October 2, 2015

For the next two weeks, you wait. You wait and think of nothing else 24/7 except if you are pregnant.  It’s everything you’ve ever chewed your nails down to the quick about combined. It’s every call you’ve willed from your phone , every email you’ve obsessed about dropping into your inbox, every package you’ve run to the mail truck to check for. It’s every job you’ve prayed to get, every audition call-back you slept with your fingers crossed about, it’s every World Series, Game 7, bottom of the ninth, down by three with the bases loaded and a full count.

You hope: This works for lots of people, it can happen for us. You hallucinate symptoms. I think my boobs are sore! That tuna makes me want to hurl! I’m really tired!

You despair: There are way more failures than successes, there’s no way this is going to work. You fully understand that even if you’re not hallucinating symptoms, they could just as easily be explained by all the drugs and hormones you’re on rather than being pregnant.

You hope again.

You wonder: You would kill ten people you claim to love just to know. But you only want to know if it’s good news. You don’t even want to think about going back to the blackness and going through it all over again if it’s bad.

You marvel that the rest of the world goes on like it’s nothing, and fume that you’re expected to too. You cannot believe how irritable it is possible to be.

You take your progesterone shots every morning and night, alternating hips, sitting on a hot pack when the bruises and knots get bad.

And you cope: The best you can, any way you can, one hour at a time, one day at a time, because there is nothing else to do. The only way out is through, the only way you’ll know is in two weeks with a pregnancy test, which you both live for and dread.

You hope.