The county clinic waiting room

I’ve been in the waiting room for over an hour, the air conditioning vibrating the chair beneath me.  The photos on the wall have faded in the sun and the chair next to me has ulcerated it’s faded Miami Vice faux leather.  The money I’ve spent on trying to get pregnant could replace at least one pod of interconnected chairs at this clinic.  This is not my fertility clinic; it is the county clinic with sliding scale fees to where I brought my mentee, her twin, and her boyfriend.

She is 14 weeks pregnant, or so.  She isn’t certain.  The ignorant bliss of the unintentionally pregnant–I’m counting days until I can pee on a stick, she’s not certain when she last borrowed money from her mom to buy tampons.

I’m worried about her.  What will she do?  I’m shocked that I’m not green with envy.  I don’t even have that visceral sucking vacuum feeling like when my friends announce they are pregnant.  I’m sad, anxious, and concerned for her, but also a little impatient with the “everyone is upset with me because Clarence got me pregnant.”. No, honey, you played a role in that too.

What will she do?  I don’t know.   I am just the driver.  Thankfully, I don’t need to make any decisions.

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