Page 10 of The Game Plan
Large. Exhausted. Lonely. Scared.
“Tired,” I say instead. “And my feet are starting to swell pretty badly. By the end of the day, I don’t even recognize my ankles.”
“That’s normal at this stage. Make sure you’re drinking plenty of water and elevating your feet when you can,” she reassures me. “Do you need any doctor’s notes for work? Are you able to get a stool under your desk?”
“I should be able to get one, but if they give me any issues, I’ll get a note at the next appointment.”
She nods before a serious expression takes over her face, causing me to sit up. “How’s your support system, Savannah? Any changes? Anyone helping out?”
Chewing on my thumbnail, my mind races as I hesitate to answer.
My support system is…complicated. I have people who offer to help, but I’m too ashamed to take them up on it. Chloe offered to be there for me, but she’s busy adjusting to life in Cleveland after her boyfriend was drafted to play professional baseball. My aunt calls when she can, but she just got married and moved to a new state. My cousin sends threatening texts about moving to Texas to live with me, but I can’t let him uproot his life for mine.
At the end of the day, it’s just me—and my growing baby. With all the conversations I have with her, she’s going to come out knowing all her mom’s secrets.
If I were honest with myself, there’s one person I could call. But I won’t do that to him. I told him months ago that this wasn’t his problem, and I don’t want to go back on my word now.
Dr. Sinclair gives me a knowing look but doesn’t press. She knows my situation. Early on, I had a breakdown right here in this room, and she promised I wouldn’t be alone. As my doctor, she would be here for me, day or night.
“We’ll do a growth scan at thirty-two weeks to check the positioning and fluid levels. Then, we’ll start discussing birth plans. You’re getting so close, Savannah.”
“Birth plans?”
“Have you given any thought to what you want your labor to look like?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t even realize there were different plans. I assumed I would show up and pop the baby out.”
She smiles, tapping my forearm. “I’ll give you some reading material on different birth plans. I also recommend taking a birthing class. The hospital offers free ones. I’ll make sure they include the paperwork for those, too.”
Nodding, I swallow down the panic bubbling to the surface. At thirty weeks, I can’t believe I’m this far along and will be delivering a baby in ten weeks or less. There’s still so much I’m not prepared for.
Silence settles over the room as I wait for Dr. Sinclair to tell me our appointment’s over. It feels like we’ve discussed everything we typically go over, but she doesn’t move. “Before you go,” she starts, offering me a soft smile. “Have you opened the envelope yet?”
My stomach twists. She’s only mentioned the envelope one other time.
I shake my head. “No, not yet.”
Studying me carefully, I see the red flags waving. “You’ve had it for, what, nine weeks?”
“Eleven,” I admit, staring past her, avoiding her gaze.
With a slow exhale, her voice is gentle but firm. “Can I ask why?”
My throat tightens. Why hadn’t I opened it? I was so positive I wanted to know the sex of my baby. Not only because I wanted to have one less surprise in my life, but also because I wanted to be prepared for when he or she arrived. I needed certainty in a sea of unknowns. But as I lay on the bed with the ultrasound tech for my anatomy scan, I panicked. Knowing the sex made everything so real, and it is real. I feel the evidence of that daily with belly rolls or kicks to the ribs.
The second I opened that envelope and read the results, everything would be real. Real in a way I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Which is silly, because in ten weeks or less, ready or not, I’m going to have a baby to take care of.
The tech didn’t pressure me. Instead, she simply wrote the information down on a piece of paper and sealed it in an envelope. I could’ve found out instantly. I could have unsealed it in my car, at breakfast the next morning, or on one of the sleepless nights, but instead, I keep it hanging on my fridge, mocking me daily.
I force a small shrug, unable to find the words to voice my thoughts.
Dr. Sinclair scoots closer. “Does this not feel real yet, Savannah? I don’t want to be too harsh, but this is happening. You’re going to have a baby.”
The baby kicks–hard–and I wince. Every ache, every sleepless night, every moment of staring at my body in the mirror and seeing the changes, wondering how it’s possible to hold so much life inside of me—that’s all real.
But everything else?
My future? The idea of being someone’s mother when I still need one myself? Doing this alone and turning into my mom?
