Worry Rock

The only different in sitting in an airport and a hospital waiting room was the people.

It was still terribly uncomfortable, dreadful, and if I could have I would have jumped out a window.

The people in an airport are rude, stuck-up, have their mind set and that’s about it. They’ll run you over if you stand in their way. I’m okay to that due to the fact that I spent probably ¼ of my life in there being pulled around like that by my husband to our terminal. A hospital, however – that’s much different. People in hospitals were all patients, including my husband and I. Half the people sitting in that large room had blood on themselves in one place or another. I hated blood.

I guess the biggest problem I had was the amount of phobias that I held. I hated the dark, flying, spiders, hospitals, needles and blood in which I always passed out in the site of. When I had been younger I had had one of the few anxiety attacks that I’ve ever experienced on my way to the doctor’s office where I was supposed to get my shots and take a blood sample. When I had fainted at the sight of the needle, they had given me my shots and taken the sample.

You can guess where my dislike for any kind of doctor surfaced.

Billie Joe held my hand loosely as we sat in the waiting room, his eyes looking over a magazine he was reading.

I, on the other hand, sat next to him, my eyes darting around the large room filled with people.

Just tell him. Just tell him that you need to talk to him privately at home. That this isn’t needed. Stop torturing yourself.

“Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong?”

So much for that.

My head snapped up from the palm of my hand in which it had been resting on for a few minutes prior to us being called. Billie Joe placed the magazine he had been flipping through on the table next to him and stood up. I slowly un-crossed my legs and stood up next to him, feeling a few pairs of eyes on us, a few people recognizing the name and trying to see if it matched the face.

The nurse smiled sweetly at us once we confirmed who we were. Billie Joe smiled crookedly back while I managed to force a weak and terribly pathetic one. She led us back through a few corridors and into a fairly small room that held a counter and two chairs that looked like they came out of a dentist office.

The nurse excused herself as soon as we entered and told us that the doctor would be with us soon.

My body tensed almost immediately as soon as my eyes fell upon a tray of utensils, in which held not one but two needles. My hand tightened around Billie Joe’s as my eyes widened. “Billie, no.”

Billie Joe lifted his eyes from the counter to me and then to the two needles that sat a few feet away from us. He sighed softly and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “We’ll be fine, Joe.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not taking a blood test. I don’t care if you hate me for it, I’m not doing it. I already told you.”

My husband hopped up on the counter and pulled me up next to him. He leant over and pressed his lips sweetly against my own. “We’ll be fine.”

As if on cue, the door to the room opened and a man in his forties walked in. Billie Joe hopped down immediately from the counter and stepped forward to take the man’s hand. I, on the other hand still sat on the table, my eyes slowly drifting back to the tray on the table. I’m not doing this. I’m not.

“Umm, we’re not using those…are we?” I asked the doctor slowly without bothering to say hello. “Because I can’t.”

The doctor smiled softly at me. “Hello to you, too,” he chuckled.

I forced the same fake smile that I had used to the nurse at him. “Hello. I pass out at the sight of blood.”

The doctor chuckled and looked down at his clip board. “I’m sure we won’t have much of a problem. You’ll be fine.”

I smiled uneasily. “Can you make me take a blood test?”

The doctor shrugged. “We can’t make you do anything, dear.”

I grinned. “Good. I’d like to by-pass that completely. “

Billie Joe winced as if what I had just said was an insult to him. I cocked an eyebrow and looked over at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

My eyes narrowed at him, ignoring the doctor standing right next to us. “I told you not to do this, Billie. I’m scared of needles as much as you are of being in the city alone at night. Don’t tell me that that’s different because it’s not. I already did this with you. At least I’m here.”

The doctor in front of me smiled. “And I’m sure there’s plenty more we can have her do.”

Billie Joe nodded slowly, still not speaking a word. When the doctor excused himself from the room for a minute I instantly turned to Billie Joe and scowled. “You brat.”

My husband quirked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a brat. That’s exactly what you are. I won’t take a damn blood test so now you’re acting like a five year old who didn’t get his freakin’ toy. Congratulations you asshole.”

My husband continued to stare at me blankly. He then rolled his eyes and hopped up onto the counter. “We all have things we can’t do, Joe. But we’ve got to learn to get over them.”

