So on Friday, my GF gets a phone call and I hear her in the other room, a little animated, but I’m not an eavesdropper and I don’t have a short-term memory so three minutes later when she busts into my office / our bedroom and really it was more of a burst into the room as there was no door-breaking involved, I was slightly puzzled when she said, “Guess who called?” No clue. I’m bad at guessing games and never on the same page as anyone else. “Steve Harvey?”, I ask trying to keep up with her animated state. “The doctor from this morning. He says my urine test came back positive for being pregnant” and she looks at me expectantly.
Well, of course it did – oh yeah, I’m just that good. Okay, maybe not THAT good. I actually just look back at her and patiently wait, thinking ‘alright, let’s hear it. Tell me your tale’ with a mental eye roll. This oughta be good and I lean back in my chair.
“I tell him there is no way I’m pregnant. And he asks me again, “Are you certain that you couldn’t possibly be pregnant?” And I tell him, “No, I’m divorced and there is no possibility of that.”
Of course she didn’t tell him she’s gay. She’s still undecided about that one. Oh I don’t mean she isn’t in any way; she’s just iffy on telling strangers. We’re of that age, okay I’m not really, but she’s of that age where such things were kept to yourself. Marriage to a man, shoot, you can share that with anybody but being with a woman, that’s a hush-hush thing. No need in stirring up the cross-burners or the bible-thumpers. Would hate to get a stern look from someone you aren’t even on a first name basis with, right. UGH. I could give two shits less who knows or don’t know, who agrees or don’t agree. If you aren’t paying my bills, what the f*ck do I care what you think? But I digress.
“So the doctor says if there’s no way for me to be pregnant, then I probably have a tumor.” Well, to be honest, I said this same thing to her months ago. “Hey, babe, you should have a Pap smear…something ain’t right.” She faintly lightly bleeds after sex. (I know it’s TMI but I’m telling this story and you guys aren’t going to tell this one in pubs with drunken strangers or you definitely lead some sad sad lives with very poor stories and I’m never hanging out with you if that’s the kind of stories you tell…well, if you do, don’t mention her at all – she’s iffy around strangers.)
Coincidentally she already has a Pap smear scheduled for Wednesday night. Of course it’s at night. Some dude in an alley, with a pickup truck camper and a coat hanger. NO. It’s a night clinic. Don’t be so gullible! She’s already crossed “the line” in that particular clinic as they know “about me” and therefore assume “it” about her, since she’s my shadow, thinner and taller but still my shadow, which is so weird. Because of course I finally got her to go to the clinic.
Okay, fine. I didn’t get her to; she refused to go when I said she might need a Pap smear but then her sister called like the next week and said, ‘Hey everyone in the family has thyroid problems; you should get that checked’ and she scheduled an appointment immediately. I was like WTF to myself but it’s whatever. I honestly think she feels I am a ‘boob’ and pays no attention to me whatsoever in spite of my awesome advice giving and massive hoards of personal experience.
And the nice clinic folks talked her into scheduling a Pap, considering it would be her SECOND ONE in 24 years. I know, right!? Slow down, sister! Spreading your legs every 24 years! Geez. Tying up the medical community with your always showing up, demanding answers every 24 years! But again, whatever. At least she’s going. At least she already had this scheduled. At least she’s not pregnant, right?!
Anyway I held her while she cried a little and I told her the truth – hey, you’re young, you quit smoking a year ago, you’re healthy, we’re exercising, eating right, and you have not had large amounts of unexplained weight loss so I’m sure it’s nothing “bad”. Just something. A thing. A thing to overcome. This too shall pass. You are strong. Whatever it is, it doesn’t stand a chance against you and your mid-western genes. Plus you have me! (She probably mentally eye rolled on that one.)
So cross your fingers out there, folks. I’m not going to lie to you guys. I’m not a good caregiver. I have empathy. I love deeply. I’m just more of a Do it yourselfer when it comes to bodily things. If I needed surgery, I’d look into doing it myself. I don’t want your help. I got this. So conversely if you’re sick, get some medicine; if you’re wounded, wrap that bleeding shit up. Don’t depend on me. I’m not your lifeline. What if I wasn’t here? You better suck it up, buttercup, and fix yourself. What if you didn’t know me? What if I die before you? You better learn to be independent. I’ll be beside you of course but I don’t want to do it for you. That’s self defeating. At least she’s not pregnant, right?