pregnant

Rina Zante

I readjusted my head on Mamma's shoulder, receiving her gentle caress across my lap.

The nausea and dizziness had long died; though I still felt weak. Whatever the problem was, my senses had been activated. Particularly that of smell. I'd found it difficult to have breakfast. Minus the nausea, the smell of baked beans and sausage had reeked. They'd filled my nostrils.

"Miss Zante?" the nurse called, drawing my attention and signaling my turn to see the doctor.

Mammà helped me up. Joining hands with her, we walked over to the room across.

A middle aged man welcomed us with a smile. Doctor Mario Tommaso as written on a plaque, on the table.

He ushered us into our seats, and still carrying a smile, he asked, "How can I help you?"

"It's my daughter. She woke up feeling unwell," Mamma said.

The doctor's eyes swept to me. Without him speaking, I stated my case. Told him almost everything, reserving my sore breasts to just myself. I couldn't imagine laying such complaints