“Just give me a sign that I’m doing the right thing.” I say it under my breath. Who am I talking to anyway? I feel kind of stupid asking, but I guess I’m just looking for some reassurance that I’m making the right choice. After all, having a baby isn’t something to take lightly, especially at my age. People can’t seem to give me unbiased opinions on the matter, so I’m putting the question out there to the universe.
I’ve been over and over this again in my head, and I’m pretty sure I’ve thought about everything. It’s not as if I can be completely rational and objective about it, but I like to think I’ve come as close as possible. This is what I want. This is what makes sense for me, but here I am, second guessing myself and asking for a sign that this is the right thing to do. Does that mean that part of me is looking for a way out? They say you’re never one hundred percent certain about big decisions like this, but I just want to be as sure as I can be.
I shiver and cinch my coat tighter around me. It’s effing cold out for September, but I can’t take that as my sign because it was already effing cold out when I asked for one.
If I don’t get a sign before I reach the clinic, I’ll keep walking, and donor number 841 will just have to wait. It’s not as if I couldn’t do this on another day. I haven’t got forever, of course, but I do have some time. The people at the clinic are probably used to rescheduling. I’m sure people lose their nerve all the time.
Maybe what really matters here is my reaction to whether or not I get a sign. I’m almost at the clinic, and I haven’t anything I would consider a sign yet. What is it I’m feeling. Disappointment? Nervousness? It’s so hard to tell. Am I rooting for a sign? I think I am.
I know I can go ahead and do this even if a sign never comes, but I also know that I won’t. I will have to wait, and the more time that passes, the less sure I’ll be of what I should consider to a sign. A sign would be so easy to spot in these last few steps to the clinic, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen.
I pause in front of the clinic door and look up at the sky. “Well?” I say, as I close my eyes for a moment and give the universe one last chance. I feel flakes of snow fall onto my face, and I smile.
© 2010 Elizabeth Barton
Originally published in the Journal of Ordinary Thought, Fall 2010