"So, isn't your fiance moving here soon?" my doctor asked. I was at my annual wellness exam and my doctor loved to catch up on the status of my roller coaster of a relationship. "There's got to be a wedding soon, right?"
"Well, that's a funny story," I started, and then filled her in on the honeymoon and the email and the latest non-happenings. It made for good small talk while my legs were propped up in stirrups.
"Wait. What's this?" she asked, pushing against my lower abdomen.
Ummm, it better not be a fucking baby, I thought to myself.
Wouldn't that just throw a twist into an already overly dramatic storyline? I started to laugh at the thought of it, but the look of concern on my doctor's face told me it might not be a time for jokes.
"I can't tell if that's your ovary or something else. Let's get you in for an ultrasound today."
AN ULTRASOUND? LIKE, FOR A BABY?
My heart started to race. I was afraid to ask any questions because I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answers. Wouldn't I have noticed if I was pregnant? Didn't I still have an IUD in there standing guard against my babymakers?
I stared at the garbled mess on the ultrasound screen and attempted to see something. Anything. Was that an alien? Was that whole Twilight: Breaking Dawn demon baby thing coming true?
"What is it?" I finally got the courage to ask. I fought the urge to cover my ears before she replied.
"Looks like you have a 12 centimeter ovarian cyst and you need surgery to remove it. Like now."
Now, aside from "you're pregnant with a demon baby" and "it turns out, you were born a male," this is the last thing a bride-to-be wants to hear when her fiance could be moving there any day.
"I'm going out of town the last week of August, so I want to do the surgery before then," she said. "How does next week look for you?"
For the second time in two weeks, I was dumbfounded. Speechless.
And with the honeymoon, surgery and a wedding to pay for, I was in serious need of a winning lottery ticket.