“Oh fuck you,” I snarled. “I’ve had this problem since way before I even liked you. I’ve had this problem since I was about five. And you want me to get over it in less than a day? Fine. But as I do that go sit in a dark alleyway in the corners of Manhattan. We’ll see how easily you can get over that, you hypocrite.”

“That’s hardly the same thing!” He cried out. “What I’m scared of could kill me.”

I glared at him. “You’re a jackass. For once, I’d like you to realize that I’m not as extraordinaire as Billie Joe Armstrong. I’m just his pathetic wife.”

At that point, the doctor stepped back into the room. Billie Joe continued to stare at me in a cold manner. I didn’t bother to smile at the doctor, but instead looked down at the floor. Billie Joe’s eyes lifted from me to the doctor, in who he applied his attention to. The doctor smiled at me. “You still sure that you want to bypass the blood test? It won’t hurt and they don’t take long. Just one little poke--,”

“Positive,” I interrupted with a false chuckle.

+++

The car ride home was completely silent.

Billie Joe and I hadn’t said much, if anything to each other after our ”disagreement”.

I had done what I could do while not stepping any closer to the needles and he was still angry with me.

How could he be angry with me if I hadn’t done anything wrong? Did he forget that I went to the damn hospital with him when he knows I despise them? Did he forget that I’ve been afraid of needles since I was about four?

Of course he did. Billie Joe Armstrong was used to getting just about everything that he wanted, so when he didn’t, he was going to act like a five year old and give me the silent treatment.

Congrats, Mand. You’ve married a child.

I sighed loudly in the passenger seat of the Mercedes and turned to look out the window. Well, this sucks.

He should be apologizing to me. I would never make him do something he didn’t want to. I would never make him feel like shit for not sticking a damn needle in his arm or anything else.

Feeling the uncomforting silence, Billie Joe punched the dial for the radio and then turned it up, the sound of Walking Disaster by Sum 41 coming through the speakers. I kept silent as I stared out the window, the feeling of a small headache starting to come on. It was too late to stop at CVS and with the mood that Billie Joe had put himself in, if I had dared to ask for him to go back, he probably would have left me there and gone home.

I pressed my finger to my temple and took a deep breath, rubbing them lightly. I felt Billie Joe’s eyes drift over to me as I leant forward in the passenger seat. “What’s wrong with you?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ve got a headache.”

“From what?”

I laughed. “Well, I’m bouncing back and forth from either the glares you were shooting me or the bitching I had to hear in the doctor’s office. Though, it could also possibly be from the silent treatment that I’m getting for what? Oh, right, not taking a blood test.”

Billie Joe scowled and killed the engine, immediately taking off his seatbelt and throwing the car door open. I cocked an eyebrow and looked up, for the first time realizing that we were in fact home. Billie Joe punched the numbers into the gates for them to open and then slid back into the car and drove through, into the driveway.

This time, instead of getting out first and with an attitude, he pulled out a carton of cigarettes from the small compartment between the two seats and pulled out a cigarette, put it between his lips and then shoved it back in and pulling a lighter our of his pocket.

I now threw open the door and got out, slamming it closed. Billie Joe scowled. “Don’t slam the door so damn hard,” he muttered as he got out.

“Oh bite me.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “That’s real fucking mature, Joe.”

“And the way you acted today in the office was, too.”

“The way I acted? I fucking did everything without a problem--,”

“Well congratulations!” I snapped. “You managed to get over the fear of needles that you’ve had for twenty years—oh wait, that’s me!”

“We all have to face our fears at one time or another,” Billie Joe mumbled as he lifted a hand to cup the cigarette that dangled from his mouth to light it.

I laughed. “I’ll march right back down there and get one when you finally stop smoking those things.”

Billie Joe laughed dryly. “It always has to revolve around my smoking. Jesus Chris, Joe. I asked you for one little thing today and you just couldn’t do it.”

My eyes narrowed. “How dare you. You brought up to me less than a week ago that you called the hospital to set up this appointment. You know I hate hospitals. When we first entered the room I told you that I refused to have a blood test! And now this?! How dare you!”

“I took it--,”

“You haven’t been afraid of needles since you were four! Am I speaking another language? I am afraid of needles! I get anxiety attacks over needles! My junior year in high school, my boyfriend went to donate blood. I figured I’d go with him. As soon as they started to take his blood I passed out on the floor right there, Billie Joe. I can’t handle these things and you know it.”

