lordsageme

[lordsageme]

my secrets aren’t anymore

(2015) I knew I was pregnant. Every unique personal symptom I had come to expect had presented itself – I went from drinking like a lush to just opening a beer, I couldn’t smoke a cigarette, I only craved raw fruits and vegetables, but I had no trouble sleeping 16 hours a day.

On my way to the grocery store, I thought I would send you a text message since you had comfortably gone days without speaking to me. As I made my way to the Family Planning aisle, my phone vibrated in the oversized pocket of the oversized clothes that were the last comfortably fitting (and socially acceptable) options I had.

“I met someone,” the message read.

How convenient. Whether or not uncontrollable sobbing was normal for this particular section of the grocery store, I was not sure, but I knew for certain that I would check out and drive the half mile back to my apartment before any large display of emotion because I was still not sure of the extent of the damage.

My ex-boyfriend – the one who remained supportive while I cried about what you had done, even after falling in love with you in the outpatient program we met in and leaving him – sat on the mattress that had been on the floor of the bedroom in my apartment where we first made love. You always told me I was your phoenix then – that you loved to explore my body. He cared more about what that test would say than you ever did – I wish now that I had known what he wanted from the test result, from the pregnancy, from my plans, from me.

While I waited for the 3 minutes to pass, my phone continued to light up with your text message responses to my pitiful attempts at argument. Until you said something to imply everything that I had seemingly fabricated alone with no inspiration from you was done – you needed to go. The results had already shown up on the tiny window of the pregnancy test, so I no longer knew what I was bawling about. My cell phone hovered over the bathroom counter, focusing itself on the small viewfinder with two little blue lines, capturing this simple test, and with it the emotion in this brief, life-altering moment. With my mind spinning out of control and my life in tow, the right words had escaped me.

So I sent you the picture of the positive test and hatefully wished you good luck with your new find before setting the phone down again.

Oh, Irony – I don’t know how I felt while laughing and crying over the April Fool’s joke I had made about being pregnant a week before as I told my parents I was pregnant. Again. I guess it couldn’t have been a joke after all when, a couple weeks later in the OB/GYN office, I found out I was already six weeks and 2 days along. I didn’t deny how badly I wanted a copy of the barely comprehensible ultrasound photos offered to me even though I wasn’t sure who to show or what we would do. I have them here still. When asked what my plans were, I vaguely rambled and explained that an ultrasound so early in the pregnancy was important for me after several miscarriages. I didn’t just call the clinic to start the legally required 24 hour waiting period after receiving an ultrasound and meeting the doctor prior to receiving abortion care like you wanted. You made it crystal clear that you wanted no more children, and either would not or could not change that for me – not loving me had become routine, but not loving this part of your life or universal creation was among the largest blows ever dealt to me. The second came that morning – your child would be almost 2 and a half, and no one but me and an ex-boyfriend will ever know that.

The weeks that followed and the care that I received aren’t so much the point – the clinic doesn’t make me angry and the doctors and nurses were never people I felt like I needed to forgive. Even when I showed up for my appointment, in a clinic that was a two minute walk across the street from the job that you took breaks from all day, and found that it was being renovated and no one thought to re-schedule my appointment. I called to try to get to the temporary clinic location only to find out I would have to come in for another ultrasound, wait another 24 hours, deal with another 2 weeks of heartbreak, nausea, and exhaustion, only to go through all the “day-of” feelings again. The bag full of pre-natal vitamins, magazines, and hospital care information still sat next to my bed.

At my second appointment, I had already made it. I was 12 weeks and 1 day pregnant. The procedure would now cost almost $300 more dollars than what I had tried to set aside – you have never to this day given me a dime, or more importantly, a fucking bear hug for what I went through for you. I wanted to make a choice, but I wanted you to keep loving me the most. Did you know that after 12 weeks of pregnancy, you have to listen to the heartbeat? You never heard that heartbeat. You never held my hand, hugged me, or let me acknowledge the pain. You were not there as the IV drugs pulled me just under enough to not scream. You weren’t there when a nurse lined my underwear with a maxi-pad and dressed me. You were not there as I got comfortable in Recovery and got called back by the nurse to get undressed again – they had not taken care of everything like they needed to. You weren’t there when I got back on that table again.

I was a secret for over a year. My pregnancy was a bigger secret – only a moment to you.

When I got on Facebook this morning and saw the tiny shape in the ultrasound that was your profile picture, I realized that I needed to out you for what you are so I can forgive us both.

I know that I will always remember. I am happy that you took the chance to forget.