I am a caffeine addict. My love has led me to devote many a Twitter, text message and verbal declaration to it.

Seriously.

I’ve stood on a mountaintop and sworn my unwavering I-would-die-for-you loyalty to Mr. Coffee – and pledged to run away with him if he’d have me.

Fortunately, the mountain was a pile of laundry and Jimmy didn’t take my philandering meanderings to heart. In fact, he handed me another cup of Joe and probably hoped I’d use the jolt to wash and fold the towels I was so elegantly stomping.

Blah, pwah and patooey! “What the hell? Did you stick Folgers in here?”

“No. It’s the Columbian roast from Costco.”

I took another sip. “It doesn’t taste right. Something’s wrong with it.”

Jimmy arched a brow and said, “I think maybe something is wrong with you. This tastes fine. Just like it always does.”

I put the cup down. Ridiculous, his palate wasn’t refined enough to taste the vulgarity of the brew.

The next morning was worse.

“This is terrible, horrible. Even the aroma is gross.” If I thought about it too much my stomach would turn.

“It’s Sumatra from Starbucks. I just opened the bag.”

What? That couldn’t be. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”

“You should go see the doctor.”

Jimmy wasn’t kidding. I disliked coffee – refusing to drink it even – two days in a row? Something had to be seriously wrong. However, before we called in Dr. House, I decided to wait and rule out the bizarre-o hormone PMS factor.

If that was in play, anything was game.

As the days progressed my aversion became worse. Just the scent of a fresh pot would make me gag and open a window. After a couple of weeks, and some other alarming symptoms, the reason for my antipathy became clear: I was pregnant.

At first the invigorating drink wasn’t missed. Frankly, I was too busy praying to the porcelain gods to give it much thought. As the pregnancy progressed and the morning sickness lessened, my cravings returned.

It started with an innocent longing. A quick trip through the Starbucks drive-through wouldn’t be bad. Sure, the thought of coffee still made my stomach riot – but I could order caffeine-free tea. Certainly that would be OK?

Sure … it was OK the first time. I sat in the drive-through long enough to ask in good faith all the jitter-free options available. The bright-faced, exuberant cashier shared her fave drinks. She exclaimed she was pregnant too when I mentioned why I was being so cautious.

That should’ve made me happy, but it didn’t. I felt as bitter and weird as the iced lemonade-tea I was sipping. Why? I wasn’t young or exuberant. I didn’t wake up in the morning refreshed and ready to take on the day. Oh no! My head drooped, my body balked and I dragged tail all day long.

What I wanted was caffeine.

No, I needed it. I loved it.

And it loved me too. We were being held apart by forces beyond our control. It was like a horrible, liquid version of Romeo and Juliet. We were destined to be star-crossed lovers – unless I took matters into my own hands.

So I justified my caffeine desire with research – pregnant women could have up to 3 cups of coffee a day. Not the gigantic ones, just the little regular cups. No problem. I’d be conservative. Heck, it wasn’t even coffee I was jonesing after. It was the spicy chai latte with extra milk.

Oh heaven in a cup!

Only I couldn’t face the gorgeous, perfect little pregnant girl again. So I avoided that Starbucks and drove out of my way to another.

It was the best guilt trip I ever drank.

I think the baby loved it too. Why else would she kick like that?

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3. Pregnancy, I wasn’t expecting this … (Part 3 of 3)

Kids keep you young? At 35 that’s hard for me to believe.

This pregnancy makes me feel old. Really, really old. Lately my purse is a portable pharmacy with giant bottles of Tums, Tylenol, various other meds, eye drops, tissues and Shout wipes.

Worse yet, my olfactory senses are disintegrating. That or my mental processes are on the brink. I won’t rail against the fact it might be both. Everyday – throughout the day – I catch a whiff of various scents: banana cream pie, fertilizer, salty pickles, poop on a shoe, or Earl Grey tea and milk.

Mind you, this isn’t related to my new, pregnancy-induced sniff-whiff power. (Which is mighty impressive.) These overpowering scents are pure imagination.

What isn’t my imagination are the gray sprouts and patches emerging in the outgrowth of my hair. It’s a drastic contrast the usual red-brown. Even sans my glasses I can see those ugly strands stealing my youth.

In the morning my bones creak. It takes awhile to get up and moving – and that’s with my heating blanket.

At the doctor’s office I’m given literature for geriatric pregnancies. Missing in the pamphlets are the images of vibrant, gorgeous, happy pregnant women. Instead the booklet is packed with explanations of various tests and the possible serious outcomes.

I have appointments to meet with geneticist, have a super-advanced ultrasound and an amniocentesis – all because of my age.

My pregnancy with Jay 15 years ago wasn’t like this. Yes, there were difficult months of morning sickness and later months of bed rest due to pre-clampsia – but between those, I felt like a glowing spring chicken. I scampered and dreamed. I nested and twirled. Life was grand and I didn’t give thought to being poor, what could go wrong or my age. I was going to be a mom – the rest would work itself out.

Today, I imagine the egg my middle-aged ovary released was as wrinkled as an over-dried California raisin. The only reason it sustained life was because an ardent sperm revived it with sweet talk and CPR.

