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A tiny baby that is part me and part Tyler.
That will cry at me and poop on me and spit up all over my Louboutins.
Fuck. No.
I must have read that wrong.
I grab the stick and look again, but no. I was right. Pregnant, 3+. That’s five weeks… Over a month. Which means I got pregnant almost immediately. When we weren’t even in a real relationship.
I hold out my left arm and stare at the place where my implant is. All that pain getting it fitted, and for what? For it to give in and get me knocked up six months before it gets taken out?
Shit. I have to call the doctor. I need this thing removed.
I look between my arm and the test. I have to get the implant removed. There is no other option.
Yes, Tyler and I are fucked up. Yes, our relationship isn’t the healthiest. Yes, we both have our issues.
But this baby? It didn’t ask for that. It doesn’t deserve to be punished for what we suffer from. That’s for me and him to deal with.
I look down at my stomach. Fifteen minutes ago I was joking about ballooning, putting weight on, getting stretch marks… Now I’m scared.
I’m petrified.
I pull up my top, lie down, and settle my hand over my lower stomach.
I never thought I’d ever be a mom. I never imagined, not even for a second, that I would find someone I would be comfortable enough and safe enough with to contemplate having a family with.
Only I didn’t decide this. It was chosen for me. For some bizarre reason, this baby was picked when I didn’t want it to be.
Crap. That sounds so bad. Like I don’t want this baby.
I do. I don’t. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.
I don’t know what to feel right now. All I know is I have to call my doctor and get this bit of metal out of my arm because this baby deserves more than failing hormones being pumped into my body.
Then I can come to terms with it. Then I can accept the hand I’ve been dealt, deal with my demons, and look forward.
With Tyler.
Because there’s no way I can’t tell him.
I just need to accept it myself before I do.
I wince as the doctor cuts a small line down my arm despite the fact that I can’t feel any pain. When I called and told her about my test results, she got me in during her next appointment to remove it.
The whole time, she’s been telling me how unfortunate it is I got pregnant on the implant, and how I’m in the tiny two percent of people who will. She’s also been telling me that I should have been using a condom as well as the implant to practice safe sex.
The whole time, I’ve been sitting here like, “Dude. I had the implant. You think I wasn’t practicing safe sex?”
Regardless, she pulls the device from my arm and puts me back together. I leave the office with an appointment for two weeks’ time, a prescription for folic acid, and a pregnancy booklet to read.
Fantastic.
I also leave with a heavy secret and a lead weight upon my heart.
The second I walk through the door of my apartment, I dive beneath a blanket on the sofa and turn on The Big Bang Theory.
My head is buzzing, spinning, swirling into outer space. In the last ten hours, I’ve discovered that I’m pregnant and had my contraception removed, ready to be a human incubator for the next nine months.
