Three years later…
I was in so much shit. I don’t mean like the kind you get in when you make a small mistake, but like the kind you make when you’ve made the biggest mistake in the world.
Oh, and I had food poisoning. Merry Christmas!
I’d hardly slept last night after it hit at around midnight, but at one point, I’d woken up holding onto the toilet, so maybe that counted as sleep?
This morning, I’d been curled up in a ball in front of the bathroom door, begging for Bex to come out so I could go in when she’d opened the door and stepped over me.
I had no idea why she was so quiet until I’d given the bathroom a cursory glance while I was on the toilet dying and had seen the white stick beside the sink.
The prospect of how she was going to react if it was positive meant my food poisoning changed ends, and I had to jump up to bend over the bowl before I thr
ew up on the floor.
I don’t recommend making that move and would encourage people to make a firm choice on which end you’re going to go with and stick to it.
Not that I really noticed anything, though, because all I could think about was what that white stick meant.
An alarm going off on the other side of the door made me lift my head as I flushed the toilet.
“Hey, are you going to be much longer? I left something in there… And I kind of…” she stopped, and I heard her groan. “Uh, I need it?”
That meant she hadn’t seen the results! If she wasn’t threatening to cut my balls off, and she wasn’t crying—she didn’t know.
So, mustering all the strength I had left in my dying body, I crawled across the floor and used the counter to pull myself up onto my knees to pick the test up.
There was no sign language to decipher, no cryptic code.
The words on the screen were enough.
I needed a plan.
Bexley
Six months ago, I’d had a miscarriage. I was only eight weeks into the pregnancy, which was a surprise for both of us, but we wanted that baby badly the second we knew about it. Four days later, I woke up bleeding and had to accept that our dream was gone.
I cried. No, I broke. I’d never met it, never held it, but I’d loved it from the first second I knew it was there.
Logan had been amazing. He’d held me during my downs, he’d supported me through the recovery and acceptance phase, and he’d helped me hide it from Santana so that she didn’t get upset, too.
He was always my anchor, but he was also my shield against the world, and I loved him more than life.
And my baby girl, who looked so like her daddy, but had the personality of her great-grandad, helped me realize that even though I’d lost a life, I’d still created a life, and I was so very grateful for that.
So, when I realized that I hadn’t had my period for three months, I immediately assumed it was a side effect of the miscarriage. It had to have an impact on hormones and things, right?
But after a week, I picked up a test just to make sure and waited for Logan to be comatose this morning to take it.
I had no idea that he was going to wake up after a night of puking and things right after I’d taken it.
What if it was positive?
What if it was negative?
What if I lost it or it didn’t have a heartbeat already?
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize the door had opened until I felt a tapping on my foot and saw Logan face down on the floor.