PMS.” For as long as I can remember he would call it FTS (“fixin’ to start”).  What, don’t judge…my family is borderline hillbilly.

Anyway, after another 3 hour afternoon nap I still had yet to start my period but I didn’t think too much of it.  After I ate dinner and still hadn’t started, I decided that Google may be helpful at a time like this.  So I typed in something along these lines into the search engine: “I feel like I’m about to start my period but could I be pregnant?”  Google hit me in the face with an over-whelming “YES!”  What several search results brought to my attention was that implantation of a fertilized egg could indeed feel like menstrual cramps because your uterus is stretching.

Then, excitement and nervousness crept into my heart.  Could I be pregnant?

I located the last pee-stick pregnancy test I had in my apartment and before I could set that test down on the counter to rest for the suggested amount of time, the second line was already super dark.  I tried to ignore that and walked out into the kitchen.  I noticed the time on the microwave and made note of when I would need to go check on the stick.  I knew I was pregnant from the super dark second line, the time would just cement it.  I started working on the dishes and tried not to throw up.  All of a sudden it all made sense, the breast pain, the exhaustion, the cramping, the nausea…

I walked into the bathroom and lo-and-behold:

 Oh my goodness!   Sweet baby Jesus, I was pregnant! 

Okay, first thought:  Those doctors are full of crap. 

Second thought:  How am I gonna tell Kyle?!