Billie Joe didn’t say anything. Instead he just took a long drag from his cigarette and pushed his car keys into his pocket. “I just think,” he admitted, “that if you really cared you would have.”

“I can’t!” I cried out in anger. “Do you not hear me?! I’m fucking afraid a-f-r-a-i-d of needles! You stupid selfish asshole! I can’t do it! This is what fucking pisses me off! You don’t accept anything that doesn’t benefit you!” My voice rose louder with every word, still fully aware that we were standing in the driveway. “This is so stupid! I went to the fucking hospital, Billie Joe. I actually fucking went. I did everything they asked me. I was in there for three fucking hours. I took tests. I did as much as you did, if not more! I didn’t do one god damn thing that I told you I wasn’t going to do in the first place, and now you act as if I didn’t do shit or something! I never even got a Thanks for actually going, Joe. I know you hate hospitals so this means at least something to me. No, no, no! Instead I get the silent treatment. I get the glares and the holes being bored into my head. Because, why? Because Billie Joe can do no fucking wrong. Despite the fact that I actually went, you still come out as the poor deprived husband. How dare you, you offensive jerk!”

I hadn’t sworn so much in years.

Billie Joe stood staring at me with his cigarette half an inch from his mouth, still cushioned firmly between his two fingers. He hesitated and then took another long drag, his eyes still wide.

“Yeah, good,” I spat. “Smoke more of your cigarette. Don’t say anything to me. Then we can go back to the goddamn hospital much sooner than later.”

The older man finally moved the cigarette from his lips. He exhaled and then opened his mouth to speak. “Joe--,”

“No,” I spat. “Don’t talk to me. You disgust me.”

With that said I stuck my hands into my purse and pulled out my keys angrily. I marched up the stairs to the house and stuck the key into the hole roughly, pushed the door open and then slammed it, in which made a picture on the wall shake.

I scowled to myself and slammed my hand down on the marble counter, throwing my keys down next to me along with my purse. “Why the fuck did I marry a rock star?”

+++

Billie Joe apologized.

Of course, he got completely trashed in order to.

By the time Sydney got home that night [which was around six] Billie Joe was already downstairs in the studio making his sixth round. When Sydney and I had sat down for dinner that night, knowing what condition Billie Joe would most likely be in, I went down to see if he would like to eat anything instead of asking Sydney to considering how disgusted I was with him.

He barely looked at me when I came down and asked him if he would be joining us for dinner that night or if he was going to continue sitting in solitude. He mumbled incoherently and waved his hand as if to tell me to go away.

So I did.

After dinner that night when Sydney had gone to bed since it was indeed a school night, I went back down. Billie Joe had moved from his chair at the desk to the large black leather sofa down there. I knelt down next to the now highly intoxicated man and gently ran my hand through his hair. “You’re so stupid.”

Billie Joe cracked open an eye. He mumbled a few words and turned his head to rub his nose on the arm of the couch. “I’m drunk.”

“Well I figured that you weren’t sober.”

“I think I’ll stay down herr tonight,” he slurred.

I laughed. “Well after today I’m most certainly not going to bring you upstairs.”

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered as he slid his head across the leather and onto my arm that I had had resting on the edge of the couch. “I know you’re scared of needles. I love you.”

“You should be sorry,” I admitted with a fake smile. “You were a jerk.”

Billie Joe smiled weakly, one eye half open while the other closed. He placed his lips on my arm, leaving a sloppy and wet kiss on it. “I’m a jerk.”

“Yes, yes you are.”

Billie Joe smiled again. He closed both eyes now and sighed loudly, the strong smell of alcohol coming off his breath and flooding my senses. My nose crinkled as I buried my nose into my arm to try to rid the smell. “Do I disgustist you?” He asked softly.

“Disgust,” I murmured to myself. “You did today when you were being a brat.”

He continued to smile. I continued to squat next to him until I heard him snore lightly, his breathing becoming steady and shallow. I made sure my husband was lying on his side so that he wouldn’t end up choking on his own vomit by the morning and then headed upstairs to let Charlie out and then head up with him and go to sleep.

The next week of my life was going to be hectic.

