Chapter 1: Quarterly Torture

BOOK ONE: UNBREAKABLE

Schuyler

Every three months, I'm forced to endure this torture. Once I check in at the reception counter, I assume an empty seat in the crowded waiting room. Amongst those waiting, I'm the outlier. Though I may not look any different, my appointment is the opposite of all the other patients waiting. Bile coats my throat, and my heart aches with jealousy.

I grind my teeth as I fight back tears. My blood pulses loudly in my ears. I attempt to breathe through my nose, hoping to keep my pain from showing, from spilling out for all to see. I won't rain on their parade and dampen their excitement. I might hate them for having what I cannot, but I'm not evil. I'll keep a tight lid on my pain.

I try to focus on reading my current book on my Kindle app, but my eyes can't help but wander. They want to witness what my heart longs desperately for. Directly across from me, an excited young couple with a toddler coo into a baby carrier while they wait for their six-week checkup. On the beige wall behind them hangs a picture, stretched on canvas, of a newborn in a pink knitted diaper cover. There is a pink bow in her hair, and she’s napping on a furry, white blanket. Even in all my emotional pain, I must admit it's a precious portrait.

On my right, a twenty-something woman caresses her large baby bump while smiling at the infant and mother next to her. She's clearly near the end of her pregnancy. To my left, another woman, who appears to be near my age, barely has a pregnancy bump. An older woman sits with her, perhaps her mother. Both talk animatedly with smiles upon their faces. I can't help but overhear their plans to shop for the baby’s bed after this appointment.

Everywhere I glance, excited families and pregnant women look forward to their appointments today. Every wall displays newborns in delicate poses. On tables and between sets of chairs, are expecting mother and parenting magazines. Clear, plastic stands hold pamphlets on infant formula while scattered about the room are business cards for pregnancy massages and photographers.

In the far corner of the room, a small bin of toys is available for waiting children. One child carries toy after toy over for his parents to see. They remind him he gets to see the baby at today's visit, but that seems of little interest to him. I avert my eyes downward to control my rising emotions, only to find two discarded Cheerios on the carpet. Everywhere I look, I find women and families ready to embark on a joyful journey.

I will never experience such a journey; for that, I’m jealous. This reminder, while sitting in the waiting room every three months, does nothing to quell my pain. Instead of allowing me to move on, it ensures I revisit my pain over and over.

Fifteen minutes pass before a nurse peeks through the open door, calling my name. Happy to escape the waiting room, I quickly follow her to the scale and down the hallway. She pauses near the end, turning around, her face scrunched. Her fair complexion cannot hide the rising blush in her neck and face.

"I must have walked down the wrong hall," she informs me, shrugging her shoulders. "I apologize; I started this week."

I follow her in the other direction to the correct exam room. I step up to sit on the exam table, and I cringe at the rustling white paper. While the nurse records my vitals, I note her name tag states her name is Lyndon.

"When was your last period?" she asks.

Seriously? Why not just slap me in the face? She clearly did not read my chart.

"I've had a hysterectomy," I state. It takes all my willpower not to growl at her.

Lyndon scrunches her brow as she flips through my chart. Still browsing, she asks, "Then, why are you getting a depo shot?" She stops rustling papers and looks to me for the answer.

"I still have one ovary," I explain, my eyes surveying the tile floor. "The depo helps keep the cysts from growing as they did in the past, and by keeping the ovary, I don't start menopause."

"I see." She nods, looking back at the chart. "That makes sense; I've just never seen such a case."

Rage builds inside my belly, my face burns, my ears are hot, and I'm grinding my teeth. I will not cry; I will not cry. I force breath through my nose, hoping to fight back the tears threatening to fall. I just need my shot. Give me my shot so I can get out of here.

"Are you sexually active?" the nurse asks, putting on her blue latex gloves.

How should I answer her question? I could say, “I should be; I'm 23 years old.” If I say ‘no,’ will she pity me? I could retort, “Does my vibrator count?”

“No,” I reply, and she documents my answer in the chart.

Finally, she takes the syringe in hand. That's my cue to stand and bare my hip to her.

"Left side this time," she prompts, and I comply. "You'll feel a pinch."

And just like that, we're done. With the billing sheet in hand, I walk to the desk to check out. It takes too long to make the next appointment for three months and get out of the office; I can’t do it fast enough. Of course, I'm not alone in the elevator; a pregnant couple, wearing wide smiles, joins me. I don't think they realize I'm riding with them. Will the torture ever cease? It's a vicious cycle I'm doomed to relive on a loop for the next thirty years, like a slap in the face. Is God punishing me? Did I do something to deserve this? The wreck left me with scars and stole any hopes I had of starting a family.