A/N: I know i should be concentrating more on my existing fics but i can't help but create another one! i was recently inspired to start this because of my roommate's current situation, you know, being pregnant and all...hope you like this! this was originally supposed to be a one-shot fic, well, it turned to be a chapter fic...please R&R!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, nada. Everything is owned by Vinny Mac. :-)
I opened my eyes and squinted as the bright sun entered my hospital room window. I gathered all my strength to sit up, but I soon found out that it was a very bad idea. You would think that my years of ring experience would have prepared me for this, but boy was I wrong. My back was killing me, specifically the lumbar and upper back. My once-so-perfect abs felt and probably looked like a punching bag. I lifted my sheet to peer at my tummy. Oh, God, are those what I think it is? White lines running from my hips to a good part of my thighs—stretch marks! Without the huge belly claiming singular focus, I saw them now in their awful glory. And I still had a good-sized belly that jiggled like a bowl of Jell-O. Ugh. This is what I get for pigging out on all those junk food that I said I DESERVED for deciding to go on with the pregnancy. BIG mistake.
"Did you know that a pregnant woman should only add 300 calories to her daily diet?" my best friend Amy Dumas had once commented when she saw me wolf down my third doughnut. I knew all that, but being on a diet for nine whole months while craving for the most insane things was next to impossible. So what if I allowed myself an occasional treat during my pregnancy? Although I didn't really admit but knew deep down inside that the sweets actually made up for the lack of dates, goodnight kisses, and yes, sex. It was a deep craving that made me end up in front of the mirror every single day, staring at my body, watching my belly grow bigger and my hips store more fat.
The F.O.C. (father of the child), Randy Orton, called me a couple of times to ask me out to dinner. I declined both times, saying that I wasn't feeling well. And it was true—the first time. The first time, I was having a bad case of morning sickness, which, unlike what its name says, can happen any time during the day. And the other, well, I didn't feel sexy enough to go through the trouble of dressing up. I figured that no guy would like to be seen with a pregnant woman unless he was the father of the child in question (which he is) AND the husband (which he is definitely not). If I weren't pregnant I would have jumped at the chance to go out with Randy, ending the evening with more than just a couple of drinks and a goodnight kiss. But if I had to wear a tent and drink only virgin margaritas, I might be better off staying home and well, gaining more weight by eating doughnuts or whatever else was in my fridge. I stayed away from Randy and from all the other guys for that matter (not that there were many of them in the first place). I convinced myself that I neither wanted nor needed their sympathy. Thus, while I was pregnant, I shunned guys the way I should've shunned desserts.
Of course, the "occasional" treat now and then couldn't go on indefinitely. My OB finally banned me from anything sweet and salty for the last trimester on threat of a caesarian birth if I gained more than the 35-pound limit. I gained a total of 36 pounds, which was not bad really. In fact, my pregnancy was going so well, the doctor had declared me the perfect candidate for Lamaze birth. That being the case, I figured labor was probably not as bad as people make it out to be.
But as usual, I was so wrong. It was awful. I could hardly bear the pain that gradually overtook me, I shamelessly asked for the drugs. What I first thought was bearable turned out to be overwhelmingly more than what I had expected.
Well, at first it only felt like the beginnings of acute dysmenorrheal pain at about two in the morning that came and went in around twenty to thirty minute intervals. I didn't panic. I read somewhere that one should go about one's normal activities even when labor begins because by then delivery was sure to be hours and hours away. Although I had no clue exactly as to what I should be doing while my tummy and back were wracked with pain, I did the breathing techniques that I learned from my Lamaze classes while I frantically reached for the phone to dial Amy's number.
Thank God for Amy, I thought as I put down the phone and waited for my best friend who was on her way to my place, leaving her sleepy and grumpy boyfriend. Amy is my best friend ever since we started working for the WWE. Although personality-wise, we were total opposites: she was the conservative rocker chick, and she is so faithful to her boyfriend of five years, Matt Hardy. As for me, well, Amy said that the politically correct term to describe me is a "free spirit", although others prefer to describe me as a bitch. Well, can I help it if I wanted to take advantage of my beauty and single-hood? Besides, there are so many gorgeous men out there that it is such a shame for me to waste myself on one guy. But despite our differences, I love Amy and she is the best friend that one could ever have and she was always there for me. She was there when my dad passed away three years ago and she was always there to tell me that Randy Orton was no good, not because he seemed to be much of a party boy, or that he was a playboy because he was previously seen with many other women and rumored to sleep with everyone he's seen with, but because, she clearly pointed out to me, that I just didn't know him all that well to sleep with him just yet. But he was just fun—and extremely hot.
And I was being extremely stupid, when I totally forgot to bring my pills when we went on our Japan tour. So when Randy and me ended up making out in his hotel room after our night out with the RAW roster, I knew that we had to stop. But my brains vanished into thin air the moment he wrapped his strong, tanned arms around me and started kissing my neck. It took me two seconds to decide that I was going to sleep with him—pill or no pill. I was a sorry risk-taker now and had cried rivers of tears when I discovered that I was pregnant. But I was brave about it. That should count for something. It never entered my mind to have the baby aborted nor did Randy even suggest it, which Amy thought was, at least, commendable.
Actually, there were more things Randy deserved to take credit for. Take, for example, the fact that a week after I told him that he was going to be a father, he had offered to marry me, getting down on one knee in the middle of my living room. He had a diamond solitaire.
