This can't be happening.
This absolutely cannot be happening.
But even as I deny it, I know.
Deep in my gut, in that place where instinct lives, I know.
I'm pregnant.
The clinic at the facility is small but well-equipped.
They have doctors on staff for medical issues, nurses who can handle everything from sprained ankles to panic attacks.
I've been here a few times already—once for a check-up, once when my blood pressure spiked during a particularly intense therapy session.
But I've never been here for this.
The nurse who greets me is named Dana.
She's in her fifties, with short gray hair and kind eyes that have probably seen every kind of tragedy addiction can cause.
She doesn't judge.
None of the staff here judges.
That's one of the things I've come to appreciate about this place.
"What can I help you with today, Vanna?" she asks, gesturing for me to sit on the exam table.
I don't know how to say it.
The words feel too big, too impossible.
So, I just blurt it out, graceless and terrified. "I think I might be pregnant."
Dana's expression doesn't change.
Not even a flicker of surprise.
She just nods, pulling on a pair of gloves, and asks, "When was your last period?"
I try to think.
The drugs messed with my cycle so badly that I stopped keeping track years ago.
Sometimes I'd go months without bleeding; other times, I'd bleed for weeks straight.
It was just another way my body was falling apart, and I learned to ignore it the same way I ignored everything else.
"I don't know," I admit. "I haven't had a regular cycle in years."
"That's common with opioid use," Dana says, her voice calm and clinical. "What makes you think you might be pregnant?"
I list the symptoms.
The sore breasts. The fatigue. The nausea that hits like clockwork every afternoon.
Dana listens, nodding along, and when I'm done, she pulls out a small plastic cup.