Hectic as in every time the phone would ring I would run to answer it. I refused to let Billie Joe get to it before me. If he did, I might as well kiss my marriage away.

By the end of the week Billie Joe would become suspicious, just like any normal human would and would probably go trying to get the phone before me then. So how to do it, incognito?

Just try to get him to go to the studio?

You mean, despite the fact that when he does he always comes home trashed?

Well, for every crime there’s a punishment.

+++

By the time my husband was up the next day, I had already gotten Sydney to school, come home, cleaned up around the house, eaten breakfast, taken Charlie out around the block for a jog and then went into the computer room that sat near the back of the house to speak to my brother over the computer about the recent things. [Technology had made it easy to stay in touch.]

When I had come out from the room and went to put my empty cereal bowl into dish washer he was sitting with his eyes closed, head in the palm of his hand. Out of spite from the previous day, though he had apologize [in a terribly drunken manner], I made sure to make a lot of noise between the glass bowl and metal spoon.

Billie Joe’s eyes slowly opened as I finally closed the door to the dishwasher with a loud thud. He bit the bottom of his lip as he watched me wash my hands in the sink and sighed. “Please stop.”

I turned around as I dried my hands in a towel. “Oh, so you are alive?”

“I’m fuckin’ dying here, Joe. Please, just stop. I know you’re still angry with me--,”

“And I thought drunks were stupid.”

Billie Joe scowled. “Please,” he begged softly. “It hurts.”

I rolled my eyes, feeling a twinge of guilt as I stepped next to him. I placed my hand on his head in which he picked up and moved so that it rested on my breasts as if they were a pillow, and threaded my fingers through the dark curls. “Billie, you smell almost literally of shit,” I admitted as I picked up a rancid smell.

“I threw up,” he mumbled.

”Where?” I chuckled dryly. “On yourself?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “All over.”

I immediately stepped away from the heavily-hung over rock star. “This shirt? Billie, you need to change and take a shower.” Almost immediately I placed my hands on his shirt and tried to take it off.

Billie Joe groaned loudly and pushed my hands off of him. “I already did. The other one is in the washer machine.”

I let out a soft sigh of relief and went back to threading my hand through the curls of his hair as he placed his head back on my chest, inhaling deeply. “You need to take a shower.”

“I can barely stand, Joe.”

“Cry me a river. You did this to yourself. You smell like shit.”

“I said I was sorry,” he mumbled, “please, just give me a break. You can beat me later.”

I giggled slightly at that and leant down to kiss the top of his head. “And I still stand by what I said. You’re a jerk.”

“I just want to know what’s wrong,” he whimpered.

“What if there is nothing?”

“Wrong? Or that they can tell us?”

“Wrong,” I muttered. “You do realize that it took us two years to get pregnant with Sydney?”

“With protection,” he added, “Two years when we were using protection and you were on birth control when we weren’t trying.” He looked up at me from the top of his eyes. “It can’t take us that long. We’re not using protection and you’re not on birth control--,” I swallowed hard, my body becoming tense for a moment, “We are trying.”

“You need to just let life run its course.”

Billie Joe scowled. “That obviously doesn’t work.”

“You’re not letting it.”

A long, uncomfortable silence came between the two of us. I took my hand from his hair and gently placed my lips upon his forehead. “Go take a shower. I’m not letting you sit or lay anywhere else until you do, no matter how sick. Especially not our bed.”

“I can’t stand, Joe,” he whimpered.

“Yesterday,” I started as I sat down on the stool next to my husband, “I told you that I couldn’t take a blood test. You threw a fit. You know what you told me, darling?” Billie Joe was silent. “We all have things we can’t do, Joe. But we’ve got to learn to get over them.” I mocked. “Are you really going to go back on your own word?”

Billie Joe whimpered again. He placed his feet on the wooden ground, his hands moving into the counter so that he could hold himself up. He pushed his body upwards and leant against the counter for a while, his legs wobbling.

He was still obviously drunk.

It had happened so many times before. Billie Joe would drink much more than his body could handle, and the next morning when he would wake up he would still be heavily intoxicated. So intoxicated that he wouldn’t be able to stand.

Billie Joe hesitated and took a step away from the island.

As if almost in slow motion, Billie Joe’s legs went out from underneath him and he collapsed in the middle of the tiled floor.

