A Grateful Kind of Love

by Ellie Wade

  Landon tells me an entertaining story about his roommate, Tom, as he drives us to the doctor’s office. I try to listen, but I’m in another world.

  I made this appointment the day after getting back from Canada, and I’ve been anxious about it since then. I know I’m pregnant, but once the doctor confirms that fact, it will be even more real, more devastating than it already is.

  In the lobby, I tell the receptionist that I don’t have health insurance. Until I tell my parents, I’m paying for these appointments out of my savings account. I can’t have them finding out through an insurance bill.

  A nurse leads us back to a room and hands me a paper blanket. She instructs me to take off my clothes from the waist down and cover up with the pseudo blanket.

  She leaves the room, and I do as she instructed.

  “This is so weird,” I tell Landon.

  “Yeah, it is,” he agrees.

  A reassuring smile forms on his lips, lighting up his eyes. I wonder if our baby will have his hazels. I hope he or she does.

  Not long ago, I never even thought of kissing Landon, and now, I’m lying naked under a piece of paper, carrying his baby, waiting for some stranger to stick a probe up in my lady parts while he watches. To say our relationship is moving fast is the understatement of the year.

  He squeezes my hand. “It will be fine, Ames.”

  “I know,” I softly tell him.

  We wait in silence. I study the diagrams of a woman’s reproductive anatomy that are affixed to the wall in front of me. Particularly, the uterus has my attention. I look at its size as I wonder how on earth that small space is going to grow an entire human.

  The OB doctor enters with the warmest of smiles, setting me at ease. She has a calming and kind air to her. She introduces herself as Dr. Nader and shakes each of our hands.

  She confirms that the pregnancy test I took moments ago was indeed positive.

  “So, Amy, when was your last period?” she asks, her pen jotting down notes in my chart.

  “I’m not sure. In August, I believe. I’ve never been regular. I can tell you the day I conceived though.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a hundred percent sure on the date of conception?”

  “Oh, definitely.” I nod, shooting a look toward Landon.

  “Well, that makes it easier.”

  “August 18,” I tell her.

  “Okay,” she says. “Well, that makes you six weeks pregnant—halfway through the first trimester.” She taps some keys on her laptop. “That will give you a due date of May 11. Your baby should be about the size of a lentil bean right now.” She holds up her hand and shows us her thumb and index finger with about a quarter of an inch space between them. “The baby’s heartrate isn’t detectable until five weeks at the very earliest. So, at six, there’s a chance we might be able to hear it with a vaginal ultrasound. Do you want to try to hear it?”

  “Yeah, I do. Do you?” I ask Landon.

  “Of course,” he answers.

  “Okay, now, don’t worry if we can’t hear it. It’s still pretty early. I usually don’t try to listen for the heartbeat until about eight weeks. But let’s give it a shot,” Dr. Nader tells us.

  After a moment, there’s a repetitive whooshing sound coming from the speakers.

  “There it is. A nice, strong heartbeat,” she tells us.

  “That’s it?” I ask excitedly.

  “Sure is,” she reassures me.

  Landon squeezes my hand. “That’s crazy,” he tells me.

  “It is,” I agree, my lips turning up into a genuine smile for the first time in a week.

  Dr. Nader puts away the machine and inputs something into my chart. “All right. We’ll see you back at twelve weeks when you’ll get to see the baby on an ultrasound. Until then, get your rest, drink lots of water, eat healthy, take a prenatal vitamin—over the counter is fine. Obviously, no drinking or smoking or anything like that.”

  “Of course not,” I tell her.

  “Other than that, as long as your morning sickness is manageable, you’re good to go.”

  “Yeah, it hasn’t been bad.”

  “Great. You’re lucky. The worst side effect at this stage for many women is the nausea.”

  She hands me a pamphlet entitled Your First Trimester. “Read this. There’s more information about the development of the baby and some additional dos and don’ts—foods you should avoid, things like that. Then, we’ll see you back here in six weeks. Sound good?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I tell her.

  “Yeah, thank you, Doctor,” Landon tells her.

  I walk out of the doctor’s office hand in hand with Landon.

  “Isn’t it surreal that you have a little person inside you?” he asks.

  “It really is.”

  “The heartbeat was insane. That whooshing sound. It was almost out of this world.”

  “I know,” I agree. “Like a little alien.”

  He releases my hand and proceeds to give an impromptu performance of the alien breaking out of that man’s stomach, screeches and all, in that scary movie Landon tricked me into watching when we were kids.

  I can’t help but laugh. I smack him on his stomach. “Stop! That’s horrible.” I wipe the tear from the corner of my eyes. “Don’t ever reference that movie again. Delivery is going to have me anxious enough without that visual.” I chuckle.

  “Don’t worry. Our little alien will be good to his or her mama.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses my forehead, causing my heart to twist a little.

  I circle my arms around Landon’s waist and lean my cheek against his chest, soaking in his strength. Today wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was pretty great. I’m strong, and I can do this. On the days where I feel like I can’t, I’m grateful to have Landon’s love to remind me that I can.

  Amy

  September.

  Wall sex.

  Memories.

  “What are you hungry for?” Landon asks.

