She was a cold one. My doctor. A few months ago she told me not to have children.
“Much too old. Geriatric pregnancies are too high risk. Why do that to yourself and a baby?” she had her hands on her hips. I was shivering in a paper gown on the table.
“I never said I wanted to be pregnant,” I said. “I never wanted to be pregnant,” I added.
“Good. Don’t.” She shucked the latex gloves and left me to dress.
Later, I requested an Uber and met my friend at a bar. It was Taco Tuesday and that meant half-priced margaritas at Poncho’s. In less than two hours, my liver and bloodstream was drenched in tequila. My friend took off and I was left chatting people up. And when I say people, I mean one man. Forties. Thinning hair. Polo shirt. Thickish in the middle. As I waited for my Uber he coaxed me to the back seat of his car. Sex was a blur. A mad two minutes and I was back standing by the restaurant entrance. As I slid in the back seat of my ride, I realized I had no idea what that man’s name was.
A month later I’m vomiting. Must be the flu. I went to the doctor before work.
My doctor screeches. “Good lord, I told you not to get pregnant. Geriatric remember?”
My jaw drops. “I’m pregnant?” I remembered Poncho’s. “Would you stop saying geriatric? I’m 42 not 72.”
I adjusted well to pregnancy. I never thought about children now I’m in love with babies. I bought girl clothes. I decided the nursery would be green and yellow. Unisex colors. I bought paint and cleared out my arts and crafts room.
I was going to be a mother.
A month later, blood slid down my thighs at work. The receptionist screeched. The paramedics came in a minute. It was like they were waiting downstairs. Like they knew.
Five hours later, my doctor walks in. “I told you not to get pregnant. The baby is gone.”
She was a cold one. My doctor.
I wasn’t cold. Not anymore. I wept for my baby. My daughter. The hospital asked if they could have the tissue. I yelled. I wanted to grieve in peace.
Five months later, the arts and crafts room is still cleared out. The walls are painted yellow. And I cry every night. How can you grieve for a baby a you never knew?
Taco Tuesday arrived again. My friend forced me out. I did not drink. I scanned the bar for a father. A man to impregnate me.
I was a cold one. A mother. Looking for a man to mate with.
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