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Brett
I grabbed the cart and headed straight to the produce department. Today, I was on a mission. I wanted watermelon. Now. And I didn’t just want watermelon—I needed it. A lot of it. I was craving watermelon so badly that it was even in my dreams. Sure, in my dreams, it was less about eating watermelon and more about remembering an old comedian who used to smash them, but still—watermelons had all my attention.
When I got to the cooler with the shelf that always had the chunked-up watermelon, the entire section was empty. All of it—the watermelon, the cantaloupe, the grapes, all of the fresh-cut fruit—gone. Sitting there was a little stand that said, “Sorry for your inconvenience. Our shipment did not come in.”
This was not an inconvenience. It was the destruction of dreams. And yes, I was being melodramatic, but I was pregnant and couldn’t help it.
My gut reaction was to cry out, but while my hormones might’ve been raging, I could still pull it together—or at least, that’s what I told myself as I started wandering through the rest of the produce section, looking for a whole watermelon. There were none. Absolutely none. Not even the ones with the seeds that tended to be the last men standing.
I found someone with a badge that said they worked here. “I’m looking for watermelon,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
“You’re gonna have to check again in a couple of days. We’re all out. Sorry.”
I told him it was no big deal, and he went back to work. But as I stood there, my eyes started to fill up with tears.
Pregnancy was wild—the way everything felt so big. Like, in my head, I knew that not having watermelon didn’t matter—not even close—but right then, it felt like the end of the world.
When an older gentleman came up to me and asked if I was okay, I sucked back my snot and told him, “There’s no watermelon,” expecting him to judge. He didn’t.
“That’s okay, honey, I’ve got you.” He walked away, and when he came back, he had a bottle of fresh watermelon juice with him. “It’s not quite the same, but it might hit that craving of yours.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the bottle from him. “I don’t know what’s come over me. No, that’s not true. I do, but I don’t know how to control it.”
“If the goddess wanted us to control it, she wouldn’t have given us these hormones. Just know that the reason they’re high and making you feel all this way is because your body’s doing exactly what it needs to do for your little one.” His words calmed me. “When are you due?”
“Last week,” I put my hand on my belly.
I’d been foolish enough to think that I was going to have my baby on my due date. I worked in the hospital; I knew better. But in my head, they were coming that day. That did not happen. I was officially one week past due. That one week felt like a year. Not gonna lie.
“Well, guess they’ll be coming soon, then,” he said.
I thanked him again, and he went on his way.
I started wandering through the aisles, my Braxton Hicks acting up. They weren’t awful, but they were a nuisance.
I grabbed easy-to-fix items that I thought might hit the spot after the child was born and tossed them in the cart. I knew I wasn’t going to want to cook once the baby came, and probably neither would my mate. We were going to be spending time with our little one, and they weren’t exactly known for sleeping well. We were going to be tired.
I could hardly wait.
The dog aisle had become one of my favorites, and I grabbed a bunch of new treats to bring home. I didn’t want Choccie to think his place in the house was being taken over by a little one, so some spoiling was in order. Thankfully, I loved to spoil him. So did Anders. The dog wasn’t lacking spoiling, that was sure.
As I turned the corner, someone else did the same, and our carts crashed into one another, causing me to fall backward and land on my ass. It hurt. It really hurt. How I didn’t cry out in pain was a miracle.
The other person felt awful, rushing to my side as I assured them I was fine. But as I got up and nearly slipped, I realized I wasn’t fine—because I wasn’t slipping on just any random paper on the floor. Nope. The floor was wet thanks to me—my water had broken.
I felt guilty telling the staff that they had to clean up my mess, but they felt equally bad about me falling and insisted that I seek medical treatment. It was over the top—absolutely—but I agreed, calling my mate and letting him know that an ambulance was on the way. How embarrassing.
Taking an ambulance trip to the place where you work was a weird experience. I knew everyone there and exactly where we were going, and I also knew how ridiculous it was that they insisted on the ambulance. It was funny how people would do anything to avoid a lawsuit.
When I got to the hospital, they brought me into the ER. The nurse took one look at me and said, “You in labor?”
“No,” I assured her, because I was an idiot and hadn’t figured out that I was yet.
“Then why are you here?”
“I fell, and my water broke.”
To her credit, she didn’t laugh at me. “I’ll have you go to triage. I’ll call up for you.”
