The thing that truly killed whatever was left in me came in April.
I'd been having stomach pains for a while. I didn't think much of it—figured it was just a bad stomach.
The morning of April tenth, the pain bent me double. Clay was still asleep.
I shook him awake. Told him I needed to go to the hospital.
He glanced at his phone. "I've got a meeting this morning. Can you take an Uber? I'll come find you after it's done."
I said okay.
I went alone. Registered alone. Paid alone. Waited for the results alone. The doctor held my chart, his expression grim. "You're pregnant, but it's ectopic. You need surgery immediately."
I couldn't move.
"Where's your family?"
"In a meeting."
The doctor frowned. "We need a family member to sign the consent form. Call someone. Now."
I called Clay. No answer.
I sent a message: Ectopic pregnancy. Need surgery. Get here now.
Read. No reply.
I waited forty minutes. The nurse came to check on me three times. In the end, I signed the consent form myself. Walked into the operating room alone.
Lying on that table, I stared up at the overhead light. It was blinding, searingly bright.
If I die here, I thought, what would he be doing? Sitting in his meeting? Or sitting with her?