“Hi! This is Kelly Cervantes. I have an 11am appt and am here now.” I typed to the doctor’s text service.

“You may come inside and go downstairs.”

I read the text three times. Go downstairs. But that was where the ultrasounds took place and I wasn’t getting an ultrasound. Had they remodeled? Were the ultrasounds moved? Did they know something about my body that I didn’t?  

Visiting the OB for an annual exam is not exactly a banner-day for any woman, but with my obstetric history I dread it a little extra. After entering the building I double-checked at the front desk to be sure they did in fact want me to go downstairs.

“Yep! Through the door behind you and the stairs are to the right.”

I knew where the stairs were, I knew that the walls in the stairwell were painted pink, and I knew that seven years ago I had laid on a table with my 20-week pregnant belly slimed with goo trying to interpret the sudden silence from the typically bubbly ultrasound tech. In the days and appointments that followed we learned that our son Elvis, with whom I was sharing my body, would not survive. I hadn’t been downstairs since then, instead electing to have all further ultrasounds for Elvis, and eventually Adelaide, done at the hospital.

Come inside and go downstairs.

Holding tight to the railing I noticed that the walls were still pink, but that renovations had indeed been completed to allow for additional exam rooms. My relief was short-lived though as I spotted the ultra-sound room. The same one, dimly-lit to better view the screens, with photos of the ultra-sound tech’s healthy children adorning her desk.

“Kelly? You can take a seat in room 9.”

I followed the nurse to the exam room, relieved to put a door between me and the ultrasound equipment.

Walking out of the building following my exam, I quietly congratulated myself for facing multiple anxieties in less than an hour. Go me! This certainly called for a small treat.

I was pulling into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot before I realized that I had left my phone in the exam room. Fuuuuu…

Back at home, I decided to focus on folding the overflowing pile of laundry while watching a documentary that required little direct attention in an attempt to break my mind’s eye away from the pink walls. I still had one more social activity that day, a birthday dinner for our friend’s daughter at a hibachi restaurant, and I needed to at least put on the facade of emotional health. 

It took pulling into the parking lot before I recognized the restaurant. Though, when Miguel and I came to eat there for our 7th wedding anniversary, we had come for the sushi not the onion volcanos. Miguel had just booked Hamilton and I was grappling with all the sudden and drastic changes in our life. I don’t remember much about the meal, but on the way out we stopped at a fountain in the entryway and made a wish: that Adelaide would recover from her hypotonia and epilepsy and go on to live a healthy, neuro-typical life. 

“Have you been here before?” our friends asked.

“Nope, first time!” today, lying was easier.

Two weeks later she would be diagnosed with infantile spasms and well, you know the rest. So,  basically what I’m saying is, don’t be rushing off to the wish fountain in the lobby of the Japanese restaurant off of Route 22 in New Jersey. The food may be yummy but their wish granting fountain is busted.

As you might imagine, I’ve spent the better part of the last 24 hours thinking about these two very random encounters both happening in the same day. I mean, WTAF? If they are meant to be signs from Elvis and Adelaide, then I kindly request that they send signs in a slightly less traumatic fashion next time. Or maybe they know how stubborn I am and that this was how they thought best to get my attention. In that case, message received little ones!

Divine message or unrelated coincidence aside, I did note that in spite of my anxiety, I survived both events and even though I went straight to bed after dinner, I was able to not only get out of bed the next morning, but even have a productive day. Just one year ago, the mere thought of one of these happening would have sidelined me for the rest of the day. But yesterday, I survived them both and I’m pretty proud of myself. I probably didn’t make for the most lively or entertaining dinner company though…

Last week it was Adelaide’s death day and birthday, this week its ultrasound rooms and wishing fountains. In the inspired words of Gilda Radner’s Roseanne Roseannadanna, “It’s always something. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” Or, apparently, some weeks or days, it’s alllll the things. They still suck, but not letting them control my life is pretty empowering. Do I wish to forever avoid both locations moving forward? Abso-freaking-lutely. But should I stumble upon them again, or somewhere or something along the same vein, I know I’ll be ok. 

And that, perhaps, Elvis and Adelaide are rolling in laughter somewhere at their cleverness.