Spoiler alert: we are not pregnant. We do not “officially” hope to get pregnant…but we hope. I waited two days upon completing this before testing. It was negative.
I wanted to capture this moment from the inside…from the middle. It may be the last time. Maybe. So for my precious fellow dancers, I offer you my heart. I hope it comforts yours.
I am doing the dance again. I’ve done it over and over…and yet it seems new each time. For twenty years…give or take…I have been doing this crazy fertility dance. This time, I want to capture it mid performance…this time…as it may be the last time…but in reality, that little fib is an integral part of the dance.
It begins with blood and tears. Again. The blood. It begins with the blood.
Failure to conceive.
Failure to breathe.
And then quickly…hope…always with the hope. Why? This whole dance would be so much easier if there wasn’t this crazy, starry-eyed hope that accompanies each failed pregnancy. And I don’t know how to stop the bubbling up of hope. With the blood and the tears comes an immediate response…next time. My heart cries next time. And no matter how ridiculous this hope thing is…no matter how many years go by…no matter how much explaining I offer my heart and beg it to STOP IT, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, that glimmer flickers. Next time.
I realized just this morning…hmmm, I have been irritable for two weeks…too long. I have exactly one week of extreme, mind-numbing irritablity. And right now I’m on week two.
So I counted. Thirty five days. Last cycle began thirty five days ago.
“Phil. I think we’re pregnant.”
How many times have I said that? How many pregnancy tests? It has been positive exactly TWO times out of the countless pregnancy tests I’ve taken over the past twenty years. TWO. I should have bought stock.
I have been here before. I have been at day thirty five before…and tested…and failed the test…miserably.
And this stupid hope just hangs around. And I fall for it every time. And I feel like such a fool.
Once more, here I sit. In hope. In humiliation.
I will take another test…submission to potential indignity…again. Perhaps I’ll wait a few more days? This is, after all, the sweet spot…the point between late cycle and definitive no. This is the space of hope.
We just happen to have a pregnancy test tucked away in our closet from the last dance. (I bought two last time…just in case. Something about having a test on hand eases the mortification of seeking out and purchasing my box of hope.)
And so…here I sit…in hope.