Page 20 of The Final Faceoff
Which is ironic, considering I usually believe things will work out. Flights get rebooked. Lost luggage turns up. The world doesn’t end just because I misplace my passport in a questionable hostel in Nepal. I’ve had close calls. I’ve been stranded, stuck, lost. And I’ve always figured it out.
But this?
I glance around the room, as if one of the educational posters might suddenly contain the answers I need. There’s a deeply haunting diagram of the female reproductive system in front of me, and I’m avoiding eye contact with it like it just caught me sneaking out past curfew.
Instead, I focus on the clipboard I had to fill out earlier—one of those Are You a Functional Human Being? checklists.
Am I alive? Check.
Do I sometimes drink alcohol? Check. How often? Mind your own fucking business. Okay, that’s not what I answered. Two to three glasses of wine a week—unless there’s a snobbish party I have to attend.
Do I have a history of goat-related illnesses? No, but now I have questions.
Then the real kicker:
Parents alive?
Well. That’s complicated.
Mother: Deceased (car accident).
Father: Alive, but let’s call that a technicality because we really don’t talk much unless it’s his birthday, a holiday, or he needs to tell me that my life choices are deplorable.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders. I am fine. This is fine.
The door clicks open.
I sit up too fast, too eager to just get this over with.
My doctor walks in, holding my chart like it contains my fate. It sounds too dramatic, but hear me out, this is a fucking death sentence. Trying to travel the world as a single mother is not going to be easy.
She gives me a polite, professional smile—the doctor smile. The one that says,I have news, and I don’t know how you’re going to take it, so let’s see what happens.
I brace myself.
“So,” she says, scanning the chart. “You took three at-home tests?”
“Four,” I correct her. Because if I’m going down, I’m going down with irrefutable evidence.
The doctor makes a thoughtful hmm, flipping through her notes. “And how are you feeling?”
I consider this. “Emotionally? Or physically? Because emotionally, I would describe it as mild existential crisis with a side of dread.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t outright laugh, which I respect.
“And physically?”
I hesitate. “I mean . . . I feel normal? Maybe a little more tired than usual, but honestly, that could just be because I’ve been traveling a lot.”
She nods like this is a completely reasonable explanation and not a desperate grasp at an alternative reality. “Well, we’ll draw some blood to confirm, but the urine sample indicates that you are, indeed, pregnant.”
“But it can be wrong, like the other four I took,” I argue.
“Sorry, that’s not how it works. Your last period was eight weeks ago and . . . well, you have almost all the typical symptoms. You. Are. Pregnant.”
Silence.
My brain short-circuits.
