I don’t know what it is about doctors’ offices and hospitals, but they always have the same smell. A weird, everything-is-sterile odor that shouldn’t remind you of being sick, but for some reason, it does. It’s a conundrum, I tell you.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, get your vital signs, and then Dr. Fields will be in to do her examination.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” I blurt but then cringe. “I mean, that sounds great.”
Besides the strange odors, places where medical shit occurs always make me uncomfortable. There’s just something about a random stranger in a white coat asking invasive questions about your life and daily habits that never sits well with me. I mean, can you take me dinner before you start asking me about how many sexual partners I’ve had? Sheesh. I don’t want to start an intimate relationship with you; I just want you to tell me if this mole on my back is normal.
Truthfully, I have the same issue with the dentist.
Luckily, Susan doesn’t appear to notice the giant pink weirdo in the room and gets on with the show.
“Have you experienced any illness in the past two weeks? Cough, runny nose, fever, body aches?”
“Nope.”
“Since we don’t have your immunization records, we’ll have to do a full blood work-up to check your titers for all of the diseases USCIS requires. Is that okay?”
Ugh. Blood work. Another reason why I hate going to the doctor. But it’s not as if I have a choice in the matter. If I want a green card, I best be showing my veins.
Internally, I cringe and grit my teeth, but externally, I nod. “Okay.”
“Any pertinent past medical history we should know about?”
“Not that I can think of. I don’t take any daily medications or anything. And my only surgery was a tonsillectomy when I was eight.”
“What about a history of drug use, excessive alcohol use, or smoking?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Although, all this immigration stuff might lead me to drink…
“Have you ever been pregnant before? Have any children?”
“No.”
“Is there any chance you might be pregnant?”
I start to open my mouth to say no, but then, I’m hit with the truth of Flynn’s and my relationship. We’ve had sex. A lot of sex. And we’ve never once used a condom.
Way to be responsible, Daisy.
Susan stares at me, and I laugh nervously.
“I…uh…don’t think I’m pregnant. I mean, I’ve obviously been having sex with my husband because that’s what married people do, you know.” Good God, Daisy, just get to the point. I clear my throat. “But I’m on the Depo shot. Have been for five or so years now.”
“Okay.” Susan just nods and jots something down on her clipboard. “Per the guidelines we have to follow for USCIS, we have to do a pregnancy test. But since we’re already drawing your blood, I’ll add an HCG level check to your labs.”
“What’s an HCG level?”
“Pregnancy hormone check,” Susan updates and sets her clipboard down to grab a blood pressure cuff. “If you were to be pregnant, your HCG levels would be elevated.”
If you were to be pregnant.
If I were to be pregnant?!
I don’t know why those words hit me straight in the gut, but they do. If I were to be pregnant, that would certainly cause quite the conundrum in an already complicated situation. Frankly, I don’t even know what I would do with that kind of information.
What you would do? What would Flynn do?
“We get everything back pretty quickly,” Susan adds. “Usually within twenty-four hours.”
“And I take it you call me with the results?”
She grins and wraps the cuff around my arm. “Yes. If anything comes up in your blood work related to your titer levels or HCG levels or any kind of out-of-the-norm results, we’ll call you.”
“So, like a no news is good news kind of situation?”
A soft laugh leaves Susan’s throat. “Yes.”
I blow out a breath as Susan puts her stethoscope to my arm and checks my blood pressure, but my mind is pretty much a million miles away while she finishes whatever else she needs to do.
Including drawing my freaking blood.
Normally, I’m a lunatic with needles, but the realization of Flynn’s and my carelessness related to sex has provided quite the mental distraction. It’s like my brain is busy doing fucking parkour up there, trying to figure out what the consequences of an unplanned pregnancy with my contractual husband would be.
How would Flynn even react to that kind of news?
I honestly don’t know the answer to that, but it doesn’t matter because I’m on birth control. Obviously. So, all these mental gymnastics are a pointless endeavor.
But it’s certainly interesting that you weren’t exactly terrified over the idea of being pregnant. If anything, you were busy with what Flynn would do…
I shake my head to try to dislodge my obviously crazy thoughts. Now is not the time to have a psychotic breakdown. Surely USCIS will frown upon reading that Dr. Fields has deemed me to be medically insane.
The big immigration interview might be just around the corner, but I’d bet money they’d cancel that shit real quick if a physician sent in paperwork that said I’m a nutcase.
Which is why you need to chill out, you psycho. Just take a breath. And wait to lose your shit for after you leave this office.
Sweet mother of mercy.
As I walk out of Dr. Fields’s office, fresh from an exam and a blood draw and whatever else they had to do to me to make USCIS happy, I head for the subway.
I don’t know why the whole pregnancy question threw me for a loop, but it did.
Both Dr. Fields and Susan assured me that if anything came back outside of the norm—titer levels showing I need a vaccine, or you know, the big P-word—they’d call me. Otherwise, they’d just send everything over to USCIS, and I’d get a copy at my interview.
But there’s no way I’m pregnant…right?
Even when you’re on birth control, there’s a way. And yours just happened to involve a sexy-as-hell man with a big cock.
Goodness. My mind has to stop fixating on pointless things.
I roll my eyes so hard I almost bump into the man in a khaki trench coat walking in front of me on Fifth Avenue. Yes, Flynn and I haven’t exactly been using condoms, but I’m on freaking birth control, have been for years now, and I don’t feel pregnant.
Not a single symptom, to be honest. No nausea or sore boobs or whatever else women have to deal with when they’re with child.
As I pass a Walgreens on the corner, I almost consider going inside and grabbing a take-home pregnancy test, but before I can step through the automatic doors, logical thought wins out. Just because a nurse had to ask me if I was pregnant doesn’t mean that I’m pregnant. Geez.
Maybe you secretly want to be pregnant? Maybe, deep down, you wish you could have Flynn’s baby?
“Oh, for the love of everything. I have got to stop,” I mutter to myself and hitch my purse up higher on my shoulder. I don’t miss the strange look I get from a woman eating her sandwich on a bench, but I put my head down and focus on getting my ass to the subway so I’m not late for work.