Twice got tired of my disinterest in his activities and did anything he could to illicit a response. He’d needle me and press in attempt to get a reaction. I had been reduced to a husk of my former self. I thought it felt better to simply fade away rather than end things dramatically with suicide. I didn’t want to have sex with him anymore, not only because I felt nothing but disgust for him, but also because I’d apparently shut lust away with all of my other feelings. When I said no, he’d grow angry. Rather than have to face more fights, I’d simply give in and let him do as he pleased.
Fall and Winter faded together in the haze of my constant state of marijuana-induced delirium. I left my job at Applebee’s in favor of a position as a receptionist/kennel technician at Advanced Pet Care, a vet clinic my family had used for years. In the Spring of 2020 Covid 19 took over the world. I had hardly spoken to or visited my family, though we shared the same road. One day, my Mawmaw, who was Nanna’s mother and my greatgrandmother, fell in her home. Speaking on the phone with my dad one day, he told me that he thought it best I go spend some time with her. I protested, stating that I feared risking exposing her to the new Pandemic, but he said that would not matter at this point. He thought her end was near.
In visiting with Mawmaw over the following days, I felt the denial war with the logical portion of my mind. She had weakened and lacked the desire to continue her suffering in this life. Her son, my Nanna’s brother Redd, came from his home in Florida to spend what time remained with his mother. Mawmaw was bedridden, too frail and painful to move. After work I’d go to Mawmaw’s to help my Nanna roll her to her side and change her bedding. Though she weighed very little, it was difficult to shift her when she stiffened with pain. She’d cry out weakly, protesting our administrations. My heart ached with remorse over having to cause my Mawmaw such suffering.
Friday, May 15, 2020, shortly after midnight, I got the call from Nanna that Mawmaw had passed. I threw on my clothes from the day before and hurried down the road. I’m not sure why I felt the need to rush, but I needed to verify that she truly was gone. I’d had my great grandmother in my life for a little over 25 years. She was the anchor and glue that kept our little family together.
My aunt and uncle who lived on the other side of my Mawmaw were gathered with my Nanna and Uncle Redd. Mawmaw’s lifeless form lay prone in the borrowed hospital bed we had placed in the living room. We sat around the dining room table, grief filling the air heavily. Uncle Redd and Nanna were sifting through the contents of an old box, scattering documents, pictures, and miscellaneous tokens over the table’s surface. Soon, laughter and remembered joys lightened the air of the room. Stories of times passed were traded as we shared in the joy of Mawmaw’s part in our lives.
A while later, a vehicle arrived with two sharply dressed men inside. They spoke little, but their practiced words were soft and comforting as they prepared to take Mawmaw to the funeral home. Nanna decided to get the funeral out of the way and settled on having it the following day.
I spent my Saturday readying myself for tearful farewells and contemplating the finality of things. I’d seen or heard little from Twice in the previous days. The funeral was uneventful. The pastor of my family’s church used the funeral as an opportunity to preach and ensure the attendees were fully aware of the consequences of our life choices. Gospel songs specially favored by Mawmaw were played as we shed tears and whispered goodbyes.
I drove home lost in my thoughts as I pondered the changes to our family structure without Mawmaw to hold us together. Where would we hold Thanksgiving dinner? Would we still gather to pass around Christmas gifts? Would we all drift apart, no longer feeling it necessary to pretend we all got along wonderfully? I arrived home to find Twice parked in my driveway after having been absent for days. He asked where I had been and why I was “all dressed up.” Something in me snapped. I had already decided I was through with him and his games. I was no longer going to support this meth-addicted bum, especially when I felt nothing but disgust for him. I informed him that he had until the end of the day to gather his belongings and remove himself from my home.
His shocked expression quickly changed to one of incredulous denial. One corner of his mouth turned up as he chuffed a small, disbelieving laugh. I felt nothing. I’d left what remained of my feelings six feet beneath the earth’s surface.
“Get the fuck out of my house. Get the fuck out of my life. I told you this was your last chance, and I meant every bit of it,” I informed him with an ominous tone that brooked no argument. I turned and went inside to change out of my funeral attire and into more comfortable, cool shorts and a t-shirt. I mulled over how I’d felt in the past when it came to separating from Twice. I felt nothing but irritation that I had to even deal with him this day and regret that I’d ever decided he deserved another chance with me.
