One of my spookiest stories is the first time I suspected, nay 100% knew for a fact, that I had a bun bakin’ away in my oven-uterus.
I could feel the non-existent creature growing within me and predicted it arriving into the world Alien-style, otherwise known as violently bursting through my stomach. It played out like a perfectly crafted horror story in my mind. I was no longer a virgin so of course I assumed I was now a target (thanks to films that claimed the “slutty” ones die first WAY TO GO WES CRAVEN YOU SEXIST DUMMY).
I knew I was going to be next, next being murdered, and murdered being pregnancy.
I was confident that my life would end upon my first ultrasound appointment. I would never move out of my mother’s house or finish university or make it on Broadway AKA be an extra in a Mirvish production AKA get paid an honorarium to do a Fringe play. I had so many dreams and those dreams were being crushed by the force of my mighty ovaries. See, in those days, I thought that a woman before the age of 30 couldn’t have a baby AND a career. I was up crying/cursing/praying every night, asking the gods to make me like Lorelai Gilmore and in an attempt to make those prayers come true I began taking on her persona. I began speaking in witty rapid-fire coffee-related banter and eating french fries for every meal.
But even fried foods couldn’t calm my worries. I would find myself making statements like, “You are going to be a teen mom, Jess. Get ready for a life where you have to sleep in a shack thing for a while and then own a hotel one day LIKE LORELAI DID”. The difference between the elder Gilmore Girl and myself being that I wasn’t a teen. I was 21-years-old. Not to say that meant I was capable of figuring out what a diaper genie was (beyond the image in my head of a talking diaper granting wishes). It just meant I wasn’t in high school any longer and I could vote and purchase alcohol across North America.
Also, worrying about my life ending was incredibly naive to say the least. Young moms accomplish WAY more than past me gave them credit for, and I would be beyond lucky to possess the name and life of a Gilmore. And although the decision to have children or not have children is different for every woman and some feel ready at ages that others do not, I was still being a tad melodramatic. I was convinced I was going to be a ‘single teen mom’ when I wasn’t a teen, I wasn’t single and I had sex once using three methods of contraception.
The aforementioned crying/cursing/praying episodes I spoke of came immediately after the night my V-card was penetrated. Or was attempted to be penetrated. My hymen was a large one, which made penis insertion difficult. During the virginity-losing act, I can confidently say my lovely boyfriend’s D entered my V for approximately one millisecond. It’s important to note that as said D entered said V it was wearing a condom. And as said condomed D entered said V, said V belonged to a woman who was taking birth control pills. Now, in defense of past me, I hadn’t been on the pill for long. Definitely not long enough for it to have be in full effective mode but long enough for the hormones to be legit pumping through my reproductive system and beginning to do their fine work of keeping me “#1 Mommy” mug free. Did I mention that he didn’t ejaculate either? No? Well, he didn’t.
So how did I 100% know for a fact that I was going to be birthing triplets in the immediate future? Because my period was late! Like, WEEKS late. Or days. Or hours. Minutes? I actually had no clue when my period was supposed to arrive but I had an inkling that it was a while ago which was a clear indicator that I was preggers. Possibly with triplet antichrists. The antichrist part was still up in the air. But I undoubtedly had SOMETHING up in there. Be it human…or not.
What other symptoms did I possess, besides a late period that was not late? Vomiting? Nope. Breast tenderness? Negative. Cravings? Uh-uh. But I was urinating. A tad more than usual. And I had a headache for about an hour. So it followed that I was ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH TO THE LORD OF THE UNDERWORLD. Plus, I had taken two pregnancy tests and both came back negative. Did I pee on them long enough? (I absolutely did). Were they defective though?! (Doubtful). Were they made by by the devil (my future son) himself? (Potentially).
I was finding any way to convince myself that I was all future Lorelai Gilmores with a touch of Rosemary. I called my friends, sobbing, explaining that yes we used a condom and no he didn’t come and yes I’m on birth control but the combined effectiveness is still only 60%. I was throwing out false statistics like the shadiest of politicians. “Did you know that one in three women who pee four times in a day are guaranteed pregnant with boys who will be named Damien?” I headed to my local pharmacy to inquire about Plan B. I realized it was too late for any morning-after pill to save me and ended up purchasing another pregnancy test instead. I also bought a large box of condoms, thinking; I will buy this and never make that mistake again, forgetting that I actually did use a condom.
Everyone I spoke attempted to assure me that I wasn’t pregnant/had gone insane but I wouldn’t hear anything of it. “I have a headache!” I would scream. “A HEACHACHE. REGULAR NON-PREGNANT PEOPLE DON’T GET THOSE”. No one understood and no one was on my side. “They’re all against me,” I murmured as I sat on the toilet, moments before getting my period. “I can’t trust any of them. I can only trust myself and my uterus, which knows it’s got Beelzebub hangin’ ten in there. Don’t you?” I looked down at my abdomen, as I finished pregnant peeing, wiped and then noticed a smear of blood on the tissue. “Implantation bleeding. Clearly,” I thought.
Looking back, I appear to be a rambling woman on the brink of madness. But at the time this was my whole truth. I mean, did I truly believe that I was the future mother of the Prince of Darkness? No. But a part of me did wonder if the rumblings in my stomach were that of pure evil. Turns out it was just that of a pure burrito. Blood continued to flow for the next few days and I finally accepted my fate as a non-Gilmore Girl. I threw a celebration by drinking five rye and gingers (I had given up alcohol during my days of being a mom). Never in my life have I been more terrified, except for every month since when I’ve thought I was equally as pregnant.