Because if he wasn’t my life vest,
He was my anchor.
Day 350
“How are you feeling today, Ms. Milas?”
At the sound of my mother’s last name, I bristle. For all of my strong Irish genes, my mother insisted on giving me her name, considering my father hadn’t been the type of man to stick around.
I look up at the man in front of me. The same man who’d so callously delivered the worst news I’d ever received in my life and offered no comfort.
“Fine,” I whisper. My tongue runs over my bottom lip as he steps near me.
I shy away from his stethoscope and his cold hands. He smiles quickly, without emotion, and at such close proximity, his bowtie mocks me.
“Having any pain today?”
None that you’d understand.
I shake my head, my eyes shifting between his face and the floor.
“My understanding is that you’d like to get some testing done.”
My nod is decidedly more animated, eyes wide and focused on him.
“Well, Ms. Milas, you do realize that sometimes these things happen. There isn’t always a rhyme or reason.”
Here we go.
“I would like testing, regardless.”
He sits on a stool, opposite my position on this bed covered in paper.
“We typically leave testing for those who’ve experienced more than one miscarriage, as this could, again, just be a one-time thing. Sometimes there are issues with the fetus or with implantation. It really is impossible to tell until you try again.”
He sounds like he’s reading from a fucking book, all monotone and know-it-all.
“So,” I take a shaky breath, “you’re telling me I have to try to get pregnant again, and see if I miscarry again, just so you’ll take my concerns seriously?”
He clears his throat and crosses his leg, one over the other.
“We can run some bloodwork; see if anything is going on in that area.”
“Okay,” I tell him.
“Physically, are you feeling back to normal? There may still be some residual hormones and we’ll test again for that as well. Just to ensure your levels are dropping as they should. If you’re deciding you want to try again.”
I’m not sure what type of answer he wants from me. My body was over my pregnancy, sure.
But it was like people expected me to get over it as quickly as my body had.
Try again, he says. If you go through this heartbreaking experience again, then we’ll take you seriously.
My fury aches as it boils beneath the surface that I’m attempting to keep cool.
“I would like to see a different doctor,” I say, my voice clear and strong, that fury spurring me on. “I don’t know if it’s because you have a dick, or you are one, or you’ve just had one too many patients, but you’ve become numb to this entire experience. Please put in the lab work and hand me off to someone else.” He opens his mouth, eyes wide, but I hold my hand up. “We have nothing further to discuss, sir.”
He nods and, at the door, informs me that I can go to the lab downstairs at any time today to get my blood drawn. I say okay, pulling my sweater closer to my body. My teeth catch my bottom lip as I wonder if I went overboard; if I was too hard on the doctor.
When I glance up, I can see my reflection in the metal paper towel holder. No makeup, eyes tired; the person looking back at me is so bare.
There was a time when I wouldn’t even leave my house without at least mascara. And now I don’t bother. It’s a waste when all I’ve done is cry it away.
I reach for my phone to text Gavin, even though it’s late in Pakistan.
Me: They’re going to run tests.
I slide off the table and head out of the door, toward the lab.
I’m surprised when I’m signed in and waiting for my turn that he messages me back. I wonder what he’s doing awake.
Gavin: That’s good. So we can find out if everything’s okay.
In this waiting room, all alone, I smile for what feels like the first time in a long time.
We.
It’s all I’ve been wanting.
To feel like this isn’t just happening to me.
Me: What are you doing up so late?
He responds immediately.
Gavin: Out with some friends.
There’s a tightness in my chest. If he were here, he wouldn’t be out with friends. He’d be here with me, holding my hand because I hate needles . . .
Me: I wish you were here.
I don’t get a response before I’m called in. When the needle pricks the inside of my elbow, I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’ve never been a fan of pain, on any scale.
“Everything okay?” The phlebotomist asks, her efficient hands working quickly to remove and replace the vials.
“No,” I whisper.
She pauses.
“Do I need to stop?”
Her latex covered fingers press into my shoulder, as if she’s willing me to open my eyes and answer her.
“No,” I answer, my eyes now open. She offers a confused smile and my eyes have no tolerance for it, looking away.
The last time I’d come in here for bloodwork, I was with an ecstatic Sabrina. I was simply terrified and unsure.
I’d told Sabrina that I wanted to start going to my appointments without her. That I wanted to deal with things myself like an adult.
But there was nothing that would make me feel like Gavin shouldn’t be here. At every appointment, whether I was alone or with Sabrina, I could feel the weight of his absence. And it layered, brick by brick, until I was staring at the wall between he and I.
Once she’s finished, I rush out of there.
My phone shows a message from Sabrina.
Sabrina: How was your appointment?
I’m not going to share my small outburst with her. I don’t want to deal with her opinions about what’s best and how she chose him and . . . all this other bullshit.
Me: Fine. Got some bloodwork done.
She texts me a thumbs-up and I open the text thread between Gavin and me. No response.
It’s infuriating that he’s out with friends and I’m dealing with this alone.
Gavin isn’t here.
He will never know what walking into that building again feels like. How I could cry at just the sight of it. He won’t know the aches I still feel in my body, like some sort of phantom sensation that I’d once carried life.
He doesn’t know anything other than the good time he’s having.
And because my fury is boiling over again, I message him.
Me: You can’t even talk to me and make sure I’m okay because you’re out with your fucking friends.
I push my phone into my purse as I speed walk toward the T, regretting that I didn’t take Sabrina’s offer to use her car.
All the way home, my face is hidden by my scarf as I cry. The car isn’t as full on a weekday afternoon, but I don’t care as silent, hot tears slide down my face.
I was okay with being alone.
But I wasn’t okay with being without Gavin.
I glance at my phone in my purse and I see texts from him, but I ignore them, so sure they’re only saying that I piss him off, and I overreact, and I need to calm down.
I was drowning, and he wasn’t trying to save me.
All I could do was sink.