You’ve just peed on the little plastic device that, within two minutes, is going to tell you (hopefully with two pink lines) your fate for the next 9 months…not to mention 18 years, and beyond.
You peek at the test window as the urine begins its slow crawl up the paper. Then you look away. You don’t want to see it pass the spot where the “test” portion lives.
Walk away…don’t think about it…distract yourself. Then after a good 5 minutes (just in case it needs extra time), you tiptoe back to the bathroom, take a deep breath while silently chanting “two pink lines, two pink lines” and look.
One line. Only one.
Your heart falls to the floor and shatters into a million pieces. You’ve been here before, multiple times, in fact, so you should be used to this feeling. But you’re not. And you probably never will be.
You tell yourself, well maybe it’s too soon. I’m not actually supposed to get my period yet, so that must be it. You can imagine that your boobs feel a bit bigger and sore, and your uterus is a bit crampy, so the wings of hope flutter inside your chest until you quickly remind yourself that while those could be symptoms of a tiny life within you, they are the same symptoms of the familiar, unmistakable, crimson sign that your womb will remain empty for at least another month.
You long to feel the nausea that so many women complain about. Your heart aches thinking about how it would be so amazing to be able to complain about horrible nights of uncomfortable sleep, or getting kicked in the ribs, or having to pee every 15 seconds.
You know this can’t be how your journey ends, yet it feels pretty damn final in this moment. You want to cry and scream. You try to rationalize, but none of the reasons live up to their promise of making you feeling better. Your heart and head are just as confused as it seems your body is right now.
You see what seem like hundreds of people getting pregnant and announcing their anticipated “present” from Santa, or their patch growing a “pumpkin,” or the Easter Bunny bringing something other than eggs. You simultaneously feel happy and angry. You are thrilled for them, you really are. But there are still the feelings of:
What the fuck?
Why can’t that be me?
What’s wrong with me?
And just when you think you may have accepted the way things are right now, someone says something like “just stop trying, because that’s when it’ll happen” or “have you tried eating lots of avocados? That totally worked for my (insert friend/family member here)!” or “God has a plan” or any other well-intentioned, yet completely thoughtless, and insensitive remark.
You pull yourself out of your thoughts, wipe your eyes, and try to internally seal up the gaping hole in your heart. You take one more look at the evil plastic thing on the sink counter (again, just in case it needed more time), and resign yourself to the fact that no matter how much you stare at it, turn it, and hold it up to the light, there is still going to only be one line.
You throw it away, take a deep breath, and get ready to face the inevitability of needing feminine hygiene products for the next week.
You know you need time to mourn, to cry, to be angry, but you know it can’t be over and you don’t have any time to lose. You gear up for another round of emotions that are broken up into two-week intervals…