Pelvic exams really weren’t the worst thing ever, but the first time was traumatizing in that I-don’t-know-what-to-expect way. After Mom figured out that Aaron and I were serious enough to bang, she took me to the doctor’s to get me on the pill. That’s when the “oops, sorries” and polite apologies happened as my doctor had nestled a speculum up into me so she could make sure my plumbing was fully operational.

It hadn’t hurt, but it was uncomfortable in a foreign-pressure sort of way. I recognized after the fact, when Mom got me an apology sorry-for-the-cooch-check-up ice cream, I’d built the whole ordeal up in my head to be a lot worse than it actually was. At least my gynecological trials had yielded a prescription for birth control and a clean bill of health.

As evidenced by the new bean-sized parasite hanging out in my lower quarters, I had remained extra healthy.

Fertile Myrtle, that’s me.

Now, you might be asking, “If you were on the pill with Aaron, why weren’t you on the pill with Jack?” And the answer is side effects. Birth control pills came saddled with baggage, and my baggage was worse than most. My cramps were far worse on the pill than off. My mood swings were twice as bad while medicated, plus I was tired all the time. I tried three different pills over the two years I was on birth control to try to find one that wouldn’t make me a mopey rage machine, but it happened with all of them to some extent. I suffered through it in the name of young love.

Screw you, Aaron. I want those years back without cramps, thanks.

When we broke up, I asked Mom if I could go off of it, assuring her I had no intention of riding the boyfriend carousel again because men were vile and ought to be launched out of cannons. She reluctantly agreed, knowing what the pill did to me. She was undoubtedly kicking herself for that decision these months down the line, but...well. It wasn’t her fault. It was mine, as I assured her at least a dozen times the first day after my diagnosis of fetus.

She said she knew that, but I wasn’t sure she believed it. The stress cigarettes told another story.

I could smell them on her, the smoke clinging to her hair, and I glared at her as she sat in the side chair in the office, rooting through her purse for bubblegum.

“You’re smoking again.”

“Not often,” she said, frowning. She peered up at me. Her eyes were red at the edges, which meant she hadn’t slept well, and that was probably my fault, too.

“If I have this kid and you get lung cancer, you’ll feel bad,” I said.

“I’ll feel bad if I get lung cancer, anyway. It’s cancer. Cancer sucks,” she replied.