  I look up from the giant textbook I’ve been studying for the past hour. I’m determined not to fail my test in anatomy tomorrow.

  “Surprise me,” I say with a grin.

  Landon nods and shoots me a smile before walking off. His smile is different, as is everything else. The past month has been weird, to say the least. We’ve been living in our own little world where only the two of us know this big secret I’m carrying around.

  I’ve never kept anything from my mom, and yet I’m keeping this from her. I don’t know why exactly. I know she’d be a little sad for me, but she’d never be disappointed in me. Neither would my dad. I have the coolest parents in the world, which is why I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to say the words. Maybe, if I didn’t have to carry the weight of the baby alone, it’d be easier on me.

  Yet saying the words aloud to anyone else will make it real. That sounds silly because I know it to be true now. But something is holding me back—perhaps fear. I’m afraid of everything. I’m worried about what this baby will do to my new relationship with Landon. I’m afraid of what people will think of me—not that it should matter, but it does. I’m scared of not becoming the woman I’ve dreamed of being because college life with a child is just too hard. Mostly, I’m terrified of losing myself, just when I was starting to find myself .

  Things are off with Landon, too, and I don’t know how to get them back to where they were. We haven’t made love since the wall sex at the casino. We barely kiss, and when we do, it isn’t filled with unbridled passion. Nothing douses the fire of a new relationship as quickly as a pregnancy announcement.

  We have fleeting moments of the real us, like in the parking lot after hearing the baby’s heartbeat. The rest of the time, however, are moments of feigning normalcy when it’s anything but.

  Yeah, it’s strange, but I don’t know how to address it because I’m not sure if it’s me who’s different or him. Perhaps it’s both of us. For now, I’m chalking it up to pregnancy hormones fogging my brain.
Every night, when my head hits the pillow, I pray that the fog will lift. I crave clarity.

  Our days are pretty much always the same. We go to class during the day. I spend the evenings studying in his bedroom. We eat dinner. Sometimes, we watch TV, and then we go to bed. He always holds me—his arm around my middle, my back to his front—as we sleep. It should make me feel loved and protected, yet it somehow has the opposite effect.

  I find myself questioning everything.

  Is he is just sticking around because it’s the right thing to do?

  Does he regret having sex with me in the first place?

  What are we to each other now?

  Is the separation between us actually my fault?

  Am I causing it? Am I different now?

  I have a hundred questions and not a single answer. I simply don’t know. I do know that I miss him. I miss September. I miss the start of a new and exciting relationship, and I mourn its sudden death as it was catapulted into a fiery fatality of looming parenthood.

  I read the same page of the textbook over at least ten times. Sighing, I close it.

  Reaching in my backpack, I pull out my small floral notebook and open it up to the first clean page.

  September.

  I know I’m naive to think that last month was the only amazing month of my life. Life goes on, and good things come from hard situations. I know all of this to be true, but right now, I’m grieving for that vivid euphoria I felt last month.

  Wall sex.

  I hesitate writing this one because, if my professor actually reads these, it could be embarrassing. With two hundred students in his lecture hall, I highly doubt that he does. But, if I’m being honest with myself, today, that’s what I miss because I don’t know if I’ll ever have it again.

  Memories.

  It’s pretty pathetic that everything I’m grateful for today is in the past. I’m longing for what was. I am thankful for my memories because the joy I felt in the past is what’s getting me through today. Just knowing that it’s possible.

  Somehow, my journal entries make me feel worse, so I put it away. I reach for my giant textbook once more when a sharp pain shoots through my abdomen, and the book crashes to the floor.

  “Ow!” I say aloud as I rub my stomach. What the heck?

  Now, I just feel cramps, like the time-of-the-month cramps but on steroids. Taking a deep breath, I stand and head toward Landon’s bathroom. Something is not right.

  I pull down my pants to sit on the toilet when I see it—red. Startled, I scream.

  “Landon! Landon!” I yell, panicked.

  Landon comes barreling into the bathroom, wide-eyed and worried.

  “Something’s wrong,” I cry. “Something’s wrong. I don’t feel well.”

  He looks from my distraught face to my underwear in shock. “It’s … it’s okay, Amy.” He looks around the room. “Throw them away. I’ll go to your drawer and get you a clean pair. Here, use this for now.” He hands me a clean washcloth. “I don’t have any girlie supplies, but the washcloth should do until we get to the hospital.”

  “The hospital?” My voice quivers.

  Landon places his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. Everything will be fine. But we need to take you in to make sure. Don’t worry. Okay?” His voice is soothing and calm.

  I’m so grateful for Landon in this moment because I’m freaking out. “Okay.” I nod.

  A few minutes later, we’re in Landon’s truck on the way to the University of Michigan Hospital’s Emergency Room. The cramps I felt are dull now compared to the nervous ache in my chest. I can’t remember ever feeling so afraid.

  Is something wrong with me? The baby? Is this normal?

  A nurse escorts Landon and me to a room. She hands me a gown and takes my vitals. “The doctor will be right in,” she says.

  Gown on, I sit back on the hospital bed, and my eyes dart nervously toward Landon.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he tells me again.

