Splotchy Sunshine

“I’m seeing black spots.” I knew my tone was casual. “Do you need to lay down?” My coworker was concerned.  I tried shaking my head, “I should be fine…”  My dad was walking through with patient information and stopped short. “What’s going on?”  I don’t remember it clearly after that point. I know he wheeled me to a patient’s room. My chair didn’t want to move over doorframes and I remember being ashamed that it was likely my weight making it difficult. I was embarrassed. We had an office full of patients.  I began to dry heave.  My coworker came in, asked again about the heavy period I’d been having. “And there’s no chance you’re pregnant?” “If I was, I don’t think I could be now.” “I hate to think miscarriage.” “I’ve been wondering that too.” The words stung. My vision was still spotty.  I was helped onto an exam table. 30 minutes later there was a wheelchair, my dad helping me into it, explaining my husband would be here soon and we were going to see the ...

 I spent too long on that title and I don't even know if I like it.  That's also how I felt about my job today. I work for my dad, and I don't know if that makes it better. It didn't make it better when I was throwing up in the employee bathroom. Anxiety makes me nauseous. Pain makes me nauseous. Thinking about pain and worrying that I am too anxious about my pain makes me nauseous. Having the worst period of my life when all I want is a baby... pain, anxiety, nauseous.  Working for my dad makes me feel connected to some ideal of small-town America that doesn't seem possible outside of Andy Griffith and the Brady Bunch. I enjoy it on days when I am not battling sickness and negative pregnancy tests.  I enjoy listening to people talk about my dad. His patients adore him- and rightly so. He makes them feel remembered, heard, cared for, and in people's scariest moments; he is the one fighting for them. People come into his office heavy with hours of prayer and fear...