Recently, I questioned the oldwives tale of children making parents feel younger to a friend. She had her children in her 40s and assured me that it was true — just not when you’re pregnant.

Who feels fantastic when they’re pregnant?

I’ll have to rely on her words of wisdom for now … and hope I don’t develop Alzheimer’s before the baby is born.

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3. Pregnancy, I wasn’t expecting this … (part 2 of 3)

Pregnant? It didn’t seem real after all these years of infertility. My primary-care doctor thought it was ectopic and sent me directly over to the gynecologist’s office. Only the office was closed and I was directed to the emergency room.

I needed to drive to the hospital. The doctor’s words ‘tubal pregnancy’ echoed in my head. They interrupted coherent thought about the location of the emergency room.

While driving, the street signs looked familiar and I was headed in the right direction – beyond that I was at a complete loss.

Come on brain, work. I’d been to this hospital. My sister’s daughters were born there. Just the month before I had my colonoscopy there. So it wasn’t like I was in new territory.

I felt a strong cramp. Damn, I couldn’t rupture a tube while driving. I needed help. I wanted Jimmy but didn’t dare call him like this. Who would be home?

The cards in my mental Rolodex were blank. I leaned over, grabbed my phone off the passenger seat and stabbed the first photo contact listed. My sister.

She didn’t answer.

What now? Oh, my dad was retired. If I couldn’t have Jimmy next to me, I absolutely wanted my dad.

I called and he picked up.

“Hey Sis, what’cha doing?”

“Hi Pop. I’m driving. … Are you busy?” I did my best to speak calmly.

“Well …” He used his teasing tone. “What is it you want?”

I tried to say I was pregnant, it was ectopic and I was headed to the E.R. — but I lost my composure. Instead I sobbed. This was my dad, and I was scared. I was really, really scared. As a kid he was my rock, the immovable force that could withstand any problem. Even if he couldn’t fix it, he’d stay strong and help me through it.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

I tried to speak again, but could only cry. Thankfully I was at a red light. I took a few deep breaths. “Dad, I’m pregnant. …” He made happy noises. “Oh no, Dad.” Oh, God no. Please don’t get excited. “It’s tubal. I have to go to the hospital.”

It took a few more moments before I could explain calmly enough for him to understand and ask directions. He told me all I had to do was drive straight. The street I was on would take me to the hospital entrance and he’d meet me there.

I’d regained numb composure by the time I parked the car, entered the emergency room and signed in. It wasn’t long before the triage nurse called my name.

I entered her small office, sat down and felt woozy. She asked general questions and I answered with my name, address and health insurance information.

“What brings you here?”

“My doctor sent me. He thinks I have a tubal pregnancy.”

“Oh, where does it hurt?”

I showed her and explained my symptoms.

“I think your doctor overreacted. They tend to do that especially if you can’t be seen by your OB/GYN.”

Oh?

“If you hurt to one side or the other, that would concern me. Your pain is in the middle, right where a pregnancy should be. I think you’ll be fine.” She smiled and reassured me again. “You’ll be put on the fast track and probably get an ultrasound.”

I didn’t quite believe her, but I hung onto her words. I decided to call Jimmy. At this point he’d be mad at me if I didn’t.

I started talking fast when he answered.

“Listen, I’m OK. I’m going to be OK– but I’m in the E.R. right now. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this at work.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m pregnant.” I quickly followed it up with the bad news but softened it with the nurse’s words. “The folks here think I’m going to be fine. Right now I’m waiting for some tests. It’s probably going to be a few hours before we know anything.”

My dad arrived as I hung up. He hugged me, sat down and patted my knee. I relayed the latest news.

“It’ll be fine, Sis. You’ll see.” He grinned. “How’d Jimmy take the news?”

“He was quiet and didn’t say much. I told him I’d call him when I knew something else.”

I found out later Jimmy had been just as shocked as I was – and just as upset. After he hung up he put his head down and cried. His coworkers encouraged him to go straight over.

Jimmy’s response? It wouldn’t do me any good to see him so upset – so he waited.

He joined me about an hour later. I was alone, in a gown and trying to rest on the examination table. The nurse showed him in.

“Hey, how are you doing?” He kissed my forehead and rubbed my cheek. He looked stressed.

“I’m OK. I’m just so sorry I had to drop that bomb on you. I almost didn’t call – but if the situation was reversed I’d be so mad at you for not calling me.”

“Yeah, I would’ve been. Have they said anything yet?”

“No, they just took my blood and the ultrasound is next.”

Jimmy pulled up a chair, sat down and watched me. I knew he was worried about the pregnancy – but also about me. After all these years, if this baby didn’t stick – what would that do to me emotionally?

“Hey, it’s going to be OK. No matter what happens today, we’re going to be fine.”

A few minutes later a nurse arrived with a wheelchair. She pushed me to the X-ray area and Jimmy followed.

Amazingly, all the test results were good. My hormones were at the proper levels and the ultrasound showed the baby was, indeed, in the right spot.

It took six hours, three pregnancy tests, a blood test and an ultrasound to prove it – but I was pregnant.

The baby is expected to arrive mid-April.

