The morning started out like thousands of others. I go through the routine of waking and telling various children to take showers and eat breakfast. Check your backpack. Here’s money for lunch or snacks or for the walk to the store after school with friends. I drive them in at various drop off times and head back home. It’s just like any other morning. Very nearly like any other morning.
I am drinking coffee on this morning. I needed to help myself wake up because I spent some time, like I do every night, crying myself to sleep. Last night it was a “good” crying night, I only cried for an hour before my body and my mind gave out. The husband left for a trip the day before this morning and I didn’t mind it this time. I’m tired of talking about “it” and “us” and needed a break from looking at his face and wanting him in that moment to die a horrible death.
I pull back into the driveway to get ready for my day. I clean the kitchen, start some laundry, pick up towels from the bathroom floor. Feed the cat. Pour some more coffee. I am feeling more like normal this morning, not my normal but the new normal I am now because my life is so very fucked up. This is my Fucked Up Normal I declare to myself.
I leave on time because I’m like that, I like to be on time. I don’t want to cause problems for anyone else, or upset the apple cart for the day. I park my car, check my phone for messages. There are none. I realize I don’t have any because no one knows I’m here. I’ve told no one I’m here.
In fact. I’m a number. I absentmindedly forgot the piece of paper I printed out before I left this morning that had my number printed at the top. Luckily I have an email on my phone with my number. It’s the same number I will use today, two days from now and a week from now. I will not say may name to the the people I see today or speak to over the next week. I will only use a number.
Last night before I cried myself to sleep I ordered a complete STD panel for myself to the cost of over $200 and ordered it with the confidential protection of being referred to as a number throughout their process. I ordered it as my children slept upstairs and after a phone call from my cheating husband. He’s trying to call more, he’s being a “good boy” and he promises. He says he knows I won’t trust him for a very long time, but he’ll wait. I don’t tell him about the STD tests I’m going to have. I want to find out and deal with the results and then deal with the fallout with him.
There is no way I haven’t acquired a disease from one of the whores and my muther-whore-fucking husband. I already know what the tests are going to say. I’m prepared. I want to call my mom and talk with her about this, but this conversation might even be above her pay grade as a mother. What mother wants to get a call like that? I don’t want any of my kids to ever call me with this news.
I walk through the door of the facility near my home. I am in the waiting room with people there for job drug testing. I go to the window and say I have orders but not a copy, I signed up to come to this particular lab. She looks at me with what I considered a brief look of pity. She knew why I was there. She knew I had ordered my tests off the internet. “I have it right here, honey.”
The woman who prepared the vials didn’t know it was two decades worth of exposure to the vaginas (and dicks those vagina owners sucked or fucked) of countless men and women. My fucking cheater husband never used a condom. Not once.
The vial preparer didn’t know that my years before last would have never hinted that I would be walking through a door like theirs with a number to identify me. She tries to make me feel at ease. She draws my blood and sends me to the bathroom with a cup. She apologizes for their being no running water but they can’t have that in there because of drug tests.
So I pee in a cup, screw the lid on tight, hand over the container to the tech and wash my hands. I see her finishing up the paperwork with my ID number. I leave the building much with the same attitude that I arrived with and that is pure and utter disbelief. I can’t believe this is my life.
I get an email that some of my tests are in and I can call. I am alone in the house when I call. I provide my ID number and am put on hold by the nice receptionist. I am as surprised as anyone the husband and the whores didn’t pass anything on to me. After all, it’s been two decades of chances to give me something. If the whores are fucking my husband a few times here and there at conferences and business trips, there’s a good chance they are fucking other dicks. Like I said, stunned.
Worse than walking into the building from the Internet STD panel testing is the fact that I have to, but honestly, I’m still so crushed that my husband put my life at risk. He put my kids’ mom’s life in danger, “How could you put me at that kind of risk? What made you think you could do that to me?” and without a second thought really, he admits, “I really didn’t think about you at all.”
No matter what happens to us in the future – work it out or not – there is some pain I won’t ever be able to let go and him risking my life without a second thought is at the top of the list.