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Michelle
Someone’s knockingat my door.
I glance at the clock by the bed, and it’s early—seven a.m. “Who is it?” I shout from my spot in the fetal position on the bed.
“It’s Greg—uh, Dr. Hasten?”
He says it like a question, like maybe I’m going to let him in because he’s a doctor. And yeah, he’s right; I am. “Coming,” I mutter.
But first, I have to extract myself from the bed and put on pants because I got tired of taking them on and off with every trip to the bathroom.
I open the door, barely look at Greg, and pour myself back into the bed. I close my eyes, but I can sense Greg moving to stand nearby.
“How ya doing?”
“My uterus is trying to escape,” I croak.
Instead of laughing, Greg steps closer and perches on the edge of the bed. “Did you take some ibuprofen?”
“Can uteruses fall out?”
“Thankfully, no. Now come on. Did you take ibuprofen?”
“Yes. Two hours ago.”
“Good. I brought some supplies that might help.”
“I don’t want to move. I’m just going to lie here and bleed to death.”
“How much bleeding do you have?”
I tell him how many pads I’ve used since I started, and his weight lifts off the bed. I crack an eye open and watch him dig through a bag he brought, pull out an electric kettle, fill it with water, and turn it on.
A few minutes later, he pours the hot water into a hot water bottle.
“It’ll help with cramps,” he explains when I ask.
Greg hands it to me and instructs me to lie on my back, the hot water bottle just above my butt. Heat radiates off of it—almost too hot—but my back relaxes, and I sink deeper into the bed.
“What else have you got in your bag of tricks?” I ask, more curious now.
“Chocolate. Nausea medication. Ginger chews. More ibuprofen. Have you eaten anything?”
I shake my head.
“Do you need anything from the store?”
I wait a beat. “More pads,” I admit. I’ve been bleeding more than I thought I would, and at this rate, I will run out.I’m glad I was only eight weeks into my pregnancy.
“You got it. Can I take your room key in case you’re sleeping?” I nod and point to the card on the table. Greg gives me a small wave before slipping out the door.
An indeterminate amount of time later, during which I doze off twice only to be woken up by a very pressing urge to use the bathroom, Greg knocks and then opens my door, balancing a plate and grocery bags in one hand.
“Hey. Any better?”
I shrug.“I’m never having sex again.”
Greg ignores this unreasonable proclamation, kicks his shoes off, and steps up to the bed, then starts to unload the bag by tossing items on the bed next to me. “Okay, I’ve got more pads. The restaurant made you some toast and eggs. I also picked up three book choices from the lending bookshelf in the activities center, and I brought my tablet so you can watch Netflix.”
