So ladies, lets say you meet this guy and he’s literally the single most exquisite man you’ve ever met – smells amazing even when he sweats, says all the right things, does all the right things, lights up your whole body with just his kiss, gives
He completely stops talking to you. Like he just vanished off of the planet and like you meant absolutely nothing to him at all. So after weeks of being ignored you finally send him an email telling him how much he devastated you and how cruel he is being and that you wish you never met him because, quite frankly, it just wasn’t worth the pain. Surprise, surprise, he responds. He hates that he hurt you (you don’t quite take that at face value) and promises he’ll see you when he gets back into the country. (You don’t quite believe that one either.) and little do you know he’s been receiving nasty pictures from that blubberous disease ridden whore of a friend, The Troll, who made it a point to fuck him that very same night that he broke your heart and told you to leave. Coincidence seems doubtful…… very doubtful, But you don’t know this yet and you just wait, un optimistically for his return, just hoping to see his face.
He comes back home and when you see him standing in your doorway, he looks so good that it almost hurts. It takes every inch ounce of willpower that you have not to plant a kiss on his sensual, full, bowed lips. Your heart still does that little flutter only now it’s followed with a sort of sadness because he’s not your Sugar anymore. He’s not even really a friend. He’s just a guy, standing at your doorstep, with intentions that you are too hurt, tired and emotional to see. You think it almost looks like he has the same spark in his eye that he used to but just chalk it up to wishful thinking and brush it aside. He comes inside and lays down with you on your bed and rambles on and on about his trip and you don’t here a single word. Just the warmness of his prescence, his scent that will linger on your pillow, the crinkling of the lines of his face when he smiles, the light in his blue eyes when he talks about something that excites him- everything that you longed for is laying right next to you and for the moment, that is enough and all you needed. And everyone of these sentiments that you are relishing and memorizing lest this be the last time you see him are like so many daggers to your heart. As melodramatic as that sounds, that’s exactly how it feels. You fall asleep to the sound of his voice, nuzzled as close to him as you can be without actually touching him. You wake up because he’s cuddled up to you, the muscles of his chest pressing against your back and his strong arm encircling your waist, and his soft full lips kissing the back of your neck. You roll over and your lips seem to melt into his and you both fall asleep, face to face.
He comes over again the next day, apologizing because he knows what that must have meant to you, but sometimes he gets lonely too and it just felt good to be close someone who cares about him and doesn’t judge him. You can’t help but feel relief since he obviously has feelings for you, no matter how much it screws up his head to acknowledge them. That night he kisses you again. And again. And again until your bodies are interlocked, doing what they know how to do best. Days pass and both of you are right back where you were. And you start to think this could actually be something to last.
Meanwhile, you are unaware that The Troll is enraged every time she finds out that he’s been with you and starts lying to him and to you in a concerted effort to keep you two apart and keep him by her side, despite his blatant disinterest. You start to get suspicious and another friend of yours finally tells you that they slept together right after he told you to bounce. You confront The Troll. She tells you how he was drunk beyond the point of comprehension the night he broke up with you and she fucked him. She says he begged her too. She says she only did it out of pity, and that’s why she stopped talking to you that very same day. Pity….likely story… she never has and never will do better… Moving on….You confront him. He says he hoped you wouldn’t find out. And it doesn’t matter anyway because she doesn’t mean anything to him anymore. You are furious and after a barrage of abusive interludes with her she finally shuts up and disappears. But they are still friends. This bothers you, but you’re not exactly in any position to say anything and you continue along with your Love, your Light, your Bliss and try to leave the past in the past.
Then you find out your pregnant. But something in you tells you this baby just wasn’t meant to be and won’t be. He doesn’t believe you, even after seeing the positive pregnancy test, and it breaks your heart to know that he actually thinks you would make something up like that.You somehow just know that this baby won’t see a day in the world and he can’t seem to wrap his brain around that concept. Eventually, you start to bleed so he wants you to go to the hospital and you don’t see the need for it: women miscarry every day and its rarely ever a medical emergency. He thinks this means you must be lying and leaves so you miscarry alone. You call the hospital to appease him and they say the same thing you 
But that doesn’t happen. You stopped talking to him for a while after that and eventually he comes back around and apologizes and you apologize too because let’s face it- you weren’t exactly behaving like a sane person and maybe after a little time passed you understood his disbelief. He says he knows he should’ve been there, but the way you were acting made it seem like it had to be a lie. You explain that you’re not one to question instincts and voilà you were dead on with this one. He starts coming around again. The troll slithers back into her cave, her childish plans yet again foiled by reality and people who just know better.
He starts to be sweet to you again, though you’re both a little warier. You’re starting to think he might actually love you too.
Then, you start to get sick and the prognosis was unspeakably grim. You don’t say a word to anyone about it, because quite frankly, you don’t even know if you’ve processed the whole notion that 13 was mid-life for you. And you don’t want to be the girl who people smile at a little too sweetly and whisper ‘oh isn’t it so sad’ when you walk away. You want things to be just the way they are and you’ll find a way to cope on your own. The GI doctor and oncologist both said the same thing: weeks, 
You start seeing a healer who you name “The Witch Doctor” and he explains to you how all sickness is the result of an imbalance in the energy that you are surrounded by most. He says only people who can embrace and believe this concept can be healed by him and that once they master this fundamental belief they need not worry about cancer, aids, diabetes and any other illness that plagues man-kind. You try your hardest to believe everything he’s saying because even if it’s all bullshit, placebo can be a very powerful thing. He gives you herbs to crush and steep, mix into poultices and mix with whatever meals you can manage to keep down and you see him every week on your lunch break. He chants and waves his hands over rocks which he has aligned just-so on your back, and neck and then your stomach, feet, hands and throat when you turn over. He seems giddy after each visit. “Yes! Yes you believe! It works much for you!” You feel almost hopeful after each visit, that is, until you take a swig of Gatorade and feel your insides burning and retching from your esophagus all the way down to your rectum. The same feeling that brought you to the regular doctor in the first place.
