I found out about you today, and I have to say, Baby, I wasn’t too happy. I don’t think I have cried that hard in my life. You are the result of a very bad, drunken decision at my sister, your aunt’s, New Years Eve party. Mike was there and one thing led to another, as it does with Mike and I, and so here you are — a little clump of cells dividing inside me. A little clump of cells that is going to come screaming into my life in eight months, and I don’t want you. I’ve just started my life for real — I’m done with school, I have a job, and I can’t deal with a baby right now. So, damn Baby, I don’t know quite what to do with you. I thought writing you a letter might bring me closer to you, but it hasn’t. I’m mad at Mike, that scumbag, that sexy, sexy scumbag, and now I’m mad at you too. I don’t want to bring something into the world that I’m already mad at.
Stop making me throw up! I really liked that breakfast — a bagel with cream cheese and raspberries; it tasted really good going down. Not so much coming back up. And raspberries cost a lot right now; it’s winter in the outside world, if you can’t tell in your cozy little den. Stupid baby, you’re already costing me money.
You’re still there. I have another month and a half to decide what to do with you. I talked to The Asshole, and he offered to pay for me to ‘take care of my problem’. No sympathy, no support, just a payoff. That alone almost makes me want to spite him and keep you. I haven’t talked to anyone else about you. I don’t know what to say. My parents will be supportive, but they won’t help me take care of you. They can’t even afford to help me get a new car. This Oldsmobile is older than I am. But yea, if I’m going to do this, I’ll have to do it alone.
You’re in there to stay, just thought I’d let you know.
Sorry for being so flippant last time — my decision scared me and I felt like taking my fear out on someone. But yea, that’s the deal, I’m keeping you. I didn’t tell you before, but I had a cyst removed from one ovary a few years ago. You might be my only shot. I’m looking at names now — I like Aaron and Samantha, what do you think? Ha, you can’t do anything about it, I can name you whatever I please. You would hate me, wouldn’t you, if you had to grow up with a name like Jedediah or Cookie. I’d hate me too. Don’t worry; I’ll pick a good one. You won’t have your own room, I’m sorry. My apartment is small and so you will have to share with me. That’s OK though — no one else will be sleeping in my bed any time soon, so it won’t be too crowded.
You are starting to make me faaat! I’ve worked so hard on this stomach, and now it’s all going to hell! You better not mind when I have to work out all the time after you are born, to get back into shape. No one cares how I look at work — I only write the news stories, I don’t read them, but I care. I told my parents about you last week. They are excited for a grandchild, but they had hoped that I would have settled down first. I haven’t seen The Asshole in over a month now, and I’m really ok with that. I don’t need him, or any man. You need me though. I think we need each other. And oh yes, your name will either be Aaron or Katherine. I want it to be a surprise, so I won’t know until I see you.
I found a really cool mobile to hang over your crib today. It has Winnie the Pooh, and Tigger, and Eeyore and everyone else on it. I’ll read you those stories when you’re old enough to understand. As soon as I find out if you are a boy or a girl, I’m going clothes shopping. I can’t wait to get you a tiny pair of sneakers. I need to go clothes shopping for me too — my pants don’t fit anymore. I can’t wait to meet you, Baby. I think we are going to have fun together.
I was in an accident yesterday, Baby. I was at the stoplight, behind two other cars, and another one came up really fast, and ran into mine. I hit the steering wheel hard and it knocked the wind out of me. I think the car is totaled. I’m in the hospital now, Baby. They wanted to check me out, because I was pregnant. Oh Baby. I was pregnant. My car, my stupid, piece of shit, 23-year-old car doesn’t have airbags. They said there wasn’t anything they could do. They’re sorry. That isn’t going to bring you back. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, Katherine. You won’t ever read it. I miss you, Baby. I didn’t even get to meet you.
Allison Nast is a previously unpublished writer back in school for nursing. She graduated from the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communication at Syracuse University with a degree in Television, Radio and Film. You can find her on Facebook, her personal blog, http://rosapotentis.blogspot.com/, and on Twitter @RosaPotentis.