Parenthood

I arrive at the clinic and feel the blood drain from my face. I want to be done with it, to feel relief and freedom, and I hate myself for it. Gaz has been agitated with me from the early morning, and to not feel his warm hands around me exacerbates how empty I feel. This is the third time I've been to the clinic in the past month. I take my patient information form and try sitting in a different corner of the waiting room. I am crippled by terror and I make a desperate call to another clinic. - Please, I'm desperate, do you have any places today? - I'm sorry, I don't think we do. - I'm already at the other clinic and I just can't do it, help me. - Come in at 1 and we'll see if we can squeeze you in. I run from the clinic to Gaz, who is sitting on the ground next to my car with a cigarette. He is lit up like a bushfire. He doesn't look at me. My phone rings. - Hello, we've had a cancellation. Can you come in now? - Yes.