The night that I learned I was pregnant, I didn’t sleep at all and the next morning I started stalking my doctor as soon as the sun was up.
Hours later, I was sitting in a sterile office filled with women with burgeoning bellies and the men who loved them, pamphlets on cord blood banking and baby books I had seen on the shelves of my friends with kids, waiting for my friend Helen * who was coming for moral support.
I felt like a leper – ringless, manless and knocked up.
“You’re pregnant! Congratulations,” the ecstatic nurse told me after peeing in a cup, confirming what two EPTs had already made crystal clear.
“Or not?” she nervously added as soon as I burst into tears.
45 minutes later when the doctor finally made her way in, I was volcanically erupting in floods of salt water. I told her about my situation and how I didn’t think Jason was going to want this baby.
“You can do this on your own,” she dryly reassured me. “You should have seen my last three if you think YOU are in a bad situation. You are educated, employed and intelligent.”
She showed me the first image of my baby: a white blip on the screen, and estimated that my date of conception was most likely the first time Jason and I slept together – the night I sent him home because I didn’t want things to go too far, only to have him irresistibly show up on my doorstep hours later.
This was really happening; a life was growing inside of me. I knew that abortion wasn’t an option for me, but at the same time, this moment didn’t feel the way it looked in the movies. I wasn’t excited. I was scared to death. And I wasn’t really sure I was ready to be a mother.
My work situation was tenuous and "job security" was dismal to say the least. I paid for health insurance out of pocket, and wasn’t even sure if I had maternity on my plan. I lived in a really expensive and micro-sized one-bedroom apartment, which couldn’t even fit a crib, let alone a crying baby, and I could barely support my bohemian luxe lifestyle with the money I did earn.