The Clinic Chronicles: Part 6

Keeping The Bean

“It’s going to be okay.” The doctor said as she patted my hand. “Just keep on drinking the medicine and taking it easy, alright?”

I just nodded and thanked her as Mr. F helped me out the door. I wanted to escape so badly but needed to keep as much dignity I could muster.

Can you imagine how it’s like to swing from ecstasy to utter despair in the space of a few minutes? I could be schizoid for all I know, but given the circumstances, I would have a legitimate excuse. I now felt like a baseball bat walloped the back of my head, my throat was too tight, and my heart was too big for my chest.

It amazed me how these doctors could take on that kind of responsibility. They literally have their patients’ lives in their hands. They could make or break a person with a few words.

How do they handle it, facing mortality every day?

I think Mr. F and I just went on home afterwards. It was exhausting: exhilaration and the dregs in one unbeatable combination. We just ate something to dull the headachy feeling and talked.

We knew we wanted to keep the Beanie Baby, as the sprout was now called. I’ve stopped smoking (cold turkey since the day before), stopped drinking (last drop of alcohol was the week before), and we agreed that I’d have to stop the helter-skelter pace of my work life.

Curled up on our comforter, we cover random stuff, basically musing about how we would be parents. I wondered which of us would be the disciplinarian and the devil’s advocate. Of course, Mr. F claims to be the spoiler.

“You would be the Supreme Court. I’ll be the Court of Appeals!”

I scoffed at Mr. F. Right. Like that’s going to happen.

Nevertheless, we still felt depressed about the news the doctor gave us.

In The Pink

At 17, I had my life all planned out.

Work hard, party harder, and retire to a little cottage on the beach.

I’ll be everyone's favorite grand-aunt; the eccentric old lady who cooks with her own herbs, the one with all the stories, and drinking wine like it was water. I’ll have a merry, rollicking love life and be the living muse of rock stars, painters and poets.

All shall love me and despair!

Ten years later, I’m dry-heaving into a toilet bowl. Not quite the picture I saw in my head. The toilet bowl was a familiar sight on Saturday mornings after a Friday night’s drunken debauchery. Things were different this time though as beside me was the number-cruncher I married two years ago and I was dry heaving for an entirely different reason aside from too much alcohol.

At least I suspected as much.

Mr. F, my beloved number-cruncher, excitedly whips out a candy pink box and presents it to me. If only it did contain candy.

"It’s a pregnancy kit!” F said as he was opening the box.

“Why wait for a clinic check up when we can find out now?"

How he managed to get a hold of a home pregnancy kit at six in the morning is beyond me.

"Aren’t you excited!? ComeoncomeoncomeOON!”

A pee drop later found Mr. F and I staring in fascination at the two tiny windows that were about to change our lives forever.

“Pink line! PINK LINE, BABE!”

“That’s a fiber, hon” a bit unsurely.

Another minute passes.

“That’s definitely a pink line babe.”

“Yeah but there should be a line in both windows.”

“There’s another forming now.”

“The pee hasn’t gone that far yet!”

As I watched the moisture creep up the pregnancy strip I was suddenly struck with how surreal all this was. Shouldn’t I be excited? What if I am pregnant? Do I want to be pregnant? Why wouldn’t I want to be? What was one supposed to feel in these kinds of situation?

A litany of thoughts started crowding my already throbbing head and, in spite of myself, the suspense was killing me. I plop on the living room couch while Mr. F stays in the bathroom waiting for the result.

Three minutes passes. Total silence.

“So are we or are we not, hon?”

He comes out of the bathroom, holding the thing. He looks at me without saying a word. His face just about breaks my heart. I knew right then he was going to start tearing up, my big softie. I run up to give him a big hug.

“It’s okay, honey, we can try again. My period might just be around the corner. We’ve had a stressful holiday season that’s why my cycle’s all messed up.”

*sniff*…mumble.

“Please don’t be sad, hon!”

More mumbles. I squeeze him tighter, letting him know how much I love him and thinking he’s going to be a great dad someday.

“You’re cutting off my air, babe…and we’re pregnant.”