We're Going to Need More Wine - Gabrielle Union Page 0,71

Sanaa Lathan, and more starring in TV shows and producing films. That creates yet more work for the next woman up. That’s what can happen when we mentor and empower. That’s what happens when we realize that any joy we find in the next woman’s pain or struggle is just a reflection of our own pain: “See how hard this is? Do you appreciate how difficult this is?” Instead, I want to heal her and me.

Christ. First a stiff neck and then I have to have this moral code? Nobody said being a grown-ass woman was easy.

fifteen

GET OUT OF MY PUSSY

I decided to finally go get this persistent pain in my hip checked. And my doctor in Miami, who happens to be a friend’s dad and one of the world’s leading neurosurgeons, told me to go for an MRI and X-ray at the hospital. Coincidentally, another fake round of “Gab’s Knocked Up!” stories was making the rounds at exactly the same time. The photo evidence was that I’d worn a coat. In Toronto. At night. In winter. For sure, knocked up.

So here I am, walking into a hospital—right in the heart of Miami-Dade County—and everyone’s clocking me. By the time I get to the imaging center, I’ve run through a gauntlet of knowing glances and “I see you” smiles. I know exactly what all these strangers are thinking. And there, as I am filling out the forms, is the question: “Are you pregnant?” I check “No.”

“Head to room two and wait,” says the lady behind the desk.

I go in, disrobe, put on the tissue-paper-thin gown, and sit on the table, tapping my feet on the step.

You know how, when you’re in the doctor’s office, each time the door opens, you think, This is it! and you raise your head expectantly, with a half smile that says, “I can make pleasantries but I will also take your role seriously”? This happens a couple of times.

The first time, there’s a knock on the door and a nurse walks in. “I just want to double-check,” she says, studying me. “We ask all women this: Are you pregnant?”

“Nope, it was on the form. I marked no.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure.”

Not a minute goes by before a different woman pops her head in.

“Yeah, okay. So, just want to make sure,” she says, drawing out “sure” as she looks me up and down. “Um, you’ve got no hairpins in your hair, no metal on. Your earrings are out?”

“Yes.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“Nope. Not pregnant. Put it on the form.”

“Well, hey, yeah, just making sure.”

Finally, the X-ray tech arrives, and my hip and I are ready for our MRI close-up.

Ah, but my uterus is not done stealing the show. Because two more women walk in. How many damn people work here?

“Just want to make sure . . .” says the tall one. “You’re not pregnant?”

Now I am just sad.

“No.”

The shorter woman pats my leg in a rocking, petting motion. “I just want to make sure you’re not pregnant,” she chimes in. “Because we really need to know. Because—”

Then I am angry.

“NOPE. NOT PREGNANT,” I say, loudly, my heart beating fast and my arms becoming numb from anger.

“I filled out the form. You’re now the fourth person to ask me. I am not pregnant. I know what the Web sites say. I’m telling you I’m not pregnant. If I was, I wouldn’t fucking be here.”

They quickly leave. And I lie there, thinking about how some Internet clickbait affected my medical care, thinking about what they will say about that girl Gabrielle Union, who came into the office today and is actually such a bitch.

When it is over, I do my best not to look at anyone. I keep my head down and put my sunglasses on as protection. I am almost to the door of the waiting room when another patient looks up from her magazine. She smiles and I smile back.

“You and Wade,” she says, “would have such pretty babies.”

I am out of the office before the tears come.

YES, DWYANE AND I WOULD HAVE SUCH PRETTY BABIES. BUT I HAVE HAD eight or nine miscarriages. In order to tell you the exact number, I would have to get out my medical records. (I am also not sure what the number is where you start to think I must be nuts to keep trying.)

I never wanted children before Dwyane. I was afraid to be attached to a man for life if our relationship didn’t work out. After D