And I just sit, trying too hard not to look at those pictures of newborn babies covering the walls.

Billy lets out a snot-sucking snore, and Delores jabs him in the ribs with her elbow. he wakes up sputtering, “Monkey ball banana blitz!”

We all look at him questioningly.

And he realizes where he is. “Sorry. Nightmare.” Then he lays his head back against the wall again, eyes closed. “I feel like gassy stool.” Delores and I nod in unison. And Billy solemnly swears, “I’m never drinking again. I’m going legit.”

his cousin scoffs, “heard that before.”

“I mean it this time. No more alcohol for me. From here on out, it’s weed only.”

Yeah. That makes sense.

Since we’re waiting anyway, let’s take a moment to reflect on one of the most sacred womanly rites of passage: the gynecological exam. It’s completely bizarre.

See, our whole young lives, we girls are told to stay pure. Keep our legs crossed, our knees locked. And then we turn eighteen.

And we have to go to an office and meet a doctor who, based on statistics, will be a middle-aged man. And then we have to strip bare—completely naked. And let him feel us up. And finger us. A total frigging stranger.

Oh—and then there’s the best part: the conversation. Yep, he talks to you during the exam. How’s school? Sure is rainy out today, isn’t it? Is your mother doing well? All in the effort to distract you from that fact that he’s wrist deep in your vagina.

Can you say awkward?

And don’t any of you men out there try and cry me a river about the horrors of your prostate exam. Doesn’t compare. One little finger up the ass can actually be rather pleasant. At least you don’t have to put your legs up in a contraption that originated as a medieval torture device. Women definitely got the raw end of the deal on this one.

A nurse in blue scrubs calls my name. My mother and I stand up and walk into the first exam room on the left.

I take my clothes off and put on the pink plastic robe, opening in the front, of course.

The better to see you with, Little Red Riding hood.

I sit on the table, the paper liner crunching beneath me. My mother stands to the side, rubbing my arm supportively. And in walks the doctor.

Take a look. White beard. Chubby cheeks. Round glasses.

Give him a red hat, and he could totally ride that last float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I have to go to third base with Santa Claus? Are you kidding me?

Christmas will never be the same.

“hello, Katherine. I’m Dr. Witherspoon. Your mother’s regular physician, Joan Bordello, is on vacation—”

Of course she is.

“—and I’m filling in for her.” he looks down at the file in his hand. “Judging by the date of your last menstrual cycle, you’re almost six weeks into your first trimester?”

I nod.

“And you’ve had some bleeding and cramping?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you describe the blood for me, please? The color? Were there any clots?”

My voice is raspy. “It started out brownish-pink. Like the first day of my period. On the way to the hospital there was a gush . . .

of bright-red blood . . . and then . . . it turned brown again. I didn’t . . . I don’t think there were any clots.”

he nods his head, and his eyes are kind. “I’ve read the emergency room physician’s report, but I’d like to take a look myself. Is that all right, Katherine?”

I force a smile. “Okay. And you can call me Kate—everyone does.”

“All right, Kate. When you’re ready, slide down to the edge of the table and put your feet in the stirrups, please.”

While I follow his directions, he wheels a cart over with a monitor and keyboard. And then he picks up a long plastic white wand that looks . . . well . . . like a dildo.

For an elephant.

I lift my head from the table. “Uh . . . what’s that?”

“This is an internal ultrasound. Looks a little scary, I know . . .”

No shit, Santa.

“. . . but it won’t hurt.”

And then he takes out a foil packet, tears it open, and rolls an extra-large condom onto the elephant dildo.

Not kidding. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

“Just try and relax, Kate.”

Sure. No problem. I’ll just pretend I’m at the spa. having my ovaries massaged.

he inserts the rod carefully. And I flinch. The room is silent as he moves the instrument to and fro. he wasn’t lying; it’s not painful. Just . . . disconcerting.

“Are you still experiencing any cramping?”

I stare at the beige-tiled ceiling, purposely avoiding the little screen.

“No. Not since last night.” I’m pretty sure the alcohol and pot disabled every pain nerve in my body.

I hear the tapping of buttons on the keyboard, and the rod is removed. “You can sit up now, Kate.” I do. “Do you see that flickering, right there?”

My gaze settles on the screen, where he’s pointing. “Yes.”

“That is your baby’s heartbeat.”

The breath rushes from my lungs. And I’m horrified. “You mean . . . it’s still . . . alive?”

“That’s right.”

My hands squeeze together and I feel the tears coming back up, ready to gush like a weakened dam. “When is it going to . . .

how long will it take before . . . I fully miscarry?”