I definitely don’t watch the replays so I can stare at his ass when he bends over and his shorts mould to his backside. I do not.
Then Australia scores their first goal and I growl unhappily. India attempts another goal in the third quarter and misses, which fires them up. I don’t have to be an expert lip reader to know exactly what Patrick’s saying; his forehead is wrinkled and he’s furious. When he gets a penalty shot and makes the goal, I’m on my feet cheering. The laptop is upside down and the glass is rolling around on the carpeted floor.
However, Australia makes their next attempt in the fourth quarter and gets the point. Not that it makes a difference for them. The match ends and the commentators talk about this being a historic win for India. All I know is we’re heading into the quarter-finals and if we win, the boys could bring home a medal.
As I’m straightening my bed, laptop and glass, nausea rolls through me and I hunch over the toilet bowl to empty nothing. It takes fifteen minutes for the feeling to go away, then I crawl into bed. As I drift off to sleep, all I can think about is the look of absolute joy on Patrick’s face when the game ended.
When Pavan and I land in Chennai and hop into our cab, I ask him to drop me off at the hospital and register at the front desk, hoping my doctor is in. With my stomach gurgling quietly and the waiting room volume rising around me, I call Vera.
“You watched the game, didn’t you?” she says gleefully.
“I’m at the hospital.”
“Tam, what the fuck. Why?”
“I’m miserable, Vee. If I’m not throwing up, I’m too tired to even get out of bed.”
There’s rustling and a deep voice before she says, “Which hospital? I’m on my way.”
I rattle off the information and rub my stomach, applying pressure every now and then. My cousin shows up as my name is called and joins me in the doctor’s office. They ask the usual round of questions and pull out my patient file for more information. Thankfully I don’t throw up once even though my stress levels are so high. When the nurse takes my blood pressure, she even tells me to calm down. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“We’ll take some blood and run a few tests. It shouldn’t be anything too serious. Given your history with IBS, it could be presenting differently,” the doctor says in the annoyingly calm tone I hate about medical professionals.
“You’re saying this could happen again? Is there a way to prevent it?”
“Might need to up your dosage. That’s a call we can take once your results are back.”
I nod slowly, rolling up the sleeve of my shirt, so the nurse can draw my blood. Coupled with how much I’ve starved myself the last few days, when she finishes sucking the life out of me, I’m woozy.
“For now, we can give you a shot to stop the vomiting,” the doctor offers and both of them look at me. “Would you like that, Miss Chandy?”
“Anything to never do this again, yeah.”
The doctor and nurse chuckle, but I close my eyes and sink into the chair. They don’t get it. I’ve never been this sick in my life and I spent two months every year at summer camp with kids from all over the country. Whatever this is has worn me out, my throat hurts, and my stomach is empty. Once I get the shot, Vera takes over asking questions and afterwards, she guides me to the car. We don’t speak as she drives me home, but her hand stays in mine the whole way. I’m so tired I can’t even produce a quip about my illness. In my flat, she sets the medicine and a glass of water by my bedside, I strip down to my underclothes and climb under the covers.
Despite my best attempts at going to work, Aishani and Vera insist I stay in bed. So I begrudgingly tuck myself under my covers and alternate between reading my favourite romance novels and sleeping for almost thirty-six hours. When I wake up next it’s thanks to my buzzing phone. I left it on silent so I wouldn’t be tempted to check it all the time. And now I can see that might have been a mistake. There’s a couple of missed calls from the hospital, some texts from Vera to check in about how I’m feeling. There’s also an email with my test results.
I go through each line time and type them out into Google to see what they mean. It takes me forever to understand I’m okay. Sort of. Towards the end, there’s a note about scheduling an appointment with my OBGYN at the earliest. My brain’s filled with all kinds of panicky things, but I call the clinic and make an appointment for the morning, then force myself to ignore it for the rest of the day.
It doesn’t work.
Five. Not a typo
Tamara
“Tamara, are you okay?”
Tears prick the corner of my eyes and I blink furiously at the floor. It’s easier than looking at Dr. Gopalan and hoping she has something different to tell me. I called the hospital this morning, before my appointment, and they walked me through the important portions of my results. When they got to the end they mentioned elevated hCG levels and my OBGYN would be able to guide me further. So like any true anxiety-ridden human, I Googled it and took my panic to a whole new level.
“It’s not a typo, right?” The words come out in a whisper.
“No. You’re pregnant.”
“Yup.”
A loud whooshing replaces the sounds of the clinic. I press my shaky hands together, palm to palm, and link my fingers in my lap. The universe clearly has a funny way of messing with me.
“Do you know what you want to do?” she asks.
