Our Last Christmas

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Fiction

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Moral rights

S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

External content

S.E. Saunders has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Authors Note:

While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. The following is based on events from my life.

The sun hung low and unyielding in the barren afternoon sky as my mother, and I pushed through the heavy doors of the Mediclinic. The sterile smell hit me, and my chest felt as if it might collapse under the weight of dread. My heart pounded a rhythm that matched the silent plea looping in my mind. If I’m not pregnant, I swear I’ll never do anything reckless again. The thought was a mantra and a desperate promise, feeling as fragile as the fluorescent-lit halls around me.

I wasn’t naïve about what raising a child entailed. My experiences hardened me against any romantic notions of motherhood. Growing up, I was the one to care for my baby brother when my mother couldn’t. Whether it was late at night, his cries piercing the thin walls, or during the day when she was too drained from her cesarean recovery, I was the one who rocked him back to sleep. Later, the responsibility fell to me when she wasn’t home—out working or with her boyfriend. I cradled him, changed him, and soothed him, often alone. I understood the weight of caring for a tiny human and the sacrifices it demanded. I didn’t just know it in theory. I lived it and wanted no part of it for myself.

The memory of a conversation with my dad a few months earlier surfaced, vivid, and unshakable. I had worked up the courage to ask him for a few dollars to fill a prescription for birth control. At the time, I thought it was a simple, almost transactional request. But nothing about it turned out to be simple. The pharmacist, a stern figure behind the counter, had asked for parental consent before handing over the pills. I felt a surge of indignation. If I’m old enough to go to the doctor and get the prescription, I’m old enough to take it responsibly, I argued, my voice trembling with frustration and embarrassment.

With no other choice, I went back to my dad. It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have, and as we walked together down 65th Street toward the strip mall pharmacy near the Husky gas station, the weight of the impending discussion grew heavier. I took a deep breath and explained, in halting words, why I needed the pill. Dad was quiet, his face unreadable, though I knew he understood the implications. He didn’t say much, but when we got to the pharmacy, his irritation was clear. He had a few sharp words for the pharmacist, railing against a system that withheld basic prophylactics from teenagers trying to be responsible. I stood by, feeling both vindicated and exposed.

It would be a few weeks of regular consumption before issues started cropping up. The first sign was exceedingly uncomfortable leg cramps in my calves. I'd been doing a lot of bike riding with my then boyfriend at the time and assumed it was from that. It was an assumption that could have killed me. I did mention it to the doctor because the pharmacist had done his job. Immediately I was switched to another type of birth control pill. This one had me suffering from a flow of blood for 17 days of the 21 day cycle of tablets I was taking. Off to the clinic again for a third pill. This would work well until it didn't.

I became pregnant. Then I went back on birth control again, a fourth type of contraception. I became pregnant again. My third and final pregnancy, I went on another type of contraception but this time I was 21 and I nearly died due to complications from the birth control pill. Unbeknownst to me, I'm one of the 1 in 200,000 women unable to take the birth control pill. The pill caused a deep vein thrombosis which encompassed my entire right leg. The only symptom was back pain and a slight swelling of the right leg. I walked into the doctors office, only to be sent to the emergency, where they put me on strict bedrest.

There they did a venogram, found the extent of the clot and started treatment. That treatment dislodged the clot and it went through my lungs causing a pulmonary embolism. It was then that the pharmacist’s insistence on parental oversight came into sharper focus. At the time, I had seen him as a barrier, someone standing between me and the autonomy I craved. But looking back, I understand his role in a different light. He wasn’t just enforcing a rule or making my life difficult. He was protecting me in ways I hadn’t been able to see. His insistence on involving my parent wasn’t an act of gatekeeping—it reflected genuine care for my health and well-being.