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I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up the very nutritious eggs on whole wheat toast and fruit that Tansy convinced me to eat for breakfast. It comes up fast. In that regard, morning—or should I say all-day since it’s nearly one—sickness is so much better than the flu. Still, I’m not sure this is the end of it, so I stay on the floor for a little while, just waiting for the dry heaves to start.
They don’t come, so I push myself up, and splash water on my face. There’s a part of me that says I need to get over this. I should get dressed, go out, try to live my life while I still have it. But considering I currently have the energy level of a geriatric slug, doing anything more than brushing my teeth seems like too much effort.
So I make my way back to bed instead. The folder on abortion options is lying on the floor next to the nightstand, so I kick it under my bed where I don’t have to look at it anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Isn’t that what they say?
It doesn’t work that way for me, though. As I crawl back into bed, curled up on my side this time because I can’t stand the thought of looking at that little patch of sky for one second longer, I can’t do anything but think about this baby. About my options. About what I’m going to do.
When I can’t stand the noise in my head anymore, I reach for the controller and flick on the TV that’s hanging on the wall across the room. There’s nothing on—or at least nothing that can keep my attention—until I hit ESPN and see a rundown of the Red Bull Challenge that will be taking place in Aspen this coming weekend. The commentators are going over the favorites for the different events. Z’s name comes up twice, Ash’s once. They also mention Luc, say they’ve been hearing rumors about him doing some crazy training this fall and because of that, they aren’t willing to count him out. Marc and Darcy are always the favorites in streetstyle, but Luc is definitely capable of an upset.
I’m still absorbing that—I didn’t know he was training like that—when they move onto women’s half-pipe and there it is, a picture of me at the top of the favorites list.
“Cam Bradley is definitely my pick to take home first place in the pipe. She’s strong and smart and when she’s in the half-pipe, she’s absolutely fearless. I hear she’s been working out harder than ever during the off-season and I’m expecting great things from her on Saturday.”
“I agree,” said the other commentator. “Luce Vandergriff might give her a run for her money, as will Desi Echols, but Cam Bradley is definitely the favorite going into this weekend’s half-pipe. She’s also a top contender for the giant slalom, so definitely keep an eye on her once the Invitational starts.”
They’re saying everything I want them to say, everything I’ve been waiting for them to say for what feels like forever. Not just that I’m a contender, but that I’m the favorite. I’m the one they think is going to walk away with at least one first-place finish.
Except I’m not going to be in Aspen this weekend. Just like I won’t be in Breckenridge in two weeks. Just like I won’t be at the X Games in January. I won’t be anywhere, won’t win anything this season. Not if I keep this baby inside of me. And though I haven’t made a final decision, something tells me that that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Suddenly, I can’t stand the indecision any longer. I can’t stand the going back and forth, the trying to reach a decision even when I don’t have all the facts. So, I reach for my cell phone, pull up the number to my agent, Mitch, and hit CALL.
He answers right away. “Hey, Cam, how is my favorite snowboarder doing today?”
“You say that to all your snowboarders,” I tell him, like I always do.
“Maybe, maybe,” he agrees. “But I really mean it when I’m talking to you.”
I laugh. “Yeah, well, you might not after you hear about why I’m calling.”
“What’s wrong?” The amusement goes out of his voice. “Are you okay? What do you need?”
I think about all the different ways I can break the news to him, but does it really matter? The truth is the truth and however I phrase it, it all means the same thing. “I’m pregnant,” I tell him after a second. “About three months along.”
He’s silent so long that I start to think we’ve been disconnected. But when I say, “Mitch?” he answers right away.
“I’m here. I’m just—absorbing. Of all the things I thought you were going to say to me, that wasn’t even in the top fifty.”
I start to ask about why he thought I was calling, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? Not after I’ve just thrown the biggest wrench imaginable into all of our plans. I settle for saying, “sorry,” instead. “Believe me, this isn’t the news I thought I was going to be calling you with.”
There’s another long pause.
“I assume, if you’re telling me this, you’ve decided to keep the baby.”
There’s no judgment in his voice, and I appreciate that. Then again, Mitch has been with me—with Z, Luc, Ash, and me—from the beginning. He’s seen us all at our best, and he’s helped the guys through their worst. I guess it’s his turn to help me now.
“I don’t know. I think so. But I’m worried about—”
“The endorsements. Your career. Where you’re going to stand going into next season. If you can come back from this after this was supposed to be your year.”
“Exactly,” I tell him, and for the first time since I got the news yesterday, I’m able to take a full breath. Not because I’m convinced everything is going to be okay, but because I can tell by Mitch’s voice that he’s already planning, already strategizing.
“For the endorsements, I’ve got to pull up your contracts, look at the clauses for personal injury and inability to perform. As for the rest, don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he repeats. “Boarders sit out seasons for injuries all the time and with enough physical therapy, they come back stronger than ever.”
“I don’t have an injury—”