"Trish," he had started unsteadily, "I feel equally responsible for this. You don't have to go through this alone, you know. So if you want to, we could get married." It wasn't exactly my dream proposal but it was a proposal nonetheless.
I cried, hugged him and said, "No." I didn't love him that way and I long realized that it wouldn't work unless I was hopelessly swept off my feet. He didn't have to say it but I knew that he was relieved. And to my surprise, so was I.
Though my mom wasn't thrilled that I had declined to marry, she learned to live with the fact. It was one of those times that I was glad she lived a whole continent away and couldn't give me a lecture every other hour. It didn't matter anyway, since I mentally gave myself one every minute, for my carelessness and inexcusable stupidity.
"Give yourself a break, Trish," Amy said as she packed my hospital bag since I didn't do it beforehand. "These things happen to people everyday, you're not the only one, you know. It's not all that bad."
"On the contrary," I said in between breaths, "These things happen to MARRIED women. At least they have someone to hold their hand while giving birth."
"I'll hold your hand," she said while she kept stuffing my bag with my nightgowns and baby clothes that we bought during one of our shopping sprees for baby clothes. Of course, Amy not only went with me to Lamaze classes, helped shop for stuff, went on a vacation leave from work to be with me during my due month, driven over a 2 a.m. leaving a protesting boyfriend, packed my hospital bag, but also stayed with me throughout the delivery. In my half-asleep, half-awake state I reminded myself to give Amy a big kiss and a big bag of Starbucks coffee for Matt.
Randy had offered to be around for all those life-changing events but I knew I couldn't deal with it. Not yet. Looking like a perfect married couple without being married, without in fact being in a relationship in the first place, was too depressing and I promised myself not to be depressed during the whole pregnancy. So I'd say that I was busy when Randy invited me out for dinner or pretended to be doing something when he'd call to ask how I was.
When my OB told me that I needed to go on a diet, I went on a man-diet: no dates, hardly any phone calls. No wonder the ultrasound revealed that I was having a girl. A bogus idea, of course, but with all that deprivation I was ready to believe anything. It was probably unreasonable but I was pregnant and thus, allowed to be unreasonable. So even if Randy wanted to be with me during my pregnancy, I declined. Although I allowed him to send over some ice cream or junk food now and then, I refused his phone calls and his requests to come over. It didn't feel quite right to be cared for by someone who was consumed more by guilt than love.
"I'll play the role of the husband," Amy said, smiling sympathetically.
"Oh, you know what I mean." I hugged my best friend even as I winced in pain at the spasm that seemed to twist the muscles of my lower back and abs. "Ooooow, I think we should go to the hospital now."
"Uh, I think you should try to go back to sleep. It's not going to happen while your contractions are too far apart. I'll sleep in the other room. Wake me up if your contractions are five minutes apart or if your water breaks." And with that, she zipped my small suitcase and left the room. You know, for a single woman, Amy knew far more about pregnancy than me.
My contractions were getting longer and more frequent, a couple of times, as little as three minutes in between, though it wasn't like that regularly. Sometimes a good twenty minutes would pass. But when I went to the bathroom to pee, there was a little blood mixed with a mucous-like substance, and that was when I panicked.
Amy was not in the least bit panicky when I begged to be brought to the hospital at around 6 am. Rightly so, because when we got there I was only one centimeter dilated. I needed to be dilated ten centimeters to deliver my baby. The resident had asked me, on orders of my OB, if I'd like to come back in a few hours.
"Would you like to go home?" Amy asked me, trying to suppress a laugh.
Gosh. Should I go home or stay in the hospital? It was embarrassing, but who cared? Even if the whole world had a good laugh I wouldn't give a shit—I was in pain, thus my rightful place was in a hospital. What would a woman of the world have done?
"Maybe we should go to the mall and... aaaaargh!... buy a pair of shoes? Aaaaaargh!"
Amy just looked at me and then turned to the nurse and said, "I guess we're staying put." And that was that. I checked in at 6:15 am, and gave birth at 9:01 pm. Technically, my labor did not really take too long. But in my book, that was a good fifteen hours. A lifetime and a half. I had asked for anesthesia at five centimeters, which happened sometime late in the afternoon, but Amy pushed me to bear the pain; once drugged, the baby might get drugged too.
I admit, I am a coward, but I wouldn't have to work on it if I didn't have to, right? If it were not so, drugs should never have been invented in the first place. Drugs gave one a choice on whether to be brave or to be done with it right away. In any case, the epidural did not guarantee complete numbness anyway. I felt every stitch the doctor made down there with her little fish hook-like needle even if a local anesthesia was applied.
Oh, well, I was too tired to figure things out, anyway. I needed more sleep. Drug or no drug, it was my first baby after all so I might be forgiven for sidestepping any more pain. But all things told, being a single mom to a baby girl must not be too bad after all. In fact, even if some might disagree, it felt absolutely wonderful. I can only imagine all the girl fun we would have as a tag team. I couldn't wait to meet my daughter—after some rest, of course. I knew the baby's name days after the ultrasound revealed that I was gonna have a girl. It was Alexandra, a feminine twist to a very masculine name. Being a single mom in this macho world, my daughter and me would have no choice but to believe in girl power, how corny it might sound. So despite all the uncertainties that lay ahead, I closed my eyes and smiled as I drifted off to sleep.