Last month Aunt Flo was ten days late. TEN. DAYS. LATE. For most women with a regular 28-day cycle, that’s a sure sign you’re pregnant. Many would have confidently whipped out a pregnancy test. And I did. The first, second, third, and fourth times my cycle deviated from the norm ever so slightly.
But now I’ve got Single Pink Line PTSD. And it’s the real deal.
I’d rather my body betray me, as it does every bloody month with the tell-tale signs of a new cycle than lay eyes on yet another negative pregnancy test.
Crazy, right?
A late period no longer fills me with hope or excitement. It’s far more complex and multi-layered than that. My emotions more closely resemble an unsolved Rubiks cube that I can’t decipher. Whether I choose to unravel them or not, I can tell you I’ve intensely felt all of the damn feels.
Denial, fear, anxiety, sadness, disappointment, and god forbid, hope.
The very idea of peeing on a stick, waiting five unbearably long minutes with my eyes averted the whole time so as not to catch a glimpse of that dreaded pink line too early, honestly gives me heart palpitations.
So, I sat with my Rubiks cube of emotions for ten days. TEN F*%KING DAYS. Twisting and turning around in my head all the reasons why it’s probably not a baby.
My period is just a few days late. Maybe we didn’t do the dance on the right days. Perhaps our let’s just forget about all the infertility stuff and have fun holiday has thrown my cycle all out of whack.
Until I finally gave way and allowed myself a glimmer of hope: ‘this could be our time.’ Maybe we won’t have to do IVF after all.
We don’t keep pregnancy tests in the house for the same reason alcoholics don’t keep booze in the house — it’s a temptation that only leads to disappointment.
With a freshly bought packet of anxiety sticks tucked under my arm, I’d finally psyched myself up for the big reveal. Two lines or one? And as if on cue, Aunt Flo shows up. TEN MOTHER F*%KING DAYS LATE.
I did the test anyway, no longer afraid of what I already knew. This is not our time.
As my husband says, “prepare for the worst, hope for the best.” And gosh, I love him for that.
I’m so sick and tired of people shoving their toxic positivity down my throat. It’s one of the reasons I keep my true feelings so guarded. Safe among the few trusted to give me what I need at any given moment.
No one knows when or if we’ll get our baby. Anything other than a variation of ‘I’m here for you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I love you’ feels like false reassurances rather than empathy for the head f*%kery we find ourselves in.
I’m a realist. And I’m so thankful for the people in my life who listen to why I’m afraid to take that pregnancy test instead of filling my head with false hope.
But I’m also just a woman who’s trying her hardest to protect herself from a heartbreak that’s hard bent on destroying her every damn month. Over and over again.
We are optimistic about the future, and there is a place for genuine, heartfelt positivity. We are so grateful for it. But to persevere, we also need to hold space for the possibility we may not get the future we want when we want it.
It’s OK to think about it. It’s OK to say it. And it’s OK to feel all the damn feels.
Comments