Again, something daring. The next most honest thing I've written about the whole situation. Albeit slightly uncomfortable, that's the way it was. No need to mask it from anyone, least of all myself. So here it is: from the second scariest moment of my life.
There’s no explanation. There’s no reason to worry either. But still, the very idea that this could happen to me scares me to the bone.
I blame this partly on the coffee I had so late in the afternoon. I blame it partly on my nerves. I can’t sleep. I’m so fixated on the pains inside my stomach now, the fact that I haven’t had my period yet this month, the fact that I had been drinking more than I am used to in spite of the fact that I think I might be pregnant. I’ve never been more scared in my life. Ever. My life could be over if it’s true. I can’t be pregnant, not yet, not now. If I am, where do I go? What do I do? How do I hide it? My parents can’t know. My parents can’t know I’m not a virgin. It would devastate them. They may never forgive me. They may be ashamed. They may disown me.
He can’t support me. He’s like an overgrown child himself. I have to support him. I am the one with the job, with the bright future. He’s just waiting on me to make a life for us. He can’t be the father. I don’t want him to be.
I would have to have it aborted. There’s no way I can be a mother now. There’s no way I can complete a pregnancy now. There’s no way. I don’t want to go through one, but I have to. To save my future. To save myself. To save him. We can’t do this now.
But this can’t be happening. This can’t be the explanation. I’m on the pill. But I must’ve miscalculated the doses when I went to California, thus throwing everything completely off for my cycle. And he didn’t even cum the last time we had sex. Not inside me, anyway. But did he pre-cum? Did something happen with the pre-cum? Could something happen with just pre-cum? We were so stupid. We should’ve used a condom. But I wouldn’t be having these sorts of stomach pains this soon anyway. But what else is it? My stomach is bloated. But the cycle didn’t start. I just need to know what the fuck is going on.
I feel sick. I can barely think about eating. Just putting food in my mouth is repulsive to me. I can barely function. I have to find a doctor. I have to see a doctor. I need an answer.
I travel alone on a train in a foreign country to a doctor I don’t even know. The minute I sit down in the waiting area, I pick up every pamphlet about pregnancy and “alternative options.” Talk about obsessive. How much does an abortion cost? What does it take to do it? Wait… someone has to be with me? I actually have to tell one of my new friends that I may be pregnant? I only met them this week. What the hell will they think? What will they do? Will they ask questions? What do I tell them? Will someone come with me? Who do I trust enough to go with me if I have to do this?
The doctor says I’m not pregnant. Thank God. It’s just some mild form of gastritis, possibly related to the jet lag, or something like that. But he says I should take another pregnancy test in a week if nothing changes. I’m comforted. I take it easy on the alcohol for a few days. I heal. I forget this fear.
A week passes. We have some down time from our classes and film viewings. I go to the grocery store by our apartment alone. I grab a pregnancy test, but look both ways before approaching the counter, like I’m looking both ways before crossing the street. I pay, hiding my face in shame, even though these people will never see me again after next week.
There’s two tests. Great. They say you need to take more than one to verify, right? I read the instructions. I follow through. Phew! It’s negative. Still no period, but I’ll take comfort in this one test. I hide it behind a ton of toilet paper in the garbage. No one knows.
It’s the last week in Australia. Still dry as the desert. I pull out that last test. Couldn’t hurt to verify again, right? I hover, I pee, I let the test sit. Negative. Well, I guess I still have to stick to what the test says. I mean, what else do I do when I have no other point of reference, no other explanation?
I’m home. I’m at dinner for my sister’s birthday with my family. I have that strange sick feeling in my stomach again. Maybe that final hangover is just lingering. But now enough weeks have passed that I would feel some sort of pregnancy queasiness. Oh God. I’m fixating on it now, instead of paying attention to my sister’s excitement at finally getting an ESL job. Shit. I know my parents see right through me. But maybe they’ll just think I’m tired. And jet-lagged. I’ve only been home 2 days from Australia. Okay. That makes sense. That’s probably what they think. Calm down. Now you’re home. Book an appointment with your doctor.
I can’t book an appointment with her. Fuck. I can’t see her soon enough. There’s gotta be someone else. But how do I ask for a recommendation? I ask my mom. “Isn’t there anyone you know who’ll take a new patient… now?” I’m running out of lies to feed her about why I really need to see the ob/gyn. I’m grabbing breakfast in a Dunkin Donuts before heading into my internship. I’m on the phone. This isn’t the ideal place to be making this phone call.
“Is there a reason you should be worried?”
“….. Yeah….”
I’m crying in a fucking Dunkin Donuts. Buckets. It’s like a thunderstorm surging through my body, the sobs throbbing out of me, the tears flowing down like a rushing waterfall. This isn’t the ideal way to hear your daughter is sexually active. This isn’t how I wanted to tell my mom. In fact, I wish I didn’t have to admit it at all. But it’s there.
“I’ll try more doctors.”
And then, it came. The week I was finally scheduled to see my doctor. I’ve never been happier to bleed in all my life.
