After Jason leaves, I immediately get ready for bed. In a fog like crying daze, I take a shower, brush my teeth and change into shorts and a t-shirt. As I lay in bed, my thoughts are anything but still. They are rapid, multi-directional, and never ending.

What am I going to do? How will this affect my business? I’ve worked so hard on starting and growing it. Now what’s going to happen? I can’t believe Jason said that. Why did he react that way?

I stop crying for a brief moment, but the next second when more questions race through my head, the tears aren’t far behind. Am I going to have to start looking for something else (pertaining to my career)? What if I am pregnant? Maybe it was faulty. What do I need to do now?

Somehow I manage to fall asleep between tears and thoughts. I awake the next morning thinking, Did I just dream that? Am I really pregnant?

Not knowing for sure the answer, I get up and walk to the bathroom. I glance at myself in the mirror, and I look the same…everything seems to be exactly the same. Oh, maybe I did dream that.

Before I can do anything else, my best friend Marc texts me, “How are you?”

Then I realize it wasn’t a dream. I did have that conversation with Marc. I close my eyes in disbelief and shake my head, as though doing this will erase everything that occurred yesterday. I put my thumb and index finger on the bridge of my nose and slowly move them to rub my eyes. My mind must not be focused yet, because I think What really happened yesterday as though it was a distance memory.

I get dressed and go about my day as though nothing has changed. I do my daily routine of eating, getting dressed, running errands, and working. I don’t think about being pregnant and don’t discuss it with anyone. When I am asked, “How are you?”

My standard reply is “I’m good. How are you?”

I actually make it through the next two days without so much of a single tear. Maybe I cried them all out or maybe I am living in denial. I don’t know.

On the third day, I walk into Planned Parenthood ready for my appointment thinking there is still a chance that I had a faulty test. The nurse asks why I am there.

As if she doesn’t know the answer, I say, “I took an at-home pregnancy test, and it came back positive. I just want a more accurate reading.” Yes, I could have just said, “For a pregnancy test,” but I wanted to give her my life story.

After she gets the standard information like height, weight, age, etc, she asks for the first day of my last period. As I did just two weeks before with the nurse when I was getting on the pill, I backtracked when I knew I started. Then I counted 28 days from that date to arrive somewhere around February 4th.

The nurse then asks for a urine sample, and I easily give it. She leaves to check the results of it, and I sit there in silence and with my thoughts. This time, though, I don’t have many. I stare at the ground not knowing when she will be back or what to expect.  I still have a shred of hope for a false positive test. I’ve heard about women getting those false positive tests. Maybe I got one as well. It’s a possibility.

Before I know it, the door opens. When you want them to hurry, they don’t. When you want them to take their time, they don’t. I could feel myself tense up when the nurse walks through the door. She barely has one foot inside the room, when she says, “Well, I guess you know the results you’re pregnant.” She runs the two sentences together as though they are one thought.

I barely hear the sentence (and definitely don’t process the implications of the sentence), when I reply, “But you didn’t take a blood test. You did a urine test, which is what I did with the pregnancy test. If you take the blood test, it’s more accurate than the urine test. So, maybe I’m not really pregnant.” I speak as though I’m trying to get out of some form of bad behavior.

She says without hesitation, “It’s 99.9% accurate.”

“But there’s still a chance then, since you didn’t do a blood test.”

“You’re pregnant.”

My shoulders slouch, and I look down like now I’m being punished.

She continues, “Congratulations.”

With uncertainty, I reply, “Thanks,” just because it’s the polite thing to say not because I’m feeling very thankful at this precise moment.

She begins talking about who knows what, because I tune her out. Not intentionally, but my focus isn’t on what she is saying; it’s on what she has already said. I take some papers she hands me and stare blankly at her, as though she is the teacher and I am Charlie Brown. Blah blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah.

I snap myself out of my daze to hear her say that I am five weeks along and my due date is November 10 (which actually changes to November 12 once I get my first sonogram) and that I need to make an appointment to see a doctor.

She got my attention. Now, I’m fully alert and say to her, “What? That’s not possible that I’m five weeks along. I didn’t even have sex with him five weeks ago.”

Then she explains how far along you are has to do with your last period and not when you actually had sex, which doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. How is that possible? If I didn’t have sex five weeks ago, how would I be five weeks pregnant? That’s just stupid (at least in my mind.)

I know when I get home that will definitely be something I have to look up. I’ve never heard of that before…and because it doesn’t make sense to me, I need to try and understand why it is and if it’s really true. Not that I don’t believe the nurse, I’m just a bit skeptical about that logic (and anything else related to my being pregnant at this point.)

I leave the room and sit in the lobby for them to finish my paperwork. While I’m waiting, I send Jason a text saying, “I just wanted to let you know that I’m at Planned Parenthood. They confirm that I am pregnant and due in November.”

He sends a text back saying….

Find out what Jason's text says in "The Following Days Continued."

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