Part: 1, 2, 3

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2. Pregnancy, I wasn’t expecting this … (part 2 of 3)
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I was pregnant, but I wasn’t going to be able to keep the baby?

After 16 years of infertility, this had to be some big cosmic joke. I felt short of breath. This pregnancy couldn’t be tubal like my primary-care doctor thought. It just couldn’t.

My emotions flipped from stunned disbelief to panicked overload. I was supposed to go straight to my gynecologist’s office. The key was in the ignition, but I didn’t dare shift into reverse. I was a wreck. How was I supposed to drive?

I needed to calm down. More than anything, I wanted to talk to Jimmy. I wanted to hear his voice and have him tell me it was going to be OK.

Only, I knew once he heard me bawling into his ear and the reason why, he’d be in worse shape … and at work.

So I dialed my best friend on my cell phone, and I sobbed into her ear.

“I can come pick you up. Where are you?”

The familiarity of her voice was soothing. “In the parking lot at the doctor’s. I only need to drive three blocks.”

“Are you going to be able to?”

It might not have sounded like it, but I was starting to calm down. “Yes, it’s just around the corner. I’m going to be OK.” I shifted the car in reverse, pulled out and merged onto the street. “I’m going to chat with you while I drive over.”

My hands were shaky, but I could focus. I hung onto my friend’s voice like a lifeline as I drove. By the time I reached Dr. Oswald’s office, I had switched back to disbelieving and numb.

“I’m here. I’ll call when I know something.” I hung up, took a deep breath, grabbed my purse and got out of the car.

I could do this.

When I reached the office, the door was locked. I stood and stared. What now?

Maybe the staff was out to lunch. I checked the times listed on the window. Lunch break was from 11 to 2 everyday … except Fridays.

On Fridays the office was closed.

What was I supposed to do? Wait until Monday? Should I go back to my other doctor? My brain couldn’t process the next step. I was dumbfounded.

Luckily, the phone buzzed. It was my primary care doctor’s receptionist and she had an answer.

“If you’re obstetrician’s office is closed, Dr. Manning wants you to go straight to the emergency room.” She explained it was common for them to be closed on Fridays.

Why didn’t they tell me this before I left – or called ahead? Oh well, at least I had a directive. I didn’t need to think about anything else.

I returned to the car and started driving.

Should I go to the hospital by myself? It was one thing to see the doctor, but the emergency room was something else entirely. Was I up to it?

Maybe.

If I knew how to find the hospital, I might be.

Part: 1, 2, 3

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I’m not dying; I’m pregnant.

It had been sixteen years since I last tested positive for a baby. It wasn’t the result I expected my primary care doctor to return. I’d gone to see him because I thought my colon might be infected.

Yes, my colon.

Mind you, I didn’t pick that to worry about at random. A few weeks earlier I had a colonoscopy to remove pre-cancerous polyps.

Pregnancy never entered my mind. I blamed my late period, monstrous mood, body aches and nausea to PCOS. It was the cramps I couldn’t figure out. I never had those when experiencing PMS.

At times it was dull and achy, at others more sharp and painful. Either way I was sore, miserable and worried.

The doctor was worried too.

“You need to go see Dr. Oswald. Don’t call, just drive straight over there.”

My gynecologist? “Why?”

“You’re pregnant.”

What? The doctor might as well have dropped a boat anchor on my lap. I felt like I was going to topple over and gripped the chair to steady myself. Even then the world kept shifting. It was like one of those State Fair experiences where you walk on an unmoving bridge but the tunnel around you spins and everyone stumbles. For a brief moment, I thought I was going to vomit.

“I’m what?”

“You’re pregnant. It’s likely a tubal pregnancy.”

I couldn’t process the first part, the second I completely ignored.

“I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m in a movie of someone else’s life. I just don’t believe you.”

The doctor smiled. “Well, you are. Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it seems. You’ll be okay.” He reached out and patted my shoulder.

I still didn’t believe him. “Can you show me the test?”

He looked surprised. “Oh … yes. Of course.” He opened the door, left briefly and returned with a nurse. “I had her do the test twice just to be sure.”

She showed me both. I stood up to view them closer. Each test showed two dark, solid pink lines. Unbelievable. I lost the feeling in my hands, arms and face.

“This just doesn’t feel real.” We’d tried for nearly a decade after Jay was born to conceive again. We’d done the temping, the charting, the hoping and the waiting. We even tried fertility drugs. Nothing worked.

After Craig joined our family through adoption, I fully accepted I’d never biologically have children again. I didn’t need to – we could adopt.

At this point pregnancy wasn’t even an unshared wish. Any thought of a third child was always with the adoption process in mind.

“What do I do now?”

“Go straight to Dr. Oswalds. Drive right over. It’s much better than waiting for a tubal pregnancy to send you to the hospital.”

I grabbed my purse, stopped at the receptionist’s desk, paid my co-pay and headed to the parking lot. It wasn’t until I put the key into the ignition that the full reality of what was happening hit.

I was pregnant … but I wasn’t going to be able to keep the baby.

To be continued …

Part: 1, 2, 3

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3. Does this pregnancy make me look old?