So, this is the post. That post. The post I’ve thought about since I started the blog; the post I’ve been terrified to write since 7:06am yesterday morning.
It’s the post where I tell you I’m pregnant. Or at least a little pregnant. Definitely closer to pregnant than not.
Back in June, on our 7th wedding anniversary, I typed out a few lines on my iPad while hiding the tears and shielding the screen from the colleagues I was spending the day with at a mandatory work retreat. My first injectable cycle had failed. That post was easy. A few simple and familiar words – I’m not pregnant. Additional complex and familiar emotions – grief, anger, despair. More comforting and familiar responses – emails, flowers, gifts, cards, phone calls, shared tears, and virtual embraces from across the globe.
This post isn’t simple. This post isn’t familiar. This post, more than any other, will fail to convey what I’m thinking and feeling. To be able to convey those messages, I’d have to have a grip on my own emotions in the first place. That’s something I definitely don’t have as I mentally flit like a humming bird from exhaustion to ecstasy and worry to wonderment.
I’m thrilled. I can’t stop my mind from the inevitable. I’ve calculated my due date (1 day shy of our 8th wedding anniversary), I’ve started looking up reviews of perinatologists and OB/GYNs, I’ve held the Mr.’s hand as I’ve said the words, “I’m pregnant.”
I’m cautious. Having experienced this moment before – October 2011, May 2012, January 2013 – I know how quickly joy can turn to sorrow. I know how it feels to walk into a maternity ward to terminate an ectopic pregnancy, I know the extreme grief even the briefest of chemical pregnancies can elicit, and I know that a heartbeat and multiple consecutive strong ultrasounds offer no guarantee of a child. Sometimes this caution manifests in a desire to live each and every second to the fullest – how many times can I chant “I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant!” before this pregnancy ends? Other times, it evokes an uncharacteristic superstitious nature – “You know better than to be calculating due dates this early, you fool!”
I’m ashamed. I’m embarrassed to have tested this early when so many others have the tenacity to wait for the official word of the blood test. I’ve been taking home pregnancy tests since the day after my transfer – first to test out the HCG trigger, and then in the hopes of catching a second line returning. I saw the faintest glimmer of a line return yesterday, and it has darkened some today. Yet, at only 5 days past a 5 day transfer we’re still in crazy early testing territory. My official blood test isn’t even until Monday. Yet, when I saw that faint second line yesterday, I couldn’t hold it in. I shared it with my long-time IF friends, with Twitter, with Facebook (though, my under my blog persona, not my real one — I’m not that delusional!)
I’m uprooted. Less than 48 hours since the first flicker of hope entered my heart and I’m already experiencing that familiar identity crisis of the knocked up infertile. Where do I fit now? What is this blog for? Who can I turn to? How do I comport myself? Who am I and what am I doing here? I’ve been pulled out of my old school, the surroundings, teachers, and friends I know are gone, and I’ve not quite matriculated to my new school just yet. What do I write to the friends back home? Sunny optimism – “This place is as great as you always thought it would be. I’m sure you’ll be transferring soon, too!” Injured honesty – “I’m not that sure I like it here. I miss you and I’m terrified. Please let me cry to you.” The minimal brush-off – “Have a great summer!”
I’m bargaining. I’m working down my battle-hardened, experiential checklist. The outcomes for this cycle were negative, miscarriage, or child. Now we’re on to miscarriage or child. One line crossed off. A few more darkening lines, and I’ll tick off the box next to “Not another chemical.” If we’re blessed enough to have a few normally rising betas I’ll likely strike out (in pencil, though, not pen) “Not a second ectopic.” If we make it to a heartbeat I’ll check, “Get at least as far as last time.” And, for any step at which I might falter, I have the memory of the familiar and the knowledge that I’ve survived each one before. Miscarriages I know, lasting pregnancy I don’t.
But, I’m also pregnant.