I got up immediately and went over to where my husband sat in a crumpled heap, his body curled up. He looked pathetic. I knelt down next to him and placed my hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him closer to me. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he muttered into my shoulder.

“I meant being pushed to do something you obviously can’t,” I stated. “It really makes you feel worthless when you fail.”

Billie Joe didn’t say anything as he placed his head on my shoulder and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” My husband pushed his face into my shoulder and finally began to sob, a few tears straying from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

It shouldn’t have come as a shock since I knew that my husband was overly-emotion when he got drunk. He was almost like a woman on her period at some points. Alcohol screwed with his emotion like nothing else. Though, no matter how intoxicated Billie Joe was, the sight of the man crying still killed me on the inside.

I gently patted his back as he sobbed lightly into my shoulder, his salty tears creating a rather large spot in my shirt. “Come on, babe,” I murmured softly into his ear, “I’ll get a nice, warm bath set for you. You won’t have to stand cause we’ll use the bathroom down here.”

Billie Joe nodded slowly into my shoulder. I stood up slowly, keeping an arm wrapped around the back of my neck so that I was his only support.

When I had finally gotten him to the bathroom down the hallway from the kitchen, I had hoped that Billie Joe could at least undress himself while I got the water warm for him.

I had taken his shirt off since he found himself unable to [how he had before the first time and gotten it into the washer machine I will never know] and when it had come to getting his shorts and boxers off, I had to remove his shorts. Out of pure embarrassment, Billie Joe managed to get his boxers off of himself, wanting to keep some dignity [though he had lost most] by saying that he could at least get his own boxers off.

After Billie Joe had gotten into the water and was comfortable, I had taken his clothes out of the bathroom and thrown them into the washer machine with the other shirt that he had obviously vomited on that morning.

I was gagging the whole time.

After I had finally grabbed a fresh pair of boxers and t-shirt for my husband out of the drawer in our bedroom and placed them on the bathroom counter, in which he thanked me for, I finally sat down in the kitchen.

Ex-nay on the studio until the doctor called idea.

A week of this just to hide a phone call would make me absolutely suicidal.

+++

Billie Joe hadn’t gone to the studio once the next week. I didn’t bother even asking him to after the chaos that had been caused the most recent time that he had gotten trashed. Some things aren’t worth it.

When Billie Joe had finally gotten out of the bath that afternoon [meaning he took a good four hour bath], he had come into the kitchen to speak to me. The only difference this time being that he was now sobered up.

”Do you hate me right now?” Billie Joe asked softly as he stepped into the kitchen.

“You know as well as I do that I could never hate you.” I smiled softly. “You took one long-ass bath.”

Billie Joe smiled back. “Thanks for making it for me. And for washing and getting me clothes, and--,” Billie Joe slid onto a stool next to me. He placed his hands in the palms of his own hands and threaded his own fingers through his hair. “And everything. If I were you, I would have just left me on the floor this morning. Especially after yesterday and last night.” He smiled sadly into his hands. “You don’t deserve this.”

I forced a weak smile to my husband and moved closer to him, rubbing his back sweetly. “Chill, darling.”

“You’re fucking afraid of needles,” he mumbled, “and I became a total brat when you wouldn’t take a blood test. I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,” I agreed with a chuckle. “You are. But I married you, so I guess I’m cool with that if you are.”

It was now that that drama was over that I was awaiting the next.

This argument, though it had been never-ending and disgusting, it was nothing. Billie Joe and I had had fifteen years worth of stupid fights, one being within the first month that I had moved into his Californian home when I was eighteen.

Every single time the phone rang I made a habit of picking it up before Billie Joe could even move to get it. He stared at me in confusion the first couple of times but then shrugged it off, not bothering the worry about it.

Every single time the phone rang and I had picked it up it had been the opposite of what I had wanted. It had always been either a psychotic fan that had found my husband’s phone number somewhere, his brothers or sisters, Adam, one of Sydney’s friends or Mike or Tre.

It was killing me.

It was also the one time that I hadn’t picked up the damn phone that it was the doctor calling.

