“I‘m late” are two words that, in a wide variety of situations, are perfectly fine and acceptable. Your friend might be letting you know you’ll have to drink that beer alone at the bar… Your dentist might be letting you off the hook because he’s stuck in traffic… There are all kinds of moments when they may sound harmless, even comforting.

When D told them to me, it was in the worst possible context…

— “How much?”
— “One month”

Shit.

It’s a fine line we walk, most of the time, between now and what may very well become The Rest of Our Lives ©. That day, talking to D, I clearly felt the line vanish beneath my feet.

We decided to get a real lab test to make sure. In between the anorexia and the chronic depression, D was stuffing so many drugs down her throat that her urine would most likely have melted the pregnancy test.

The lab test took two weeks. In that time, I almost came to terms with the prospect of an unwanted pregnancy. I was still a good year and a half from graduation, but deeply in love with D. The next time we talked, she said, matteroffactly:

— “Don’t worry. About anything. In case… well, if it happens… my cousin knows a doctor. I’ll take care of it.”

When I heard her, all that went through my head was YOU’RE GONNA DO WHAT TO LITTLE TIMMY, BITCH??

Now, I don’t have a particularly strong position on this issue. I’ve always felt that I’m no one to judge any person’s situation, let alone dictate a course of action on any moral issue for someone. Anyone.

But this was my baby.

I won’t say that the idea of parenting didn’t terrify me. It did. I was not ready. At all. I’m still not ready. I don’t think I ever will be. Is anyone ever, really?

I won’t pretend that my reaction was the best possible either. I didn’t exactly shout “I’m here for you, baby, let us contract holy matrimony in the eyes of the Lord almightee!”, and so I kind of understand D’s reaction.

But the prospect of being a daddy did hold some kind of weird attraction towards me.

— “We should talk this over… There are other ways…”

Like, for instance, we could become parents, instead of you killing my son, wench!

— “I’ve thought it over. Don’t you worry about anything. I’ll handle it.”

I didn’t pursue the matter further, deciding to wait until the results came back instead (although, with a month and a half going on it, I already fancied myself a dad).

The day the results were ready we showed up at the lab and they handed us an envelope. On the way to the car, we decided we couldn’t wait any longer. This incredibly important bit of info lay there, in our hands, waiting to be discovered, taunting us, threatening to turn our world upside down. Our hands shaking, we tore off the envelope and took out the piece of paper. It said:

cHr tt. / RH uj —— 998 / 1000”

The feeling of pent up, stomach churning anticipation being instantly replaced by unabashed dumbfoundedness is not unlike eating a piece of raw fish with line and hook and scraping it up and down your throat (um, not that I’d know…).

We went back into the lab. I took the piece of paper and slammed it against the glass wall in front of the attendant.

— “What is this?”
— “Umm… negative”

Although I felt a huge, undeniable relief, I must confess I also felt a bit of a let down.

It turned out that, due to the anorexia, D had stopped menstruating altogether. She didn’t have her period for over a year.

I don’t know if she would have gone through with it or not. I do know that I always resented her for not even considering me part of that decision.

And somehow, I’d have liked to see what kind of person little Timmy might’ve turned out to be.

— sergio on January 25, 2005