“I’d feel better if you didn’t chuckle every time you say his name.” I pick up test after test, staring at the taunting parallel lines, pacing the small space between my kitchen and living room. “I’m not talking to him about this.”
“It’s your choice anyway, babe. How are you feeling? Any nasty pregnancy symptoms?”
“My tits hurt so bad I want to chop them off, I’m sleeping fourteen hours a day and could use more, throwing up multiple times per day, and Red is the father. Guess you could say I’m living the dream.”
Living in full delusion, I told myself it was a stomach bug for the first three days. Then decided it had to be a PCOS flare-up. Until there was no denying the reality of what was happening.
“With any luck, you’ll feel a bit better in a few weeks… until all the other symptoms start, anyway. Then it’ll go to shit again.”
“Thanks for that little ray of hope, you jerk.”
“Cass… you don’t have to keep it.”
“Yeah.” I swallow the saliva suddenly pooling in the back of my throat. “It’s just… I don’t know if I can do that—no offense.”
“Hey, I said it’s your decision. Just because I made a different choice doesn’t mean I’m trying to sway you. Remember that, even with your PCOS and Hashimoto’s, if it happened once it can happen again. You don’t have to have a babyright now, if you don’t want to. But if you want to, then I’ll support the crap out of your decision.”
“Yeah… I’ll think about it.”
“Good. I gotta run and finish my shift. Keep me updated on everything, please? I wish I could be there with you in person so we could co-parent. Sister wives without a husband.” She glances up from the phone screen and frowns at something in the distance. “I love you. Call me later, yeah?”
“Love you.” I tap to hang up and fling myself onto the plush, grey sofa.
Fuck.
There are options. Just because I’m thirty-one-years-old doesn’t mean I’m in a place where I’m prepared to have a baby. This was supposed to be something I did once I had my shit together. With somebody I care about. In a situation where the whole town wouldn’t talk about me. I wanted a well-thought-out plan to follow, not a future full of unknowns and chaos.
I also have two endocrine disorders I was told would make it harder for me to get pregnant—and stay pregnant. One messes with my thyroid, and the other my ovaries. Basically, some part of my body is hurting at any given moment, no matter what I do I’ll never be skinny, and my hair is consistently either falling out or growing in places I’d prefer it didn’t. The only thing worse than living with Hashimoto’s Disease and Polycystic Ovary Syndrome is the years I spent suffering without explanation. At least now things are fairly well managed with medication.
After hearing the diagnosis spiel from my doctor, I naively thought it would take months or years of trying to conceive, not a spur of the moment hookup and a defective condom. Clearly I’ve been fed a load of horseshit, based on the tests strewn across my kitchen table.
Even still, I can’t shake the fear of infertility I’ve had since the day I was diagnosed five years ago. Anxiety grabs hold of the reins, veering me toward the decision that seems to be the most obvious choice. Even if it’s also the most terrifying.
I’m having a baby.
My head hits the steering wheel with a sob outside of the doctor’s office in Sheridan following blood confirmation and an official approximation of how far along I am.
Eight weeks.
In the days since those two pink lines, I haven’t left my bed… except to throw up. It worked well enough to tell my dad I had the flu. Thankfully, because I’m a server in his bar, he insisted I stay far away. Which means I’ve been left alone to think. Crying, panicking, binge-watching bad early-2000s reality television, and trying—though failing miserably—to come up with a solid plan for how to handle this. Waiting impatiently for the bloodwork to confirm what my boobs and digestive system were already telling me.
It’s real.I’m pregnant.
It’s actually happening.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I’m armed with an ultrasound booked for next week, a container of prenatal vitamins, and a sample of ginger candies to curb nausea. I chuck three into my mouth and immediately dry heave at the taste, spitting them out on the highway back to Wells Canyon. Not long after, I toss the entire container out the window because simply looking at the plastic bottle makes me want to vomit.
The drive home is done on autopilot, vision blurred and head foggy. Scared shitless, I pull my car into its usual spot outside The Horseshoe. So early in the day, the parking lot is empty save for heat waves radiating off the dark cement and my dad’s old Ford. My legs shake so violently, it’s a struggle to get out of the car and walk into The Horseshoe. Like a shadow of a girl, I float outside my body—attached but not fully me. The August mid-morning sun beats down on my shoulders while I catch my breath, staring up at the neon bar sign hanging above the entrance.
Maybe this doesn’t need to be done right now. It could wait another day or two. It might be fun to turn up with a baby in approximately thirty-one weeks. Metaphorically hard-launch a baby like all the trendy people do online when they get a new boyfriend. Then again, I can’t afford to feed myself if I don’t work, and my dad will storm my house if I stay holed up for too long. I need to tell him sooner rather than later. Rip the bandage off.
Dad’s stocking the shelves when I drag my sorry ass through the front doors and sit on a worn, wooden bar stool. The same bar stool I’ve perched on at least a million times. Scribbling in colouring books as a toddler, doing homework as a kid, eating French fries and texting friends as a teenager, and drinking after a long shift in my twenties. Raised by a single dad with strict rules about me going out, I spent an inordinate amount of time in the bar when I was underage; this bar stool and Dad’s spinny chair in his office were my usual babysitters.
It’s not a fancy establishment, but it’s home. With mismatched chairs, a couch that probably should’ve been burned twenty years ago, and a TV with a faulty volume control that makes it either deafening or muted. Not a single inch of the small wooden dance floor is without a scuff or dent. The far corner—next to the Pull-tab machine and unplugged jukebox—may as well be sporting a reserved placard because nobody sits there but Wells Ranch cowboys.
Today, the familiar scent of alcohol, fried food, and Bar Keepers Friend cleanser make my stomach turn. But I know if I turn around and leave, I’ll never work up the courage to tell my dad what’s going on.
“Hey, kiddo. If you’re still feeling crappy you gotta get outta here. I can’t risk getting people sick.” Judging by the concern on his face, I must look at least half as terrible as I feel.
