The hours after I throw up all over John are mostly a blur. But there a few moments that I’ll remember forever—perfect and clear.

His lack of upset that I’d vomited on him for one. He simply whipped me up into his arms and carried me to the bathroom.

I remember him putting my twisted curls in an ouchless ponytail holder and telling me he’d be right back. Him leaving the room, then coming back in his boxer briefs, his soiled clothes deposited somewhere unseen.

“Tell me what you need, Doc,” I remember him saying as he pressed a glass of water into my hand.

I remember how good the water tasted in my foul mouth. How I immediately felt better after the first sip.

I remember the sight of him bent down next to me, blue eyes filled with remorse.

“Not your fault,” I tell him. “It’s probably a…”

These are the moments I remember most: trailing off because my inner-doctor is throwing down a big red flag in the back of my mind.

She’s saying that other than fainting, I’ve felt fine all day. Healthy and happy. Usually you see a stomach flu coming before you throw up. Also, I have no fever or any other indicator of a viral infection. In fact, I can’t keep myself from eyeing John’s now naked torso, regretting that I’ll definitely have to sleep on the couch, which means none of the amazing sex we’ve been having every single night since he moved in four weeks ago.

I freeze. Not because of the medical implications of being so sex-crazy that I’m actually resenting a stomach flu for keeping me out of John’s arms tonight, but because of the “every single night” part.

How is that possible? My period has always been like clockwork, and my last one ended a couple of days before John moved in.

Now my stomach is rolling for a different reason. Or maybe for the same reason it’s been upset all along. What happened in Meirton. How it was so weird for someone who’d grown up in Compton, with a man who regularly bragged about his body count, to faint like that. Even weirder for someone who’d put herself through med school and managed several ER rotations without fainting once.

Then I think of that old Facebook meme, “See I knew I wasn’t a weak-ass bitch!”

But I don’t chuckle. I can’t chuckle.

And I ask John to bring me my phone.

More blurring after that. Phone calls. A ride to the hospital, where I’m assured the on-call OB will be waiting for me with an ultrasound machine.

The sac, clear as day on the monitor screen. Then the decision that has to be made.

So much happening all at once. But all I can really remember is the look on John’s face when I come out to the tiny waiting area that’s usually reserved for non-spouses waiting to hear about the arrival of their newest family members.

I remember him standing up as soon as I step foot into the room, as if he’s been staring at the door and waiting this whole time.

I remember thinking I’ve got another letter of apology to write to Shonda Rhimes now, because is there dramatic music playing in the background of my head at this moment? Yes, there is.

Until there isn’t.

Until somehow John’s closed the gap and I’m back in his arms.

Until everything goes quiet. And there’s only words. The only words I remember from the blur that was Saturday night.

“What’s going on? You all right, Doc?”

“I don’t know…the ultrasound…it said I’m pregnant.”

The expression on his face going from worried to stunned. I remember that.

Then me babbling on for a while about how it was uncommon to get pregnant on an IUD, but not impossible. One of the first things we learn in medical school. Even if a drug has a huge success rate, every doctor has to go in knowing there’s no guarantee any given patient won’t be in the remaining small percentage of people it doesn’t work for. Someone has to be one of the less than eight out of every thousand women who get pregnant while using an IUD.

John’s only answer to this explanation is to shake his head and say, “You were on birth control, but you’re pregnant. You’re pregnant with my baby?”

“Yes,” I remember answering, still in a daze. “But…but…I had them take it out.”

The way he freezes after I say that. The look of absolute horror on his face. I’m so confused until I realize, “Oh…no…I had them take the device out. So it wouldn’t hurt the baby. I’m still…” I have to stop and catch my breath before finishing the sentence, “I’m still pregnant.”

Then I wait to see what he’ll say next.