“MISS BREELAND?”
I glance up from the magazine I’ve been perusing. I’ll have to finish the article on the benefits of breastfeeding some other time. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m some crazy exception to the chemistry of home pregnancy tests. That could happen.
Suuure it could.
Ignoring my subconscious as it openly mocks me, I smile at the petite blonde in pale pink scrubs as she holds the door open for me.
“Right this way. You’re in here,” she says pointing to a door that’s ajar.
I step into the room and try not to have a panic attack. “Thanks,” I mumble.
She smiles again and I try to focus on her face. She’s giving me this sympathetic head-tilted, eye-creasing expression and I read more into it than I probably should. I’m not even wearing an engagement ring, but here I am. Hoping against hope that I’m not knocked up even though I suspect we both know that I am.
“Just undress completely and put this gown on.” She leans down to retrieve a pale yellow paper gown that’s practically see-through and then hands it to me. “Have a seat on the table and the doctor will be right in.”
I swallow and nod as she leaves me alone with my gown in hand. My tongue is thick and foreign in my mouth. Maybe I’m allergic to this place. Or this ridiculously thin gown. Why do they have to be so freaking thin? Couldn’t I open a flannel robe just as easily? Once you’re in the stirrups, it hardly matters.
Oh God. The stirrups.
I glance over and there they are, screwed to the end of the table like a medieval torture device. With all the advances in technology, surely there’s a better way.
You can do this. It’s fine. You have a great job, fantastic medical benefits.
I console myself with this information as I undress in what has now become a freezing cold meat locker instead of a warm and cozy doctor’s office.
But what will Mr. Martin say about traveling? What if I can’t? What if I can’t find a nanny willing to travel with me?
My breathing has accelerated to a dangerous level. I can see my chest heaving and I can’t remember if I was supposed to take off my bra. Surely I can leave on my bra.
I’m leaving my bra on.
It feels like a strange act of defiance but my breasts are sore and the idea of freeing them right now in this frigid room seems like cruel and unusual torture.
In just my bra, I slip the gown on only to realize it ties in the back. And I can’t reach.
That’s what husbands are for, Robyn. Duh.
My subconscious is an asshole. And stuck in archaic gender and societal roles that I will not succumb to.
I’ve thrown every excuse I have at Dallas. Telling him repeatedly that I think what I have is contagious so he won’t come by. He’s called to check on me half a dozen times and I just keep telling him I’m tired, which hasn’t been a complete lie. I blink back the tears and twist the stupid offensive ties together the best that I can.
I can do this myself.
My mind churns through the many changes I’ll have to make, checking off each one as totally doable. I can turn my small home office into a nursery. I can explain to Mr. Martin that I need maternity leave and to reduce travel for a while. I can put a crib together. How hard can it be? YouTube should tell me exactly how to do everything that I need to.
Shouldn’t it?
The magazine I was reading had articles on antibiotics, immunizations, vaccinations, breastfeeding, and several other topics that hadn’t yet occurred to me to worry about.
Fuuuuck.
But I can do this. I can. I will.
I got this.
“We got this,” I say while patting my still-flat belly.
If there’s no one in there, well, I’ll laugh at my own ridiculousness and go celebrate with a drink. Or two.
“Good morning, Miss Breeland. I’m Dr. Lassiter.” A gentle female voice accompanying a fair-skinned woman with shoulder-length auburn hair interrupts my mental breakdown. “How are you feeling today?”