Those two weeks seem interminable, as I try to do my job from underneath a suffocating pile of resentment. I’ve been doing repetitive online searches for new positions, but my pregnancy seems to be the dead end I keep hitting: shockingly, no one wants to hire a person who will be working, at most, six months before taking another couple off. So I go through the motions of my last two weeks with an income, trying to remember—and believe—that Jack’s reaction to the news was that everything would be okay. Of course, when I went to bed early that night, I could hear him downstairs, pecking away at his computer and what I know was our budget spreadsheet. I push away visions of our baby sleeping in a dresser drawer, and I report for duty. Then I walk away for the last time.
Truth be told, I’m not sure it’s the removal of my income and its effect on our budget that bothers me most about this. It’s not a great economy, but I work in a perpetually necessary field, and short of opportunities within it, Starbucks seems to be doing okay—maybe they’d hire me. Deeper than the money issues lies a gnawing fear, though. I’m just past my first trimester now, and the nausea is beginning to lift; not in one glorious upheaval, but little by little, and enough to let me know that brighter days are ahead for me and food. And there’s the clean (so far) bill of health we received from Dr. Forth—a source of considerable relief. But again, underneath all that lies the gray mood that haunted me throughout the first trimester, darkened by the rift with Cara and general separation I feel from my closest friends back in New York. I know that left to myself at home, there’s much less separating me from that grayness. And I’m afraid of it. Continue reading