I took another pregnancy test last night. As I watched the urine move across the window, my heart quickened when the positive line darkened momentarily before fading back to white. I stared at it for the full three minutes, not letting my focus shift away, savoring every second.
“This is it,” I thought. “After tomorrow morning, I won’t be able to POAS again. If I’m ever late or feeling sick, I will know that it’s not pregnancy and that there’s something wrong with me instead. I will never be able to think that I’m pregnant ever again. This is the last time I can ever expect the line to show up.”
After ten minutes, I wrapped it up and put it away. I waited for the adrenaline to wear off and, when I was finally calm again, I took it out, looked at it, sighed, and threw it away.
It’s silly, I know. I think I just wanted to have that flare of hope and “what if” one more time before getting official word from the lab.
Now the results are in and it’s all over:
zero (HAHAHA*SIGH*). R’s vasectomy back in 2009 was a success and we cannot get pregnant without medical intervention.
I was expecting more of a reaction than this. When it comes to reproduction, my responses tend to be intense. From a girl who spend her tween through early adult years determined not to cry in front of anyone, it is now most likely to find me in tears when facing an intense emotion. Weddings, baptisms, births, deaths, BFPs, BFNs… It may not seem like a big deal to anyone else, but my proclivity toward weeping is an almost unbelievable change.
But there are no tears right now; just resignation and acceptance. After 30 months of uncertainty, 30 months of intimacy, 30 months of “what if”… Now it’s done and we know and it will be one less thing to wonder about.
R is thrilled and I’m just quiet.
Maybe it will hit me tomorrow. Right now, I just feel like my reproductive story is over.
Guess I shouldn’t have purchased the three-pack…