Last night, I drove to Walgreens at 9pm to purchase a pregnancy test.
A pregnancy test which was, of course, negative.
And I was disappointed.
Even though I knew that logically, there was no reason to believe I was pregnant.
When everything failed with this last cycle, I began taking the pill again right away. It didn’t work to combat my endo before, but knowing I wasn’t willing to go on Lupron again just yet; it was the best I could do. Something to hopefully regulate my hormones, and alongside the more natural treatments I’ve been embracing; keep the endo from going on the attack again before I could decide what to do next. Let me tell you though; when you want nothing more in the world than to be pregnant, it is awfully ironic to be popping a birth control pill every night.
Ironic, and annoying.
I didn’t give you all many details on my drunken night with the ex, but I’m sure some of you were able to read between the lines (I mean, hello - my ex boyfriend spent the night at my house when I was admittedly very intoxicated only a few weeks after my failed cycle: what did you really think happened?!?) There was sex in the Champaign room.
(Dad – if you didn’t realize it already, this is not a dad friendly post – get out now while you still can!)
It was… an interesting night. You all know I was drunk, but for the most part (in the beginning) he was sober. We had spared a bit verbally throughout the evening, but no real flirtation… I was doing a pretty good job of keeping my distance actually.
But then, I was drunk. Like really drunk. When I realized that I had no business being in the bar where we wound up (seriously – who let me in there?!?) I walked right up to him, asked if he was going to go home with me, and then left when he said “no” (keep in mind here – he was more or less sober, and I was a sloppy drunk. Not one of my finer moments. Especially when you consider the fact that this was the only time in the two years I've known him that he has ever seen me drunk - and I was a mess.) My intention from there was to walk home, and go to bed; but his sister picked me up before I got too far (because in reality, we’re talking about a 2 mile walk there!) On the way to my house, I told her to just drop me off at his place; that it was OK and he wanted me there (I'm a classy drunk). She thankfully called him, and listened when he told her to take me to my place, not his.
Can you imagine?!? He shows up at home and I'm drunk and passed out in his bed? Not a pretty picture...
I only bring it up to highlight the fact that he turned me down. Twice. Around everyone we both know.
Too drunk to even be bitter, I struggled with my keys and entered my house – only to plop onto my bed and pass promptly out. At 11pm at night.
At 3 in the morning, I was awoken by a phone call (I should point out, it was his 4th call - I slept through the first 3 and a text message). According to my phone, we talked for 20 minutes (and I couldn’t even begin to recount the details of that conversation if my life depended on it), and then he came over. He was fully clothed, I was naked (hey – it’s how I sleep!) He wrapped his arms around me and we talked about everything going on for a little while before we both passed out.
That was it. Seriously. We were both in such a stupor by that point that it wasn’t even funny. The only part of the conversation I even really remember was him telling me that there was a part of him that would always love me, and that he didn't like to see me hurt - that he wanted to be able to comfort me. But that was really it. We didn’t even kiss. Just cuddled… and woke up about 6 hours later in the exact same position we had fallen asleep in.
Which was… awkward. Keep in mind; I was naked, and he was fully clothed – right down to his jeans and socks. We didn’t really talk. Words weren’t said. We just… kind of went there. It’s hard to explain. It was almost like neither one of us really knew what else to do; like we had sex solely because we felt as though we were supposed to. I’ll admit; it had been almost a year for me, and I wanted to. I was hurting and I wanted to feel something. I didn’t really care about anything else. I just wanted to feel... anything besides what I was already feeling.
Unfortunately (as any level headed woman already knows); sex didn’t really solve anything. When it was over, I called his sister to take me to get my car and he left before she got there. That was it. I haven’t heard from him since and I haven’t attempted to contact him either. It shouldn’t have happened. We were already done. We’d been done for a while. I have no bitterness or hurt feelings about the situation at all… it was just one of those things that happened that probably shouldn’t have.
But even then, I had myself thinking “what if?” What if I just so happened to be still adjusting from the hormones and ovulated? What if some miracle occurred and I actually got pregnant? What if, after putting everything I had into getting pregnant and failing, this mistake was able to get the job done?