Twice collected his belongings and left without another word on the matter. I sank into my recliner, drained from the week’s events. I decided I was tired of worrying and struggling for seemingly nothing. I’d begun smoking cigarettes again the previous Fall and smoking weed sometime that Spring. I settled into a routine of smoking myself into oblivion while playing Call of Duty on my phone and chain-smoking menthols on the porch. When I was short on weed, I’d drink. I’d eventually stumble to my bed and pass out. Waking some time the next day I’d prepare for work by showering, dressing, and smoking. I’d stop by the gas station to grab some nasty but strong canned malt beverage to down in the middle of my shift so I could evade any form of sobriety.
I had careened into the Pit, blissfully unaware as I drifted through the fog of the curling smoke emitted by my pipe. I had no desire to pull myself out, preferring the analgesic effects of THC and alcohol. Almost exactly three weeks passed in this manner before I was jerked back into reality by some startling news.
It was the first week in June, and I had begun to experience severe pains in my lower right abdomen. Thinking myself constipated, I downed magnesium citrate to no avail. Thursday, June 4, I decided to go to the ER, fearing the possibility of appendicitis. I signed myself in around 9 pm that evening. Hours dragged by as I lay in the bed curled on my side as the pain worsened. It was two o’clock the next morning before I saw a doctor. I had been submitted to numerous tests already. The doctor told me that I was indeed pregnant. He briskly proceeded to inform me that they had not yet ruled out appendicitis, but I was going to have to have a vaginal ultrasound. The rest turned into a buzzing in my ears as tears immediately began to flow. I stopped him and asked that he confirm that I really was pregnant. Nodding impatiently, he asked if I had any further questions. As I shook my head, he left the room.
I shakily held my phone and dialed my Nanna’s number, disregarding the late/early hour. She answered groggily, and I blurted out that I was pregnant. A slight pause ensued before she asked my meaning. I rushed through the night’s events, still reeling from the news myself. The conversation was a short one, but I just needed to share the moment with someone.
I stiffened when I realized the possibility of having to experience yet another miscarriage. Breathing deeply and slowly, I reined in my flailing emotions, having dropped the walls behind which they’d been caged for weeks. I forced myself to calm down and think carefully. If I didn’t allow myself to get too excited, I wouldn’t be as devastated when I lost the baby, I told myself logically.
The tears slowed to a stop shortly before a tech arrived to transport me to Ultrasound. I removed my pants and underwear in a bathroom connected to the tiny, dark ultrasound area. Laying back on the stiff surface, I scooted myself as far down as I could at the tech’s instruction and spread my legs uncomfortably. I trembled uncontrollably as I was taken back to the last time I’d had to do this. I’d lost that baby the same evening.
Terrifying thoughts continued to whirl through my mind until the tech noticed my panic. She had been silent throughout but asked if I’d like to see. She told me she wasn’t supposed to show me anything, since nothing was official until read by the doctor, but I nodded eagerly, promising to keep the secret. She turned the screen in my direction and pointed at an oddly circular shaped mass. “That looks like a pretty huge cyst on your right ovary,” she said matter-of-factly.
My eyes widened as I saw the tiny ovary she pointed out next and how dwarfed it was by the cyst. That would explain my extreme pain. I’d had cysts before but none that had caused such unbearable pain.
Moments passed before she shifted the wand uncomfortably and settled on another area of my pelvic region. There, against the lower left side of what appeared to be my uterus, a tiny blob pulsed with life. That spark of hope tried desperately to flare into life before I quelled it, pushing hard until it retreated. I was immediately in love with this third child of mine, however short-lived my parenthood would be.
The rest of the morning passed in an excruciatingly slow blur as more tests were run to rule out appendicitis. I texted Dr. Gordon and Dr. Brenda, my bosses, that I would be unable to work that day as I’d spent my entire night in the emergency room and was still in a great deal of pain. I was discharged around seven that morning with a prescription for antibiotics and instructions to follow up with my OB/GYN.
I sat in my car for a while trying to determine my next move. I called my dad to tell him the news. He was more excited for me than I expected. He reasoned that, despite the circumstances, I may not get another chance to be a mother due to my medical history and anatomical flaws. I called my OB/GYN next to make an appointment, explaining that I needed something quickly due to my past miscarriages and painful cyst. The appointment was set for the ninth of June.
I strove to hold back the hope and quell the anxiety. I knew the importance of remaining calm in decreasing the chances of miscarriage. My Google searches also taught me other causes that I should avoid. I dropped my newly opened pack of cigarettes into the trash can and began choking down water, a substance I’d never acquired a taste for. I panicked at the thought of wrangling a too large dog at work, and I asked to remain as a receptionist only for the safety of my unborn child. I knew I seemed ridiculous in my fears, but I knew I would not survive another loss. I’d already decided that I would follow this baby wherever he or she went, even in death. I refused to submit myself to pain of such magnitude ever again.
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