Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“You can’t catch any sleep?”
“My client will be there at six. I have just enough time to shower and grab a bite to eat,” he whispers against my skin. “I want you to try to go back to sleep.”
“I’m not sure I can,” I tell him, even though I’m more than tired. My mind is racing a billion miles a minute. With everything that has been going on at the gym, the opening of the fourth location earlier this month, him firing Gina, and the baby coming in a week or so, I just can’t settle my brain. It’s working overtime, and I think that’s a big part of the reason I haven’t been feeling well lately.
“Promise me you’ll try.”
I run my fingers through his hair and lock my eyes on his. “I promise.”
“Good,” he agrees, picking me up in his arms and carrying me to our bedroom.
“What are you doing, you lunatic!” I holler, hanging on for dear life.
“I’m carrying the woman I love to bed so she can rest.” As he sets me down in the middle of the unmade blankets, he places a lingering kiss on my forehead.
“Don’t forget the appointment,” I mumble, as my eyes start to droop.
“I’ll be there. I love you,” he whispers.
“Love you too,” I reply, letting the sudden exhaustion consume me.
I’m in the waiting room for one of my final appointments, but do you know what I don’t see? My husband. Err… ex-husband. Anyway, you know that guy who was supposed to meet me here? Yeah, he’s not here.
And I’m irritated as hell.
Bad.
Angry, actually.
It’s gotta be these out-of-control hormones, but I’m on the verge of yelling and kicking and crying, all at the same time.
“Gwen.” I hear my name called from the hallway that leads to the patient rooms. Great, it’s Nurse McFlirts-A-Lot, the flirty nurse turned regular at All Fit. I can feel the flush sweep up my cheeks, and I just pray I have enough control over my tongue.
“Let’s get you weighed in,” she suggests, pointing to the horrible machine that’s going to tell me I’ve eaten too many things in the non-salad variety.
I step up on the scale, pleasantly surprised to see only a half-pound weight gain since last week’s appointment. I’ll call that progress. I head off to the bathroom to complete the next phase of the appointment, knowing full well the result will show a trace of sugars. They all have since my diagnosis. The key has been the stupid exercise plan my sadistic husband put me on, coupled with a healthier diet. I do admit I’ve felt good these last few months, but personally, I’m ready to be able to eat peanut M&M’s and Dairy Queen Blizzards again.
The nurse places the blood pressure cuff on my arm and starts to squeeze. She slowly lets it out, her eyes on the little ticker. “Uh-oh,” she mumbles.
“What?”
“Why don’t you go ahead and lie back for a few minutes. Relax,” she says calmly, making me anything but.
“Why?”
“Well, your blood pressure is a little high.”
“How high?”
“One sixty over one hundred,” she says, placing her index and middle finger on my pulse point on my wrist. “Relax.”
Right.
No one in the history of pregnant women has ever relaxed just because someone told them to. Ever.
Nurse Flirty waits a few minutes and takes my blood pressure a second time. The results must not be what she wanted because of the face she makes. She quickly writes down a few notes in my chart, hands me a gown to change into, and makes a quick exit, informing me the doctor would be in shortly.
Shortly is actually only a couple of minutes.
“Gwen?” Dr. Taylor asks as she enters the room. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I tell her, slightly annoyed she’d ask such a dumb question. I mean, can’t she tell how I’m doing? I’m thirty-nine weeks pregnant, have gained five hundred and ten pounds, and my husband slash ex-husband slash fiancé isn’t here. Why would I be anything other than fine?
She takes a seat. “Well, your blood pressure’s a tad on the high side.”
“I’ve been having those Braxton Hicks contractions all day,” I inform her, placing my hands on my abdomen.
“That’s a good sign, if not a little on the annoying side,” she says with a smile.
“No kidding. I get up fourteen times a night to pee, so sleeping isn’t going so great at the moment.”
She gives me a knowing grin. “They say that’s God’s way of preparing you for the sleepless nights you’re about to endure when the baby arrives, but I say that’s just cruel and unusual punishment. At least let the moms-to-be sleep the few weeks they have left before the baby comes. But the good news is you’re in the home stretch. We’ll measure your abdomen and check her heartbeat. Have you been feeling her kick ten times by noon?”