tone that was only let loose when I meant business. “No, I am serious. Get your ass home now .” I hung up the phone, fuming at his trademark stubbornness.
Andrew casually waltzed through the door an hour later. He thrust our bedroom door open, where I was still pacing anxiously. He was disheveled and tracking in dirt, oblivious to the fresh mopping and vacuuming that had just taken place by yours truly. “Now, what’s the problem?” He looked me squarely in the face, irritation crossing his bronze complexion. “This better not be about anything work related.”
Breathlessly, I shoved the test in his face. “I’m pregnant.”
He stiffened, the test clutched between his fingers. As I watched closely, a huge smile spread across his features. “That fast. Wow … we’re going to be parents.” He swallowed me in a bear hug, and I glanced in the mirror behind me. Catching his beaming face warmed my heart, and my nervousness melted away.
“Let’s not tell anyone right now, except our parents and Grace and Gavin.” This was my secret to tell, when I wanted to tell it. No one wearing Covington Company scrubs would know until I held an ultrasound photo that revealed a heartbeat.
Although my conversation with Jeff did not change anything, my issues with Collin took a backseat to my excitement about our new arrival. I ignored his verbal beatings, daydreaming of baby clothes and diaper cakes as he barked. I poured myself into my job with a new positive attitude, determined to show Jeff how dedicated and hard-working this mama-to-be could be.
I kicked pregnancy’s tail for the first couple of weeks except for an increasing tiredness. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Mama kept warning me.
So much for the power of positive thinking. I knew Tony Robbins was full of it, and Joel Osteen seemed way too cheery to be real. Around nine weeks into the pregnancy, on the way home from a dinner party at Grace and Gavin’s house, the sickening nausea hit me like a Mack truck. It couldn’t wait the sixty seconds until we got home.
“Pull over,” I screamed at Andrew, barely wedging the car door open before I vomited profusely.
Oh. My. God. There were much worse things that I wanted to say. No matter how much I retched, the nausea never ceased. My body convulsed from the heaving, and a cold sweat beaded my forehead.
Andrew rubbed my back as I slammed the door and crumpled back into my seat. Sobbing, I pushed him off me. The hot flashes were debilitating and touch sickened me. The sticky leather seats repulsed me. Hell, everything repulsed me. I peeled off my tight party dress, ripping it at the seams, and searched through my overflowing duffel bag for a T-shirt and cotton shorts, my body threatening to degenerate from the most intense fatigue I had ever experienced. This is what a cancer patient must feel like, I thought miserably.
“I thought I was supposed to get sick in the morning,” I gasped in between sobs. “Baby, this can’t be a stomach flu, can it?” I wiped off my forehead. I could run for miles and not break a sweat, but now, I was sweating profusely.
“No, Jana … I wish I could take it away.” He looked as miserable and helpless as I felt.
Amazing as my husband was, he was still a man, a creature insane enough to ask for sex from his pregnant wife after she spent hours hugging the toilet. After we got home and I spent several hours hugging the toilet, wanting to die, I soothed myself with a luscious face mask. At the sight of me lounging in bed with a Cosmopolitan and a glass of grape juice, he figured I must be feeling better.
For some reason—maybe it was the memory of the nausea, or the fear it would return—the thought of having sex was dreadful for the first time since I’d lost my virginity. I postponed the inevitable with a bubble bath, a prolonged phone conversation with Jessica, and the pile of laundry that desperately needed folding. Somehow, I still ended up in bed at eight-thirty with
Andrew casually waltzed through the door an hour later. He thrust our bedroom door open, where I was still pacing anxiously. He was disheveled and tracking in dirt, oblivious to the fresh mopping and vacuuming that had just taken place by yours truly. “Now, what’s the problem?” He looked me squarely in the face, irritation crossing his bronze complexion. “This better not be about anything work related.”
Breathlessly, I shoved the test in his face. “I’m pregnant.”
He stiffened, the test clutched between his fingers. As I watched closely, a huge smile spread across his features. “That fast. Wow … we’re going to be parents.” He swallowed me in a bear hug, and I glanced in the mirror behind me. Catching his beaming face warmed my heart, and my nervousness melted away.
“Let’s not tell anyone right now, except our parents and Grace and Gavin.” This was my secret to tell, when I wanted to tell it. No one wearing Covington Company scrubs would know until I held an ultrasound photo that revealed a heartbeat.
Although my conversation with Jeff did not change anything, my issues with Collin took a backseat to my excitement about our new arrival. I ignored his verbal beatings, daydreaming of baby clothes and diaper cakes as he barked. I poured myself into my job with a new positive attitude, determined to show Jeff how dedicated and hard-working this mama-to-be could be.
I kicked pregnancy’s tail for the first couple of weeks except for an increasing tiredness. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Mama kept warning me.
So much for the power of positive thinking. I knew Tony Robbins was full of it, and Joel Osteen seemed way too cheery to be real. Around nine weeks into the pregnancy, on the way home from a dinner party at Grace and Gavin’s house, the sickening nausea hit me like a Mack truck. It couldn’t wait the sixty seconds until we got home.
“Pull over,” I screamed at Andrew, barely wedging the car door open before I vomited profusely.
Oh. My. God. There were much worse things that I wanted to say. No matter how much I retched, the nausea never ceased. My body convulsed from the heaving, and a cold sweat beaded my forehead.
Andrew rubbed my back as I slammed the door and crumpled back into my seat. Sobbing, I pushed him off me. The hot flashes were debilitating and touch sickened me. The sticky leather seats repulsed me. Hell, everything repulsed me. I peeled off my tight party dress, ripping it at the seams, and searched through my overflowing duffel bag for a T-shirt and cotton shorts, my body threatening to degenerate from the most intense fatigue I had ever experienced. This is what a cancer patient must feel like, I thought miserably.
“I thought I was supposed to get sick in the morning,” I gasped in between sobs. “Baby, this can’t be a stomach flu, can it?” I wiped off my forehead. I could run for miles and not break a sweat, but now, I was sweating profusely.
“No, Jana … I wish I could take it away.” He looked as miserable and helpless as I felt.
Amazing as my husband was, he was still a man, a creature insane enough to ask for sex from his pregnant wife after she spent hours hugging the toilet. After we got home and I spent several hours hugging the toilet, wanting to die, I soothed myself with a luscious face mask. At the sight of me lounging in bed with a Cosmopolitan and a glass of grape juice, he figured I must be feeling better.
For some reason—maybe it was the memory of the nausea, or the fear it would return—the thought of having sex was dreadful for the first time since I’d lost my virginity. I postponed the inevitable with a bubble bath, a prolonged phone conversation with Jessica, and the pile of laundry that desperately needed folding. Somehow, I still ended up in bed at eight-thirty with
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