Live Fast Die Hot (2 page)

My anxiety came to a boil one afternoon on our way to a routine doctor's visit. We were in the SUV, and Jason had turned left on Beverly instead of right. The faster way would have been taking La Cienega to Third, but after living in Los Angeles for almost eleven years, Jason still couldn't tell Third and Beverly apart. When we first met I found his handicap cute, but once I was pregnant, I saw it as a personal affront to my sanity. That would have been enough; then he mentioned that he liked the name “Ernie” for our child-to-be.

“Let me out of the car! I don't even know you! You've completely hijacked my life! I want my life back!” I tried jumping from the SUV.

“Sit down! Jenny, sit the fuck down now!” He tried to hold me in place by the hood of my sweatshirt. His breath smelled like matzo brei to my expectant nostrils as I bit down hard on his hand. The truth was, no matter how serious or ridiculous our fights seemed in the moment, they really didn't matter. Like two siblings bickering in the backseat on a family road trip, we were tethered to each other for eternity, regardless of the outcome.

But at the doctor's office that day, things took an alarming turn. We huddled together on a white exam table covered in crinkled-up paper. The doctor had already exited, giving us a moment alone to digest the news. After three months inside my womb, our fetus had decided to pull the rip cord. His heart had stopped. I was miscarrying.

Before I knew it, I was reclining in a dark room at a nearby clinic, where a giant DustBuster was inserted up my vagina and my fetus and his vacated condo were suctioned out. The fear and anxiety (even the rancid smell of Jason's breath), all of it faded to the background. Once the procedure was complete, Jason and I locked bodies and started crying. I'm not sure we knew everything we were crying for. Our lives, which had been moving so fast, suddenly came to a grinding halt. Our destinies, which a moment before seemed so certain, so cemented together, were without warning ripped apart.

This was my chance. If I needed an exit, I could make one. But the only place I wanted to run was straight to Jason. I couldn't live without him. I mean, I obviously totally could have and I'm sure would have rebounded and been totally fine. But I didn't want to. When I was afraid to love him, he loved me with total conviction. When I questioned my own strength, he trusted me completely. He was either the most incredible man I'd ever known or even more batshit insane than I was. Either way, he was perfect for me.

After committing to carrying Jason's child, the idea of marriage and the idea of Jason no longer scared the shit out of me. (Especially once I confirmed that he looked terrible in a DVF wrap dress.) We eloped that week.

Five incredible years of marriage later, the only name Jason was desperate to transition into was “Dad.” I didn't wake up one day and suddenly know I was ready to try again for a baby. But Jason reminded me that I was thirty-four and a half, which was basically thirty-five, which was basically forty, which was WAY past dead, and I figured it was now or never.

Getting pregnant this time around wasn't nearly as easy, partially because the universe never cooperates when you need it to, and partially because figuring out when you're ovulating requires an understanding of second-grade math. I'd spent a solid year halfheartedly fucking around with thermometers and period-tracking apps for my iPhone when my sister insisted I try using a digital ovulation stick. Three months of dragging my heels and getting waylaid by online sample sales later, I finally bought one. Twenty-eight days after that, I was pregnant.

Once again, I fell into my lap hyperventilating, but this time it was with nervous excitement. I didn't feel any more prepared or any less afraid. The only thing I knew with confidence was that with Jason, I was okay having my life hijacked.

At forty-one and a half weeks pregnant, I changed my mind again. And decided that a baby was definitely the wrong choice for me.

“Wait, I might not be ready for children,” I said one evening as I waddled around the bedroom, trying to reposition what felt like a tiny knee digging into my rib cage.

“Well, get ready,” Jason said, unmoved and far too used to my neurosis.

Logically, I understood that there was someone just underneath the surface of my skin about to explode into the world like the most rewarding zit of all time, but I wasn't feeling connected to him. He kind of seemed like a dick, up all night doing flip-flops around my stomach, probably breaking shit and tagging my uterus with question marks because we hadn't yet decided on his name. His hands defiantly covered his face in every 3-D ultrasound we tried to snap of him. He wasn't even out of my body and already he seemed to be saying, “Get away from me,” but also, “Give me your undivided attention forever.” Once we met I was sure he'd explain that it was all a misunderstanding and that he had no idea how young and beautiful I was and we'd fall madly in love—or would we? I still couldn't conceive of ever caring about anyone more than my dogs (especially if he had to be washed more than once a month).

The truth was, having kids still worried me; but while I was worried for myself, I was more worried for my son. I knew that no matter what I did, I was bound to fuck
something
up. Every parent is the reason their child eventually spends thousands of dollars in therapy. That I understood. But I didn't want to cause him pain. I didn't want to make mistakes. I didn't want to do anything that would result in my being sent to voicemail for the rest of my life.

Aside from doing my best, there was no real way to predict the outcome. He was going to be his own person with his own point of view, which I'd obviously try to shape heavily, but at the end of the day the ball was going to be in his court. If he wanted to hurt me, he could. I was going to love him too much to maintain any control. I hadn't even met him yet and already this was the most fucked-up relationship I'd ever been in.

I was due on February 4. On February 14, I was still pregnant.

“This is just my new body. It's just what I look like now,” I explained to Jason, defeated. I gave him a kiss on the lips and hoisted myself into bed, utterly disappointed.

The truth was that after eight hours of sequestering myself at home and watching
House of Cards,
I'd stopped believing in God and the order of all things. I was over being patient, waiting for nature to take its course. “Fuck nature,” I said straight to an imaginary camera in my best Frank Underwood voice. This pregnancy had gone on so long that now my Aquarian son was dangerously close, like three days shy, of becoming a Pisces. I hated Pisces men. All of my exes were Pisces, and they were all overly sensitive, elusive liars. It was such a Pisces move to blatantly ignore my wants and needs and just hibernate in my womb long enough to become a Pisces. I wasn't going to let this happen, I was having an Aquarius even if it meant reaching inside and pulling that little water bearer out myself.

My hair was a teased rat's nest of restlessness. My fingers looked like mini–French baguettes. I rolled myself up on a body pillow like an enslaved Sea World orca and tried to fall asleep.

As I flipped on my side, my water broke.

“Baby…I think my water just broke.”

“WHAT!? Shouldn't we be drenched? I don't see anything!” He looked up at the sky, expecting a giant bucket of
You Can't Do That on Television
slime to drop from the ceiling and cover us.

“Maybe you just peed,” he offered as he searched the sheets for proof.

“Baby, I would know if I just peed, and I didn't. You need to call the doctor.” I hurried to the bathroom and stripped off my clothes to make sure I couldn't see a head or the face of one of my former Pisces ex-boyfriends peeking out.

Jason called our doctor, Howie Mandel (his real name), as I sat on the toilet, regretting having used all my pregnancy books as nightstand coasters. I guess I should have prepared myself better, but those books made me feel like I was studying for the SAT. When Howie said I should go back to bed and try to sleep, I was skeptical. I'd
tried
to go to sleep and instead I wet my pants. This time, who knew what might happen? (Of course
I
didn't. See above, re: coasters.) So instead of sleep, I wandered around the house, moaning and groaning. I figured that if I went through the motions of giving birth vocally, my body would eventually catch up. Like in acting class, where they teach you that if you start breathing really fast, eventually you'll burst into hysterics and become Meryl Streep.