Updated: Sep 10, 2020
What is this incessant need to go the damn toilet repeatedly, it is becoming ridiculous! I just cannot be doing this right now. His graduation ceremony is about to happen and he is being celebrated for his stellar achievements, how embarrassing is it going to be with all eyes focused on us and I have to get up and go pee all the time? What now? Why on earth are my boobs so crazy sensitive? I have ginormous ones and they never get sensitive. Am I dying? Do I have some ridiculously rare disease and my candle is about to be snuffed out in my prime at twenty-four?
“Are you pregnant?” he asks. The question smacks me right in the centre of my brain, am I? I could not possibly be. I march myself off to my doctor to ask the professional. As sure as the button nose right there in the centre of my face, at the bottom of the screen, I see a dot smaller than an acorn. “What do you want to do?” the doctor asks me. I am certain the question has been directed at me, but I cannot really tell because right now my brain feels like it is wrapped in cotton wool and has been doused with anaesthetic. Do I want to be pregnant? Is our relationship stable enough for us to bring a child into this world? My career, I have just started building it. Will a child derail that? Do I even want to be a mother?
I am numb, I cannot feel a single thing that is happening to me right now. I have no idea what to do and I most certainly cannot give this doctor an answer even though he is staring at me expectantly waiting for one. “Phone me when you have decided because either way physically there are things that must be taken care of.”
Taken care of? I am not even sure I can take care of myself right now. This internal chatter will not stop and there are so many questions to be answered. I honestly do not know which decision is the right one. Will I even be a good parent? “What is the matter with you?” my mother chimes in at exactly the right moment. There is a poster child for people who should not become parents right here in our home. “Nothing, I just think I have a tummy bug.” I reply. We become our parents, don’t we? They are our immediate and most influential participants in shaping how we behave, and God knows I have spent enough time trying to escape her or done my best to not be anything even remotely like her. I do not even have a single nurturing bone in my body. I drink to the point where I am even considering whether I am an alcoholic. As for my smoking, I think I am up to a pack of twenties a day. Perfect life to bring a child into.
The argument in my head is certainly leaning in favour of not having this child and I have not even begun to consider the emotional ramifications to my body no matter which direction I go. Not to mention the social ramifications. Incurring the wrath and judgement of people if I choose not to follow through with the pregnancy and enduring the admonishment of my irresponsible behaviour, after all, I am an adult now I should know better.
Damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Why does life not come with a user manual?
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