Forget the fact that like I said; I was taking the pill already. Or that, because of the damage to my ovaries and one remaining tube, I’ve been told that there is less than a 5% chance of my ever getting pregnant naturally. Forget that I knew better; there was still a part of me that was left thinking “what if?”
Because let's be real; it's not like I whore myself around regularly. It had been a long time since I had sex. I've never tried naturally at all. I was told it was IVF or nothing, so I went straight to IVF.
Never once in my life have I had sex with the intention (or hope) of getting pregnant.
And suddenly I was left thinking: What if?
I of course pushed that thought promptly away. It was silly to think like that. Silly to put myself through that. Just… silly.
It’s been a month since then, and I honestly hadn’t thought much more about it. I pushed those crazy thoughts away and I’ve been focused on putting the pieces of my life back together and gearing up for this next round.
The possibility of being pregnant hasn’t even been a consideration.
Until last night. When I started bleeding. Randomly, and out of nowhere (let’s not forget – I’m on the pill now. Random bleeding is uncalled for.) That’s never really happened to me before. I mean, I’ve spotted on the pill, but I’ve never just outright started my period when it wasn’t time.
So, I convinced myself that that’s not what this was. I convinced myself that I was pregnant. That I was bleeding because taking the pill was bad for the baby. That I needed to confirm this right away, and then get to the hospital so that they could save my baby.
I so wish I was joking there.
I had this whole scenario built up in my head; this fairy tale where I was pregnant and the doctors would be able to save the pregnancy and I would actually get the baby I've been dreaming of. I wasn't even concerned at all about what the ex's reaction would be. We had talked at one point about his being my donor anyway. He knew how much I wanted this. He wouldn't be mad or upset. Whatever does or does not exist between us, he would never begrudge me this. Plus, he knows me well enough to know that I would never be the girl banging down his door for child support. I would be the mommy and he would... figure out his role. It wouldn't really matter what he decided. Either way, I would be the mommy.
I didn’t have any more pregnancy tests in the house. I had thrown them all out in a rage after my blood test confirmed that the IVF hadn’t taken. I didn’t want to see them anymore. I didn’t want reminders.
So, I had tossed them.
Therefore, I was left to drive to Walgreens at 9 o’clock on a Saturday night. In sweats and reeking of garlic (I made myself a good dinner – one that you would never ever want to eat on a date), without a lick of makeup or hair product.
Classy class.
I walked straight to the pregnancy tests (I know my way around by now), and picked up a 3 pack (why I needed a 3 pack, I do not know). Then I went to the counter to pay, where a kid in his early 20’s with long hair was rocking out to some punk band.
He took one look at my purchase and said “Good news, or bad news?” I have never had a clerk question my pee sticks before, and I was slightly taken aback (I mean – who was this kid?!?), but I beamed (yes, I beamed) and said “Hopefully good.”
“Right on!” he said. And I replied “Yeah… it’s been a long time coming.” To which he said, “It’s tough, isn’t it?” And suddenly I was looking at this kid differently. Did he understand? Did he actually have a wife he had been trying and failing with? Or maybe a sister who had helped him to get the plight of an infertile woman? How was it even possible that he was being compassionate right now? This punk rock kid manning the Walgreens checkout stand on a quiet Saturday night as his music played from a tiny little radio next to the register.
What are the chances that he actually empathized?
As I was leaving he shouted out “Good luck!”, and I thought… maybe he does get it.
I rushed home, by this point letting myself hope and believe. Allowing myself to buy into this crazy story that I had concocted. Falling into the fairy tale that there could be a baby in my belly. That, after trying so hard and failing; it could actually be that easy.
You already know the rest of the story. The test was of course negative, and I am of course not pregnant. The fact that I even let myself believe it is almost baffling to me. I still have no idea why I started my period. I haven’t missed a pill, and it really doesn’t make sense. But, that’s all the bleeding was. Just Aunt Flo, making her appearance.
I’m here to tell you though: It’s a good thing I started seeing a therapist this week, because if I hadn’t I would be telling you that someone should probably be seeking help for me.
I’m going to brush this one off as a bout of momentary insanity, but if I’m peeing on a stick again next month?
Someone please have me committed.
ADSPACE
