I’ve never been to see a gynecologist before. It’s kind of pathetic, I know. But as I sit here in this little office with no ventilation, I realize that this is actually quite true. The thing is that I hate doctors. I’ve always hated going to see doctors since I was little, and dentists, so when I came of age, I just never went. Some girls have been going since they were in their teens, to get prescriptions for birth control pills, but I just bought it from a friend. It seemed so much easier that way. Frankly, I don’t even know why they force you to see a doctor before giving a prescription for birth control pills. I mean, c’mon. Condoms can be bought just about anywhere, so why not pills?

Of course, I’m terribly embarrassed over this whole thing. It’s not something anyone knows, except for Caroline of course. And she took this info to the grave with her. The other thing that I really hate about doctors’ offices is that I have to deal with all of this insurance crap just to get in. It’s not enough to just look up a list of doctors online in a particular specialty and read their reviews to see if it’s someone I want to see. No, I also have to check if they are in my network and how much I would have to pay for a co-pay. I already pay $500 a month for my health insurance, but in addition to that, I also have to pay a $70 copay for the visit. As soon as I arrived, they gave me a clipboard with four pages of questions to answer about my health history. Of course, there was that all frightening when was the date of your last period? Question, which I never have a good answer for and today is no exception. For some reason, this question appeared on every form that I filled out at Yale’s health clinic - the last place where I saw a physician, even when I just went in with a cold in search for a prescription for some strong antibiotics.

I browse through the magazines as I wait to be called. There are two other women who are waiting with me. One is visibly pregnant and another is trying to get her fussy baby to sleep. Fussy. Now, there’s a word. A particularly kind word actually. A more accurate description of this baby, however, would be screaming. Angry. Incredibly upset. The woman looks frazzled. Her hair is disheveled and she is without a smidge of makeup. She is dressed in sweats and there’s spit up or throw up or some other white substance near her shoulders. I glance over at the pregnant woman. She is staring at the new mother and looks terrified. After a few minutes, she asks her how old her baby is and comments on how cute it is. Frankly, it doesn’t look particularly cute to me, but what the hell do I know? I bury my nose in the latest issue of Oprah magazine, which talks about setting goals for your dreams to make them a reality.

Dreams. Now, there’s a far off concept. Not long ago, my dream was to become a writer. All I wanted was for people to read my stories and enjoy them. Making a little bit of money off them would’ve been a perk. But getting married? Having a kid? Buying a house in the suburbs? Something tells me that this is not the kind of dream that the O Magazine article is referring to. No, these kinds of things are just mundane, run of the mill things that happen to everyone right? Or most people, I guess. Perhaps, there are people out there who dream of these things. But me? No, thank you. That’s not what I want. At least, not right now. No, that’s the last thing I want, actually. What I really want is to see my books on top of the charts. I want more and more people buying them. I want to get them into bookstores and to see them on shelves. I want to be interviewed on TV about them. I want to be written up in O Magazine as a recommended read.

Fucking hell. I put the magazine up to my face so that the two women in the waiting room don’t see me, in case I start crying. What the hell am I doing here? I can’t be pregnant. And even if I am, I don’t want this baby. This is the last thing I want. I don’t want to spend my days and nights taking care of some other human being. Some helpless, completely dependent, incompetent person who can’t even hold up his or her head. No, thank you. That kind of life isn’t for me.

“Ellie Rhodes?” A woman with a clipboard opens the door to the waiting room and invites me to the back. My heart is racing and I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate. Then I feel sick to my stomach.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” I say.

“The bathroom is right through there. When you’re done, please write your name on the paper cup and pee in it. Then place it on the pass through window ledge. We will need to confirm whether you are, or are not, pregnant.”

I barely finish listening to her instructions before I disappear into the bathroom. After I throw up, yet again, I do as she says. I place my cup on the ledge, wash my hands, and walk outside.