Page 15 of The Golden Goalie

She pauses and sighs. “Fine.”

I take out a small scratch piece of paper and a pen and write down three names of bookstores. She grabs it as soon as I slide it to her and starts to walk away.You’re welcome.She turns back a moment later. “You should probably do something about your face; it’s looking really...drab.” Without another word, she tosses her hair back again and makes her way out of the library. I can’t find it in myself to even care about her comment. She has no clue that my world’s pretty much falling apart right under my feet. She doesn’t know that I’m pregnant and can’t keep anything in my stomach. She also doesn’t know that I don’t know what I’m going to do about a baby doctor because apparently my insurance is terrible. I had no idea. I never go to the doctor because of all my mom’s medical expenses. I guess it makes sense now why we always owe so much. Apparently, our insurance is terrible.

“Did you finish the community calendar for next month?” Mrs. Randolph asks, startling me.

“No, not yet.”

“We need to add a class.” She gives me a piece of paper with all the information about a new class we’ll be offering.

“I’ll work on it.” She walks away and leaves me to my work. The hours pass slowly, until finally it’s ten. We close laterthan most libraries because of students’ schedules. Together, we finish our tasks and walk towards the large double doors.

“Have a good night, Amber.”

“You too, Mrs. Randolph.” I expect her to walk away, but she stares at me. They keep the campus lit well at night, so I can see her serious expression.

“You tell me when this becomes too much for you, and you need to take a break.”

My heart softens. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

“But you won’t be,” she says sharply. “You’ll get to a point where you won’t be able to sit for long periods of time. Your ankles will swell, your stomach will cramp every time you move, you’ll have to pee a million times a day, you won’t be able to lift anything, your pelvis will hurt every time you walk, and you’ll have acid in your throat every moment of every day.”

I blink; then blink again. “Okaaay.” I swallow, trying not to laugh at this obscene conversation. “Thank you.” I think it comes out like a question, but she must be okay with my answer. She nods and walks away. I shake my head and make my way to my car, so I can finally head home for the night.

My mom’s in bed, asleep when I finally get inside. I spend the next two hours hunched over my current projects before crashing for a few hours and then getting up to do it all over again.

The days begin to blur together in a combination of school, work at the library, morning sickness that lasts all day, and exhaustion. I can’t believe how tired I am all the time; nobody told me it would be like this. I keep it to myself, though. I don’t want my mom to worry about me. Thankfully, I found a clinic that will take my insurance and make an appointment. They didn’t want to see me until I was ten weeks, which surprised me. With my classes and work schedule, I wasn’t able to fit it in until I’m nearly twelve weeks. Mrs. Randolph thankfully let me off foran afternoon, just so I could fit it in. I drive almost an hour to get to my appointment because of traffic. When I park, I take in the building and wonder if this is the best idea. But I’m out of options; this is the only place my insurance will approve. I take a deep breath and grab my wallet and phone and head inside.

The waiting room is packed, and I wait in line to check in, willing myself not to puke. That’s all I do anymore...all day long. Whoever named morning sickness had to have been a man. No woman that’s been through it would call it morning sickness, not when it lasts every moment of every day without any relief.

“Name,” the woman barks in front of me.

I step forward to the plexiglass in front of her. “Amber Campbell.”

She grabs a clipboard and hands it to me. “Fill out the paperwork and bring it back when you’re done.”

“Oh, I already filled out all the paperwork online,” I tell her.

She doesn’t even glance up at me. “No, you didn’t.”

“But I did. I—”

“Fill out the paperwork and bring it back up when you’re done,” she repeats as if we just started this conversation. Realizing this is an argument I’m not going to win, I take the clipboard and manage to find a chair in the tight waiting room. My elbow’s knocked at least three times while I try to fill out the paperwork by a little girl who keeps climbing in and out of her chair. Her mom sits next to her, but she seems to be zoned out. Of course, if my belly was that big, I would be too. I finish the paperwork and turn it in and try to relax to keep my dreaded nausea away, so I don’t throw up here in this lobby. I mean, it’s definitely a possibility. I throw up anywhere and everywhere these days. I put my head against the faded wallpaper and take the opportunity to rest my eyes for just a few minutes. When my name is called, I take my time standing up. From experience, I know that moving too quickly will make my nausea worse. Whenmy stomach doesn’t heave immediately after standing, I make my way over to where the nurse is waiting for me.

“Amber?” she asks. I nod. She looks behind me. “Nobody’s here with you?”

Her words are like a punch to my already sensitive stomach. “No, I’m by myself.” For a horrible second, tears prick the back of my eye; but I push them away.I made these decisions.I hold my head high and walk past her.

Thankfully, she moves on. “We’re going to start by weighing you and doing your blood pressure.” I step onto the scale and stare at the numbers in surprise. I knew I’d been losing weight but not that much. Before I have a chance to process, she points to a chair. “Blood pressure.” When it’s finished, she doesn’t take it off. “Do you usually have high blood pressure?” I glance up at her in surprise.

“Uh, I don’t really know.” I look at the cuff and then at her. “Is mine high?”

“Not exceptionally but enough that I want to do it again.”

We go through the process again, and I take slow breaths to try and keep my heart calm. “Was that still high?” I ask when she writes down my numbers.

“It’s elevated.” She doesn’t say anything else, and I sigh. That’s another thing I’ll have to google tonight. Pregnancy and high blood pressure. She leads me to a private room where she has me change into a hospital gown.

“Why do I need to change into this?” I ask.

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