  I realize that he doesn’t have any more of a clue as to what’s going on than I do, but just hearing him reassure me calms me down.

  A woman comes in, pushing a machine, and introduces herself as the doctor.

  “Now, how far along do you think you are?” she asks.

  “Eight weeks,” I tell her.

  “Okay. A little bit of spotting is normal for some women during the first twelve weeks of pregnancy. We’ll know more when get in and take a look.” She holds up this large wand, explaining that it’s an internal ultrasound. “This will help me get a look at the baby and determine what’s going on.”

  I spread my legs and lie back on the bed. I shoot a look over to Landon, who is showing signs of nerves. When he notices me, he gives me a warm smile.

  A gray-white-and-black image shows up on the screen of the machine beside me. I hold my breath, waiting for her to say something.

  Her eyebrows furrow together as she gradually moves the wand and stares at the screen. She must find what she’s looking for because she stops and stares at the monitor. I can’t make anything out, just a bunch of white-and-gray stuff. She seems to focus on this round black area with a little white-and-gray circle on the side of it.

  “Okay”—her voice startles me—“this is the fetus.” She points to the small gray circle. “And this is showing us that it doesn’t have a heartbeat. I’m sorry, Amy, but you’re having a miscarriage.”

  She continues to talk, but I can no longer hear her. I stare at the screen, at the little gray circle—my little gray circle—and tears pour from my eyes.

  There was a little life inside of me. A life that was created with Landon. Our alien. And, now, that life is dead. A wave of guilt and sadness so potent engulfs me, and my chest hurts from the weight of my reality. I’ve never felt more despair in my life, and it’s enormously unsettling that I’m mourning something that I never truly wanted.

  I didn’t want to be pregnant. I didn’t want a baby at this point in my life. Now, it’s gone, and I’ll never get to know what it was like to have it. I’ll never get to meet the little boy or girl with Landon’s eyes or my smile. He or she existed so very briefly, and I didn’t even tell those closest to me about the life. There are only two people on this earth who will mourn this death, and that knowledge envelops me in so much guilt.

  Landon’s voice breaks its way into my thoughts. “Okay, Amy?”

  I look from Landon to the woman. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I was just saying that I think your body will take care of this miscarriage on its own, but you should see a doctor in a week or so to make sure that everything is out,” she tells me, apparently for the second time.

  I swallow. “You mean, like a period?”

  She nods. “Exactly. It will be just like a heavy period.”

  Panic rises in my chest, and I blink hard to clear some of my tears. My voice cracks when I speak, “You mean that our baby is going to be flushed down the toilet?”

  “Well, at this stage of pregnancy, the fetus is so small that you won’t even notice it. You won’t see it.” She smiles warmly, and for some reason, that pisses me off.

  “But I saw it,” I shriek. “I saw it on the screen.” I point toward the monitor that is now blank. “It was there,” I sob. “It was there and round and gray … and there! And I’m just supposed to throw it away on a maxi pad or flush it into a sewer. How is that right?”

  My body shakes with sobs. Landon sits beside me and wraps me in his arms. I hold him tight and cry.

  “I know it’s difficult, and I’m so sorry,” the woman says.

  She says more to Landon, but I ignore their conversation. I know that she’s just trying to help me, and the rational part of my brain understands that none of this is her fault. But my heart hates her because, right now, there’s so much hurt within me that it’s almost unbearable. Hating this woman who is just doing her job lessens some of the pain in my chest—just a fraction—but enough to allow me to continue to breathe.
>
  The rest of the ER visit is a blur. There are instructions and medications. Landon is so helpful, and I don’t know what I would do without him here.

  He wraps his arm around me as we walk to his truck, and he drives me back to his house. Once there, I take a long, hot shower. I can’t tell where my tears end and the water begins, but it doesn’t matter, as they both disappear down the drain, perhaps with my baby.

  I’ll never know.

  And, to some, it doesn’t even matter.

  But it will always matter to me.

  Amy

  Sebastian.

  Time.

  Ugly-cry movies.

  The warm fall breeze rustles the colorful leaves of the trees. It’s ironic how something that’s actually decaying, like the leaves, can be so beautiful. Running my hand along the armrest at the side of the swing, I smile, knowing it had to be Landon who brought this with him to college. Everyone back home has some sort of a porch swing. I spent many hours in my life sitting in one, watching the sunset over our back field or telling my mom about my day at school. There’s a nostalgic quality to them. The gentle, repetitive movements make me feel safe.

  I skipped all of my classes today. Landon went to his, and that’s okay, too. Everyone deals with hard situations differently.

  “Look what I brought ya.” Landon’s cheerful voice pulls me from my thoughts. He’s holding a large white cup.

  “What is it?”

  “Only the best Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup flurries in Michigan.” He hands it to me.

  “That’s quite a claim,” I say with an attempt at a smile.

  “Just try it.” He smiles wide and sits down next to me on the swing. He takes a big bite of his own flurry.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s amazing,” I exclaim after trying the sweet ice cream.

  “Right? So good.”

  We swing for a while in silence, enjoying our ice cream and the gorgeous day.

  “How were your classes?” I ask.