Get it together, Savannah.
The clinic is in a nondescript building between a deli and a dry cleaner. The waiting room is small and cramped, with uncomfortable plastic chairs and magazines that are at least two years old. I check in at the front desk, filling out forms with shaking hands.
There are three other people waiting. A woman in her thirties reading a book. A teenager with her mother. An older man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Savannah Castellanos?” a nurse calls from the doorway after I wait for ten minutes.
I follow her back through a hallway painted pale yellow, to a small office at the end. She takes my vitals, asks about my symptoms, and then leaves me alone to wait.
The room is cold. There’s a poster on the wall about prenatal vitamins. Another about STD prevention. A calendar from 2023 that no one bothered to take down.
A knock, and the door opens. The doctor who walks in is young, maybe early thirties, with dark skin and bright eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a white coat over scrubs, and his name tag says Dr. James Williams.
“Ms. Castellanos.” He sits down and pulls up my chart on the computer. “So you think you might be pregnant?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m late, and I’ve been feeling nauseous.”
“Let’s find out.” He’s relaxed, easy, like we’re talking about the weather. “When was your last period?”
I tell him, and he nods, typing notes.
“And you’ve been sexually active?”
“Yes.”
“Any chance of pregnancy from your partner?”
“Definitely.”
He grins. “Alright. We’ll do a quick test and see what we’re working with. Then if it’s positive, we’ll do an ultrasound to confirm and see how far along you are.”
The test takes five minutes of me sitting in the cold exam room, staring at the ceiling tiles and trying not to think about what this means.
A knock, and Dr. Williams comes back in, holding a folder. “Congratulations,” he says with a warm smile. “You’re pregnant.”
The world seems to tilt for a minute.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive test. Now let’s get that ultrasound and see how far along you are.”
The ultrasound room is even smaller, with a machine that looks like something from a sci-fi movie. Dr. Williams has me lie back on the table, and the gel he squirts on my stomach is freezing.
“This might be a little uncomfortable,” he warns, pressing the wand against my skin.
The screen flickers, and then there it is. A tiny blob.
“That’s the embryo,” Dr. Williams says, pointing at the screen. “Based on the measurements, I’d say you’re about six weeks along. Give or take a few days.”
Six weeks.
“Everything looks healthy,” Dr. Williams continues. “Nice strong heartbeat. I’ll print you some pictures, and we’ll get you set up with prenatal vitamins and a follow-up appointment.”
He’s still talking, but I’m not really hearing him. Just staring at that tiny blob on the screen that’s apparently a baby.
“Ms. Castellanos?” Dr. Williams’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Just processing.”
