Page 147 of Tell Me What You Want, Or Leave Me

The nausea passes, and I just sit in the bathroom.

“This is horrible...Medusa’s killing me.”

He has taken a towel and wet it, bringing it to my face with all the tenderness in the world.

“Easy, sweetheart. She’ll be here soon enough.”

“I...I’m not going to be able to do this...I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, honey. You’ll have our precious baby and all this will be forgotten.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure. She’s going to be a little brunette, like you. You’ll see!”

“And she’s going to give you a lot of trouble, like me.”

He smiles and gives me a kiss on the tip of my nose.

“I’m sure I’ll love every minute of it.”

I nod and finally smile back. My husband is wonderful, and even at moments like this, he makes me forget how bad I feel.

I’ve read that vomiting usually lasts only the first three months, and that is my hope—let it end soon!

Once color returns to my face, Eric leaves me in the bathroom, and I decide to take a shower. I get naked, and, when I take off my thong, I blink. Blood!

Oh my God!

Nervous, I quickly call Eric.

In spite of his handicap, Eric’s in the bathroom in zero seconds.

“There’s blood.”

“Get dressed, sweetheart. We’ll go to the hospital.”

Like an automaton, I leave the bathroom and quickly dress. Eric is ready before me, and he and Norbert wait for me downstairs.

“Don’t worry,” says Simona as she gives me a kiss. “Everything will be fine.”

In the car, Eric takes my hands. They’re cold. I’m scared. Blood isn’t a good sign during a pregnancy.

What if I’ve lost Medusa?

When we arrive at the hospital, Marta’s at the door with a wheelchair. They roll me to the emergency room at full speed. They don’t let Eric in though. Marta stays with him while I go with the doctors.

I’m terrified.

They ask me hundreds of questions, and I answer, even though I don’t understand what I’m saying half the time. I’ve never wanted to be pregnant, but Medusa suddenly means a lot to me. To Eric. To both of us.

They ask me if I’ve been nervous about something lately. I nod. I don’t tell them about my life, but I know the stress I’ve been under may have caused this. They have me lie down, and they do an ultrasound. Silently and breathing heavily, I watch the two doctors’ faces.

They stare at the monitor. I want everything to be OK. In the end, after assessing what they think is relevant, they turn back to me.

“Everything’s fine. Your baby’s fine.”

I burst into tears.

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