One day you return to The Witch Doctor and he seems to be glowing with excitement. Flitting about his tiny office. “You’re done! I heal you!” he says. You stare at him in disbelief and tell him you just threw up water this morning. He scoffs and tells you its finished. You’ll be very very sick for a while but it means that its working 
In your dismay you tell your Love, your Light, your Bliss and he tells you he’s so sorry. He finally tells you that he loves you, though by now its fairly obvious. He tries his best to support and console you but it’s obvious that he struggle to find the right words to say or know the right things to do. But he tries and he stays by your side every night, holding you when you feel like your insides are on fire, kissing you when you cry, listening to you when you whine and scream about the pain and what this will do to your little son. Day in, day out. He doesn’t say much, but what is there to say? Comfort. Warmth. That’s all that you need right now.
One Friday, you go to the hospital with severe stomach pain, par for the course, and they ask if you could possibly be pregnant since they want to do a CAT scan. You laugh at the notion since you’ve been rendered infertile by every doctor you’ve encountered since your diagnosis. You tell this to the ER nurse and he says they have to take a urine anyway. It’s hospital protocol in women of childbearing age. After the nurse gave you a shot of Dilaudid for the pain, you lay in bed waiting to be wheeled to X-ray. An hour passes and another nurse asks for another urine sample. You think nothing of it- Dilaudid will do that to you- and thoughtlessly provide another sample. And then another hour passes. And then another. A doctor walks in and you ask when you’ll be having that Cat Scan and he tells you that the hcg level in your urine was 5 and generally anything 5 and over is considered to be pregnant, though it could just be a fluctuation in your cycle. He said to go home and take a pregnancy test in a week and if you are still in pain you should come back. The hospital just won’t do a cat-scan. You still thought nothing of it. You just assumed it was part of the process of a body breaking down, or whatever exotic little tinctures you’d been consuming from the Witch Doctor. That Saturday you and your Love, your Light, your Bliss go out for the night with some of his friends. You drink much too much, he drinks just a little too much, and you head back to your house. You sit outside in the car for a little while, talking about what he wants to do in his future. You shed a few tears and wipe them away before he notices. He says he thinks having a baby will be the single greatest moment in his life, and this time he sees the tears in your eyes that you fight not to show and you internally seethe because you’ll never be around to see or be apart of any of this. He kisses your forehead and pulls you close. His kisses feel heavy and woeful.
A week later, on April 15th, you saunter into Rite Aid and bought a pregnancy test, went back to work and took it in the bathroom at work. You watch apathetically as the test line grows a funky reddish-magenta and watch with an increasing panic, fear, and utter confusion as the second line also grows a funky reddish-magenta. You promptly take the other test in the box and it tells you the same story: Pregnant!You go back to rite aid and buy four more boxes of pregnancy tests and take six of them. Every single one of them tells you the same story: Pregnant! You put the inevitable freak-out on hold and go about your work day- you can’t afford to be unproductive just because of a little positive pregnancy test. Still in your mind all day you’re contemplating: You know you can’t have an abortion – a human is a human regardless of what state it is in or who it depends on, but you know that after what happened the last time and with you now being supposedly infertile on multiple fronts, your Love, your Light, your Bliss just isn’t going to believe you and he’s going to think that you lied about being sick. There is absolutely no medically sound reason for this to have happened. Yet here you are, with a baby growing in your belly.
You visit the Witch Doctor. He lays his hands on your chest and sweeps them over your body. He says that you are good, stronger than ever, and this is the blessing that karma has chosen for you. He says that this is my Holy Day and I should celebrate. You scream at him, forlorn and weary and at a loss for what the hell you’re supposed to do next. You tell him that he ruined your life and he pauses, looking almost hurt, and then tells you that a ruined life is better than no life. You leave, sobbing, not able to comprehend that complete and utter bullshit that you just heard, even though you know you can’t really call it bullshit if he’s been right all along, which he obvious has.
You spend the rest of the day thinking up the best way possible to tell your Love, your Light, your Bliss that for some insane reason you are carrying his child. You think to yourself about the medical community in general and wonder if they ever had it right about you. Maybe you weren’t as sick as they assumed. But then again, maybe the Witch Doctor really was magic. You don’t know, and you partly don’t care because all that matters is that you have a little baby growing in you and you’re fifteen pounds underweight and it’s gonna take a whole lot of planning, food, perseverance, and luck to get yourself into anything remotely resembling a healthy state.
But you look down at your flat stomach and smile, almost cry, because you know that this baby will see the light of day and this baby will be exquisite.
Photo Credits:
Smitten: http://theshoppingmama.com/2010/08/fall-fashion-with-smitten/
Troll: http://mythicalcreatures13.tripod.com/untitled-page-8.html
Kicking the Bucket: http://shmault.deviantart.com/art/Kicking-the-Bucket-183815632
Witch Doctor: http://haleola.com/wp-content/uploads/web-29.jpg
Tummy Profile: Amy Hymon
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