Sick To My Stomach
I’m happily eating at my regular haunt, Subway, when a pregnant woman enters and sits down without ordering anything. She takes out her cell phone and spends the next 20 minutes loudly placing calls. And thus I am again held hostage to loud pregnant drama.
She’s very happy you see. Her younger brother just hit rock bottom and she’s ecstatic. It seems he’s addicted to crack. The father of her unborn child got him hooked on the stuff. The story goes that he went to the safe injection site and overdosed. She couldn’t be happier. Upon waking in the hospital and losing $14,000 worth of drugs he was supposed to deliver he’s decided to get into a treatment program.
She can’t wait to tell all her friends the ‘good’ news. He’s afraid for his life and she wants to take him to something called ‘Meeting’ to celebrate. Throughout all of this I’m so disgusted I have trouble eating, much less keeping it down. This isn’t NYC or LA or Vegas or Detroit, it’s a peace-loving Canadian city or so I thought.
Why do the worst examples of expecting mothers feel drawn to parade themselves and their wretched lives before me? Perhaps it’s God’s way of telling me not to bemoan the loss of freedom because things could be much, much worse.
Getting back to our expecting drama queen she finally begins to shed some light on why she’s so happy about recent developments. Turns out in order to get protection from the gang that’s likely going to want to kill him for losing their drugs her brother is going to have to work with the police to bring down the gang and it’s the pregnant woman’s hope that in doing so they’ll find the father of her unborn child as she hasn’t seen him in months.
Praise Jesus.