Billie Joe and I both sat at the island, eating lunch that I had made while Sydney was at school. I had a mouth full of food when the phone rang, and Billie Joe had already been up getting something to drink for the both of us when the phone rang. The older man hesitated and watched to see if I had jumped up to get it before he set down the two glasses and picked up the phone himself. “Hello?” I cocked an eyebrow and swallowed before mouthing ‘Who is it’ to Billie Joe,

Billie Joe’s eyes lit up. “No, no of course you’re not interrupting anything. My wife and I were just eating lunch.” He grinned. “Sounds good to me; go right ahead. We’ve actually been waiting for your call.”

My heart dropped and I could feel the air being knocked out of me momentarily.

I watched Billie Joe nod and hum mhmm constantly, but there wasn’t much else other than him walking around in a circle.

I knew this was going to happen. I knew it. I fucking knew it.

I wish there was a way that enabled me to express the terror I endured while I sat watching my husband chat with the doctor from across the kitchen, knowing damn well what came next.

But there is no way.

There is no way to express how terrible it is to feel your heart pounding in your chest when your husband stops walking because of what the doctor is telling him. When he’s so preoccupied with what the doctor is saying that he can’t even bother to play with his fingernails as he usually does when he’s on the phone. When that shocked look comes across your husband’s face and you suddenly just forget how to breathe. And when you finally do remember how to, you realize that your breathing I equivalent to someone having a panic attack.

There is nothing so terrifying as being caught for being a lying bitch to your husband for the past three or four months.

I watched Billie Joe nod one last time, no longer fidgeting with himself as he usually did while on a phone call. He thanked the doctor and then clicked off the phone and placed it back in the receiver.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Darling, what’d he say?”

Billie Joe turned to face me. He shrugged and leant back against the counter opposite from me. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked slowly.

I felt as if my heart had been literally ripped right out of my chest. It hurt. I hurt.

I was ready to break down into tears in the middle of the kitchen and just sob if it would somehow make things better. “I’m sorry,” I apologized.

Before I could continue, Billie Joe chuckled and cut me off. “Darling, if you’re stressed, you need to tell me.” He looked down at his feet. “I mean, I didn’t know it was so bad. Apparently you’re highly stressed and that’s a big possibility as to why we’re not having a kid. Your body isn’t acting properly due to the stress.”

…STRESS?

I had been almost literally killing myself over the past week for them to call and tell my husband that we weren’t able to have a child due to my body undergoing stress?!

Are you fucking kidding me?

I was so sure. So positive that he was going to find out. He had to know. He had to.

Travis had said that they could find this out!

Travis had also said to lay low and I’d be okay.

But wasn’t I okay? Billie Joe didn’t know.

No, no. He had to know. This was impossible to not know.

I had been waiting for him to find this out now. I had expected them to tell him. I had fucking counted on this. And now what? What do I do now? Continue to hide this shit because it’s obvious this hospital is composed of complete fucking retards? What do I do? I had been counting on them telling him! How could they miss it?

Were they blind?

I let out a cry of anger in which caught Billie Joe’s attention. He cocked an eyebrow. “Darling? What’s wrong?”

“If I ever get hurt, don’t you dare let me go to that hospital,” I snarled. “They’re composed of complete idiots!”

“Joe, what’s wrong?” He hesitated. “I’m…confused.”

“It’s not stress!” I cried out, lifting my hands to rub my temples. “I’m not fucking suffering from stress! Well, okay, maybe I am, but I always have been. Being married to you is stressful, big fucking whoop. No! It’s not stress.” I scowled loudly while my husband stared at me in complete confusion. “It’s not stress, Billie,” I whimpered.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” Billie Joe asked slowly as he took a step forward. “Right now it certainly sounds like stress.”

“No!” I cried out. “No. The stress that the doctor is so sure that I’m suffering from is caused from my own problems. Fuck, Billie. I’m a liar. It’s not stress,” I repeated sadly. “Billie Joe, I’m on birth control. That’s where the stress is coming from.” I sobbed loudly into my hands, the tears, though they came from nowhere, already pouring out of my eyes. “That’s why I was so depressed during the summer. That’s why I always cry. Why I flipped out on you when you set up this appointment. Why I’ve been running to the phone. I thought they’d tell you. I thought they’d tell you,” I continued to sob, “I know it’s wrong. It’s causing the stress. It’s causing all my problems. I’m sorry; I just didn’t think it was the time for another child and I didn’t know how to tell you. We’re not ready for two, Billie. No, no, no. Not now.”