Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 24266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Wrapping a tarp around my waist, I rush to my car and drive to the doctor’s office.
FINAL BLOOMING SEASON
BACK THEN
Dahlia
I’m sitting on a cold plastic patient bed, and my feet are in stirrups.
The bleeding “could be anything” according to the nurse who took my vitals, so I’m hoping I can kill two birds with one stone today: Get medication for whatever made me bleed, and get a printout of the ultrasound for Everett.
I’ve already purchased a grey and yellow pair of baby booties for our date tonight.
“Good afternoon, Miss Foster.” My doctor, a blonde who prefers to be called “Miss Sunshine” enters the room. “How are you feeling today?”
“I’m super excited.” I sit up. “Can you tell me how far along I am? Oh, and I know you all don’t typically print out ultrasounds until a certain mark, but could I still have one today?”
“We need to discuss a couple of other things first.” She picked up a clipboard and motioned for the nurse to grab something I couldn’t see. “When’s the last time you had a pap smear?”
“Two or three years ago with Dr. Turner.”
“Did she ever mention any uterus abnormalities?”
“No.”
“Did she ever refer you to any type of specialist for fibroid testing?”
“I really want to get the ultrasound printout first,” I say. “Can we get into the technical stuff and the blood reasoning after that?”
She looks over at the nurse and nods. Pulling on a pair of gloves, she motions for me to lean back and spreads a cooling gel on my stomach.
While the nurse hits the lights and turns on the screen, the doctor presses a wand against my skin.
The screen powers on, revealing a grey and white image.
“Here on the screen—” She points to a white and grey blip. “This is where the fetus typically develops, but can you see these orbs that are around it?”
“Yes...”
“Those are called submucosal fibroids,” she says. “Due to their shape and how they are positioned, it will be difficult for you to carry a pregnancy full term.”
“I’m not understanding.”
“Plenty of women have this condition, and due to the severity of yours, there’s a five percent chance that you’ll be able to successfully remain pregnant, let alone get past the first trimester.”
I shake my head, confused.
“I’m pregnant now, though,” I say, my voice faint. “Why are we talking about another pregnancy?”
“I typically recommend freezing eggs for a potential IVF procedure with similar patients.” She keeps talking. “Even so, I must warn you that even then, having a child is not guaranteed. There are also wonderful adoption agencies, foster programs, and…”
The rest of her words come in muted, and I suddenly feel alone in this room.
It’s not until I hear her say, “I’m sorry for your miscarriage” that the situation hits me.
When I come to, the nurse is gently shaking my shoulder.
“You’re lucky it was so early so that way you couldn’t get too attached,” she says.
“Lucky?”
“Yeah.” She smiles. “You’re very lucky, Miss Foster. Take your time getting dressed and be sure to place the garment back in the bin.”
She leaves the room, and I sit motionless until the office closes.
The scent of freshly cut lavender wraps around me when I return home.
Everett’s mother and my mom are sitting at the dining room table, packaging gifts for a local wedding.
“Hey Dahlia!” My mom smiles. “After you get settled in, come help us so we can mail these off by tonight.”
Too numb to respond, I walk to the kitchen and wash my hands.
“Hey babe.” Everett pulls me into a hug from behind and kisses my neck.
“Hey.” I can’t bear to face him right now. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Did you tell her what we decided, Everett?” His mother calls out.
“Not yet.” He grabs my hand and walks me to the dining room. “You two can tell her.”
“Whenever you two finally have a child,” his mom says, “Mrs. Foster and I have decided that we’ll take shifts during the first year to help you out.”
“We’ve already picked out where the nurseries will go in each of our houses.”
“If Everett doesn’t run off to New Jersey or New York, that is.”
They all laugh, and I force myself to smile.
Everett makes love to me every night for a week, then a month—whispering kisses against my lips, telling me about his biggest hopes for “us” and our “family.”
He’s all but proposed to me, and he thinks we can have it all: A big job or a raise for him if we stay here, enough money in savings for me to figure out what I want to do, and of course, a baby.
I’m not sure why I picked the day I did to stop lying to him, but I couldn’t let him keep thinking that I could give him the future he always wanted.
I could envision his anguish and frustration, him telling me things would be okay if we kept trying but how could I live with myself knowing that the variables in the equation could change, but the answer would always remain the same.