⇾ 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 | 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐈

𝚇𝚇𝙸𝚅

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢-𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚛 → 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝙼𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚢 𝙵𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕

⊹ 𝟻-𝟸𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟼𝟾 ⊹

Anemia was practically the definition of hell. After my doctors had taken another look at my blood, they realized that I had been anemic for God only knows how long. Being pregnant had just worsened it because of all the extra blood that's needed to grow a baby.

I was barely seven weeks pregnant, and I was already done with it. I'd been pricked with more damn needles than I was comfortable with, and I'd become way too acquainted with the toilet bowl. Not to mention, I was still wallowing in the stress of having to tell everyone, and now I had newfound stress: the threat of low birth weight or premature birth linked to my anemia. My doctor had been quick to tell me that Julian baking in my belly for almost forty-one weeks was a bloody miracle given the deathly-low amount of iron in my body and the fact that I was showing the same symptoms of anemia back when I was pregnant with him.

I downed my iron supplement pill as fast as I could, hoping that it wouldn't upset my stomach, but also staying close to the toilet because there was a part of me that knew that it would. John stood at the sink next to me, adjusting his tie in the mirror and appearing to be impressively oblivious to me on the ground next to him.

"John, how are we going to keep this a secret anymore?" I asked him. "My bloody pants are already popping buttons, and we aren't even a quarter of the way done yet."

John had quickly adapted to the idea of having a second baby. He even seemed rather excited about it now, much to my surprise. I supposed he didn't know what was coming with a newborn—you know—since he hadn't been there when Julian was a damned newborn. And now that I'd spent most of my time hunched in front of the toilet, he had also become quite accustomed to me being ill. It didn't even bloody faze him anymore.

"Guess we are just going to have to tell them, huh?" he responded.

My stomach finally lurched after swimming uncomfortably for about twenty minutes—even before I'd taken my iron supplements—and I hurled. John's head turned in my direction, and he stared at me in sympathy. When I spat the last of the foul round of vomit out and leaned back, I scowled at him. "You're so bloody helpful," I said. "Knocking me up, and then just staring at me when I'm vomiting. It's a wonder this bloody baby hasn't come out of me damned mouth yet!"

"I don't think that's possible, Lissy," he said, and then he lowered himself on the ground next to me.

I shivered, feeling cold now, and I curled up against him, burying my head in his shoulder. "Think my pill might have just come up now," I said. "But, I can't take another. Don't think I could stomach it. Hell, I could barely stomach that one. Christ, John, this bloody anemia's never gonna go away, and I'm just gonna be cold, and faint, and miserable for the rest of my life! I'm gonna miscarry all my babies, and you're gonna leave me all alone because I can't give you a damned child again. Fuckin' hell, sometimes I bloody hate myself, John," I said.