Waiting in Line for Two

I woke up for the fourth time this week, almost as if there’s an emergency. But no… just a full bladder. I still think to myself how this can possibly yield the best result, when I know I downed my body’s weight in water yesterday since it’s the thick of August Oklahoma summer. Maybe the result will be diluted and can give me a sliver of hope that it could be too early still or too bad a sample. Then, I can take another test later in the day, just in case. 

I somehow have to hype myself up and psych myself out at the same time.

It’s about the time I normally wake, but instead of taking it slow, I repeat my quiet jolt out of bed like I have most of the week to sneak to the restroom, because I don’t want my husband to hear me and see me. If somehow the result is what I’ve hoped for, I want to plan a way to tell him, not have him just notice it, half awake, as he starts his day.

This was easier yesterday, because he went to work extra early before I even woke up. I could test and retest more freely that way.

My ritual continues as I take my purple silicone cup, catch what I can, then take another cheap strip to dip into it. Then, for five long minutes, I grab my phone to disassociate a little with some doomscrolling.

Great… this doomscrolling might be stressing me out more than it should. Here I go, ruining any chance at pregnancy for stressing too much, even though for now, this test will be what it is, no matter how stressed I feel.

A video passes by my eyes that I can tell within seconds is a couple finding out they’re pregnant. I skip it, but I know how it’ll go. I’ve seen them countless times from countless couples. She’s in the restroom, it’s been a year, or maybe several years, of trying. She’s whispering since she, like me, wants to keep some mystery with her husband in the other room. 

About halfway through these videos, either she by herself holds her breath and covers her mouth in disbelief as a second line appears, or the sleepy husband walks in and gives his wife a hug as they whisper things like “I’m so nervous” and “I don’t want to get my hopes up again.” Same…

By the end of the video, they’re crying, laughing, and celebrating. Don’t get me wrong, I eat those videos up. But right now, I had to skip it.

I try not to peek. It’s only been three or so minutes. 

Who am I kidding? I won’t be surprised. It’ll be the same as it’s ever been.

I thought I heard my husband stir, and I instinctually hid my test behind the jar that holds our toothbrushes.

My peripherals caught just one line still, but I need to wait just a minute longer. It is still early, and if it’ll be positive, it could still be very light.

If it’s negative, I guess I should try to wait longer than one day to test again. 

I look again.

One line.

Of course.

I stare at it long enough that I start to wonder if there is a second line hiding somewhere in the white space, waiting for me to notice it from the right angle. I squint, I move to the window with the sun starting to shine through…anything to seek even a shadow.

I set it down on the counter and wash my hands, even though there is nothing to wash away. I know this test doesn't mean everything. I know it is still early. I know all the things the internet has taught me to know about early testing, implantation, diluted urine, late ovulation and testing again in forty-eight hours.

I know too much.

And somehow, I still don't know anything.

I glance at the clock.

My husband will be up soon. Maybe he is already, and because I’m in here, he’s scrolling to past time until I come back in. He knows what I’m doing. I try to keep sneaking and hiding, but he knows. He’s been hyper-aware of my cycles as much as I have been.

I pick up the test one more time before throwing it in the trash.

Then I don't throw it away.

I put it back on the counter.

Just in case.

That thought makes me laugh quietly. I actually roll my eyes at myself. I feel so stupid.

Just in case of what? A second line appearing because I left the room? A miracle that needs privacy? I throw it in the trash, face down. I can’t even look at it. I don’t want him to either.

I turn off the bathroom light and walk back toward the bedroom.

Our dog has somehow migrated into the middle of the bed, stretched across the spot between us as if he pays the mortgage. My husband is still asleep, to my surprise, one arm thrown over his head, breathing deeply.

I stand there for a moment and watch them.

There is something comforting about how ordinary they look.

Nothing about this room knows that I've spent the last year tracking ovulation, counting cycle days, taking medications, buying boxes of test strips, and trying to understand a body that refuses to follow a schedule. Well, my journal over there does.

I climb back into bed and carefully squeeze myself into the space left between them. The dog sighs without opening his eyes and presses his back against my stomach.

This is enough.

For a few seconds, I let myself believe it. Then another thought comes.

But is it enough for us?

That's the question I don't know how to answer.

For months, there has always been a next step. Another cycle. Another prescription. Another appointment.

Another box of tests. Another reason to believe that if I just did the right thing at the right time, my body might finally cooperate.

Now I am almost out of places to go without making a decision.

We could call the specialist.

We could take a break.

We could try on our own.

We could do nothing for a while and pretend we're not counting the days.

I don't know which one sounds like peace and which one sounds like giving up.

Maybe they are not as different as I think.

My husband stirs beside me.

"Morning," he mumbles.

"Morning, love." I say back.

His eyes barely open before he reaches for me, his hand finding my arm under the blanket.

For one second, I almost tell him. I almost say, I tested again.

Instead, I turn toward him.

"Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah. Just glad to get more than five hours.”

I smile.

"Good. I love you.”

He then shoots up to use the restroom himself. “I love you too,” he says back.

He may notice it in the trash…

Outside, the Oklahoma morning is already brightening, promising another August day hot enough to fuel my seasonal aggression. I think about getting up.

I close my eyes briefly, wishing to fall back asleep, dream, escape reality for another hour.

Before I fall completely asleep, still deciding if I even should, he comes back in, leans over the bed, and kisses my cheek. Almost as if he knew my mental state and like my pregnancy test was yelling at him “look at me!” from the trash bin, he said to me “I’m thankful for you. I love you more today than I ever did.”