Chapter Four: Reconciling
There’s this thing that the desperate woman does when she suspects that she may or may not be pregnant. She sees signs and symptoms in every single teeny tiny bodily detail. She wakes in the morning five days after having Done the Deed (you all know to which Deed I refer) and thinks, whew. I’m feeling a little pukey there. She sits at a table with four of her friends for lunch and thinks, geez. Nothing’s appealing. My sense of taste is off a little. At two-thirty p.m. she decides that she is zonked and she must…she simply must lie down for a snooze. Her breasts are definitely painfully tender by eight days post Deed. And the bloat…glory hallelujah, you could float a cruise ship in the liquid floating around in that tummy. She’s even had a close friend ask if she was…you know. PG. Of course, she was wearing a tent dress at the time. In anticipation, you know.
So it is with supreme disappointment that she reads a negative sign on a pee stick six days before the date of her missed period. She being me, of course, in case you hadn’t figured that one out. I remember staring at it dumbly, re-calculating dates and numbers in my head. “But if I ovulated on this date…and I think I did, even though this brand of OPT said no in the morning and the other brand said yes at night…” Ummm…yeah. I used two different brands, and checked morning and night. That’s how desperate determined nice I was. I’ll explain that in a minute.
I whipped out the Ipod to check my calendar. Yup. According to the calendar, we did the Deed on Thursday. A Friday night OPT indicated ovulation was anticipated for the Saturday night through Sunday morning window. An egg is viable for twelve hours once released, which would make any sex on Thursday a conception contender, as well as Saturday night through Sunday evening-ish. Since I am very honest with my husband and told him of my impending ovulation (that’s what I meant about being nice—I made sure he knew the chance of pregnancy and left that choice totally up to him. There was no seduction. Okay, well, maybe just a little.) there were no Deeds after Thursday and that was therefore the only conception contender in the running.
Did all of that make sense? I could just say SEX. We had SEX. On Thursday, but not on any other day.
“Maybe…it’s just too early.” I swallowed my disappointment and resolved to wait a couple more days. After all, the tests were much more accurate only four days before your missed period. Yeah. I’d wait until then.
A couple days later, though, there was another negative line. This time I cried.
Still in denial, I decided to go to my doctor for an “official” test. I made the appointment, making up some totally lame excuse about wanting to play contact volleyball the next night (I mean, really—what, exactly, is contact volleyball?), and had the test done. A sympathetic smile later, I was given the results. “Are you okay? Were you trying?”
“Nope.” I said with the bright smile I’d practiced for five minutes in the rear view. “Not trying. Just afraid of an accident. I had an old box of OPTs, you see, and I didn’t realize they weren’t working until on a hunch I tried one at night and it came up positive, where the old one I’d taken in the morning had been negative. I was, like, whoops! But no whoops after all! All cool! Totally cool!” I backed myself out of the office before I broke completely down. I even managed to make it home.
And then I broke.
I had really thought, after reading that parable and seeing all of those white Escalades, that I would be immediately gifted with a pregnancy. As in the very next month. That single line on the test was a bitter revelation that it just wasn’t my time yet. It accused me with the knowledge. “Crazytown! What did you think, that you’d get pregnant immediately? Moron!”
By all things scientific, you see, I should’ve been pregnant. When I was twenty-five, I probably would’ve been pregnant. It’s a difficult thing, trying to reconcile science with reality, accompanying both with emotion and the understanding that, since you believe in a Creator God, that when you get right down to brass tacks, science doesn’t have squat on what God wills for each individual one of us.
I would just have to be patient.