He’ll appreciate it.
“On to another subject, how are you doing with your eating disorder?”
Direct much? Why didn’t she just ask how many miles I’m running a day? I know that I haven’t gained the amount of weight that she would like, but I’ve been so sick. Even now, if I catch a whiff of Colin’s brand of cologne I get nauseous. It’s not my eating disorder. It’s this pregnancy. “I guess I’ve finally come to terms that out-of-control is my new normal.”
“I want you to consider taking something for postpartum depression after the baby is born. You’re a doctor. Do I need to review statistics with you?”
Mentally, I have to catch myself. I’m very well aware of how beneficial antidepressants can be. Doctor Benson has broached the subject at a couple of my appointments. My past issues with control make me more susceptible to PPD. I guess listening to Doctor Benson discuss it with me in the comfort of my home is easier to swallow than hearing the words exit Doctor Starr’s mouth in an examining room.
I shake my head. “I promise that I’ll discuss it with my therapist, Doctor Benson. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”
I do feel relieved that that’s why she asked the question. I can’t eat anymore, and I don’t need that pressure to shove more food in my mouth, on top of everything else.
She smiles and walks toward the table, offering me her hand. I gladly accept it, and shimmy to a standing position.
“Tell Colin good luck, and go Cowboys,” she says, her way of telling me goodbye.
“I sure will.” But, I’ll leave out the part about postpartum depression. That’s the last thing that my husband needs on his plate right now.
Brad’s sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a pregnancy-health magazine. Colin has attended every single appointment with me, but he’s already left for the NFC Championship game. He was so disappointed that he couldn’t make this one.
Brad offered to tag along, so I let him. I can sense Colin’s growing uneasiness with the amount of attention and care Brad’s been paying to me since I told him that I was pregnant, but there’s nothing that I can do about it. Colin pays Brad to be my assistant. He’s just doing his job. Right?
I stop in my tracks, taking in the scene. There’s a darling couple about my age that are huddled in the corner, looking at something on one of their phones. His arm is lovingly draped around her shoulders, and she is resting her hand on his thigh. There’s a very pregnant Indian women draped in her sari. Not even the loose material can hide her very prominent bump. Her husband is playing with their young son at the kid’s activity table.
Then, there’s my very gay assistant. He has on a pair of Kelly green skinny-jeans with fur-lined leather boots that come up to his calf. He’s wearing a white dress-shirt, tucked in with a parrot-colored wool scarf draped perfectly around his neck. His tortoiseshell glasses—for fashion, not vision—rest on his nose. Brad’s auburn hair is styled in a perfect, gelled mess. He’s letting his auburn facial hair grow to stubble. He says that it makes him look like Robert Pattinson. It so does not, but I can’t fault him for trying. I shake my head, and love him even more for embracing exactly who he is. He’ll be the perfect Guncle.
He catches me staring, and says, while he checks his watch, “It’s about time. I was pretty sure they were keeping you. Then I was going to have to break the bad news to Que Bee. We all know how touchy he gets where you’re concerned.”
Now everyone in the waiting room is looking at us. Yes! The best assistant in the world just announced that my husband is a quarterback. I’m sure that the two dads in the waiting room instantly make the connection.
I roll my eyes and walk to Brad—or, maybe I more waddle, because his head tilts from side to side with my movements. I say, under my breath, “Thanks for letting the cat out of the
“On to another subject, how are you doing with your eating disorder?”
Direct much? Why didn’t she just ask how many miles I’m running a day? I know that I haven’t gained the amount of weight that she would like, but I’ve been so sick. Even now, if I catch a whiff of Colin’s brand of cologne I get nauseous. It’s not my eating disorder. It’s this pregnancy. “I guess I’ve finally come to terms that out-of-control is my new normal.”
“I want you to consider taking something for postpartum depression after the baby is born. You’re a doctor. Do I need to review statistics with you?”
Mentally, I have to catch myself. I’m very well aware of how beneficial antidepressants can be. Doctor Benson has broached the subject at a couple of my appointments. My past issues with control make me more susceptible to PPD. I guess listening to Doctor Benson discuss it with me in the comfort of my home is easier to swallow than hearing the words exit Doctor Starr’s mouth in an examining room.
I shake my head. “I promise that I’ll discuss it with my therapist, Doctor Benson. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”
I do feel relieved that that’s why she asked the question. I can’t eat anymore, and I don’t need that pressure to shove more food in my mouth, on top of everything else.
She smiles and walks toward the table, offering me her hand. I gladly accept it, and shimmy to a standing position.
“Tell Colin good luck, and go Cowboys,” she says, her way of telling me goodbye.
“I sure will.” But, I’ll leave out the part about postpartum depression. That’s the last thing that my husband needs on his plate right now.
Brad’s sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a pregnancy-health magazine. Colin has attended every single appointment with me, but he’s already left for the NFC Championship game. He was so disappointed that he couldn’t make this one.
Brad offered to tag along, so I let him. I can sense Colin’s growing uneasiness with the amount of attention and care Brad’s been paying to me since I told him that I was pregnant, but there’s nothing that I can do about it. Colin pays Brad to be my assistant. He’s just doing his job. Right?
I stop in my tracks, taking in the scene. There’s a darling couple about my age that are huddled in the corner, looking at something on one of their phones. His arm is lovingly draped around her shoulders, and she is resting her hand on his thigh. There’s a very pregnant Indian women draped in her sari. Not even the loose material can hide her very prominent bump. Her husband is playing with their young son at the kid’s activity table.
Then, there’s my very gay assistant. He has on a pair of Kelly green skinny-jeans with fur-lined leather boots that come up to his calf. He’s wearing a white dress-shirt, tucked in with a parrot-colored wool scarf draped perfectly around his neck. His tortoiseshell glasses—for fashion, not vision—rest on his nose. Brad’s auburn hair is styled in a perfect, gelled mess. He’s letting his auburn facial hair grow to stubble. He says that it makes him look like Robert Pattinson. It so does not, but I can’t fault him for trying. I shake my head, and love him even more for embracing exactly who he is. He’ll be the perfect Guncle.
He catches me staring, and says, while he checks his watch, “It’s about time. I was pretty sure they were keeping you. Then I was going to have to break the bad news to Que Bee. We all know how touchy he gets where you’re concerned.”
Now everyone in the waiting room is looking at us. Yes! The best assistant in the world just announced that my husband is a quarterback. I’m sure that the two dads in the waiting room instantly make the connection.
I roll my eyes and walk to Brad—or, maybe I more waddle, because his head tilts from side to side with my movements. I say, under my breath, “Thanks for letting the cat out of the
Similar Books
