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Scott: No excuse. We’ve made it this far without baseless divorce threats, don’t fucking start now. Take a nap and feel better. I’ll check in later and you’ll fucking get over it.
Me: Stop telling me what to do.
Scott: Stop worrying me then.
And enter guilt.
Me: I’m not taking a nap because I’m not that kind of tired right this second, but I’ve been laying on the couch since I took the girls to school. I’ve seriously done nothing but watch TV. I’m going to do this all week until I go to the doctor. Both of our parents are going to help me, so I can be a lazy mother. Maybe I just need to rest. So, don’t worry. I’m fine. Everything is under control here.
Scott: I love you.
Me: I love you too.
And all is back to being well in our world. I keep my word, being lazier than ever. One of our parents picks the girls up from school. Someone takes Stella to practice when she has it. Lizzy comes over on her lunch breaks. Scott cooks dinner during the week when he’s home. And then, on Friday, I’m finally at the doctor’s office.
I’m relieved because now, she can tell me whatever’s going on and life can get back to normal. Or, she can give me some pills and a referral to a therapist. That works too. I’m sure it’ll be one or the other.
But as I start explaining my symptoms and start rambling about everything that’s been going on the past few weeks, the doctor starts to frown. That’s a bad sign. My stomach starts to feel queasy as she draws some blood and has me pee in a cup to run a few quick tests. I should’ve stayed home. Doctors deliver bad news to me. Why would this be any different?
I squeeze my fingers over and over while I wait for her to return and give me the verdict. Whatever it may be. She’ll refer me to a therapist, probably. It’s going to be something mental. Anxiety can trigger physical symptoms, and I’m convinced that’s what it is. Why I’m having anxiety all of a sudden, I don’t know. But it seems like the most plausible answer to me.
There’s a knock on the door as if I’m going to be in here doing anything other than waiting for the person who is doing the knocking and Dr. Floyd walks in. With a smile. Okay, that’s strange. She was frowning when she left. Maybe things checked out?
“I can ease all of your worries right now, Mrs. Boyd.”
“How do you figure?”
“You’re not crazy; you’re pregnant.”
My heart hammers so fast and loud in my chest, it’s the only thing I hear. The doctor’s mouth is moving and she looks concerned, but I don’t know why. This isn’t possible. I am in fact crazy after all. There is no way in hell I’m pregnant.
“Mrs. Boyd? I need you to calm down. You’re hyperventilating.”
I am?
“Get my husband.”
“Okay, but first—”
Oh, god. This can’t be. It’s not possible. I don’t understand. “I need my husband!” I screech as black blobs cloud my vision. “I need Scott! I need him! I need—”
When I open my eyes, there are four heads looming over me. My body feels weak, but my heart feels like it’s beating strong and hard and fast, like it knows something I don’t. Then, I remember what happened and that I fainted.
“I need my husband,” I whisper.
“We’re calling him now,” Dr. Floyd assures me. “Let me check you over.”
I lie motionlessly on the bed, staring at the ceiling, tears falling freely. This isn’t possible. It’s simply not. I refuse to believe such a thing. I can’t allow it.
I need Scott.
I’m in the hotel, waiting for the time to head over to the arena, when my phone vibrates. It’s not a number I recognize, but I answer anyway.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Scott Boyd?”
“Yes.”
