comfortingly.
âMarcus is patient with me, and that helps. Iâm just not ready to participate in the physical act, but I donât mind him holding me. It took me a couple of weeks before I could stand for him to do that,â Monet explained candidly.
âThatâs good, and I consider that progress. I just want you to think about the support group, and by all means talk to you minister. It doesnât hurt to have guidance from a spiritual perspective. The quicker you talk to someone, the sooner your life will be back on track,â Dr. Washington said, as she jotted down a name and number on a pad. She tore off the paper and handed it to Monet. âThis is Sheila Winstonâs number. She facilitates the crisis group at the University of Chicago Hospital. If you decide to try it, then give her a call. Is there anything else going on with you?â Dr. Washington looked at Monet casually. Her large dark brown eyes seemed magnified behind the glass lenses, and were filled with compassion. She thought Monet looked a little tired or rundown.
âWell, I have been feeling nauseated for the past few weeks. Iâm sure itâs nothing, just nerves.â Monetâs voice trailed off.
âHmmm. When was the last time you had your period?â Dr. Washington folded her hands together. She had an inkling of what was happening with Monet. She suggested Monet take the âmorning after pillâ following the assault, but Monet declined the offer.
âLet me think.â Monet closed and opened her eyes. âYou know Iâm irregular, I think about a few weeks before the attack.â
âAre you experiencing any other symptoms?â Dr. Washington probed gently.
âMy breasts have been tender and odors bother me.â Monet gasped and said cautiously, âDr. Washington, you donât think Iâm pregnant, do you?â
âIt wonât take us long to find out. Iâm going to order a pregnancy test and send you next door to the lab to take a blood test,â Dr. Washington advised. She stood up. âWhy donât you get dressed, come back to the nurseâs area, and Erica will give you a cup for a urine sample. While we wait for the results, you can go across the hall for the blood test. Iâll write up the order now.â
âSo you do think Iâm pregnant?â Monet asked, in a shaky voice. âI just assumed it was nerves.â
âIt could be nerves, but we canât rule that possibility out. Still thatâs easy enough for us to find out.â Dr. Washington looked at her watch and said, âIâll see you in my office in about twenty to thirty minutes.â
Monet nodded, feeling shell shocked. She sat on the examination table for a few minutes. When she rose, her body was shaking so badly that she could barely get dressed. She put her sweater on backward and her socks on inside out.
âLord, could it be true? Am I really pregnant?â She laughed aloud giddily, then became somber. âIs the child Marcusâs or my attackerâs? God, forgive me. What am I saying? I know this baby is Marcusâs. You told me Marcus and I would have a child.â Her breathing became shallow, and she felt lightheaded.
The couple had been trying to get pregnant since year three of their marriage. They had been examined what seemed like a million times by various doctors, and there wasnât a medical reason for why they couldnât conceive. Monet had wanted to try in vitro, but Marcus vetoed the idea. Years ago she had broached the subject of adoption, but Marcus didnât want to, citing that he wanted their biological child or none at all.
Monet prayed daily, a prayer she called the babyâs prayer. She was both elated and apprehensive by the possibility of being with child. What if the baby wasnât Marcusâs? Then she pushed those musings to the back of her mind because God had told her otherwise, and she
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