The Sound That Changed Everything

The wait between a positive pregnancy test and your first ultrasound is one of the most emotionally complex stretches of time I’ve ever experienced. In our case, it felt like a version of Schrödinger’s cat — we knew there could be life growing inside Morgan… but we had no way of knowing for sure. Until you see or hear something for yourself, the uncertainty lingers in every quiet moment.

Morgan took the day off work, and we gave ourselves a slow, intentional morning. Before heading to the Naval Hospital, we stopped for lunch at a small restaurant near the clinic — one of those unexpected gems that felt comforting in all the right ways. Over taco, nachos and nervous smiles, we kept repeating the same quiet promise:

No matter what happens — it’s us. We’ll get through anything.

When we arrived at the hospital, something felt slightly off. The clinic  was full of activity — nurses and sailors moving in and out, murmurs about a power outage drifting through the space. Of course. First ultrasound, full of anticipation, and the power’s out. It felt almost surreal.

After what felt like an eternity (though it was probably just 20 minutes), we were called back. As Morgan stood and I followed, the nurse greeted her and instinctively turned to me as the presumed patient. We gently corrected her — not with frustration, just clarity — and continued on, as we’ve done many times before as a queer couple navigating systems not quite built for us.

Once we were in the exam room, the staff let us know that we would still be doing the ultrasound, despite the power issue. The machine was battery-powered, but the exam chair was electric — meaning we’d have to improvise a little. Morgan, without hesitation, agreed to lie on a bench if that’s what it took. She would’ve done a handstand if it meant seeing that baby. Halfway through the appointment, the lights came back on. 

Then came the moment we’d been waiting for.

The ultrasound began. The room was quiet except for the hum of the equipment — and then, suddenly, there it was. A flicker of motion.

A sound, steady and rapid. The baby’s heartbeat.

A fast, rhythmic whoosh that made everything real in an instant.

I looked at Morgan, and saw a kind of joy and relief cross her face that I’ll never forget. We didn’t need to say anything. That sound filled every silence we’d been carrying for weeks.

Our doctor, a kind and incredibly affirming woman, took her time with us. She offered thoughtful insight for Morgan and took a few moments to speak directly to me as well — acknowledging my role in this experience, asking how I was doing, and even introducing me to the basics of induced lactation, something I’ve been quietly researching for months now.

It was a small gesture, but one that made me feel included, seen, and cared for.

It wasn’t the appointment we imagined. But it was real, and it was ours.

And when we walked out of that room, hand in hand, everything felt just a little bit more tangible — and a whole lot more hopeful.