This post deals with miscarriage and might be triggering for some readers.
I stare at the tiny window. The same tiny window I’ve been staring at for 18 months. I watch as the liquid slides on through and a pink control line becomes visible.
I know what this test will show me. The same thing it has shown me for the past week that I’ve been testing. The same thing it has shown me for the past nine months. It will tell me one thing. That ONE pink line will tell me I’m an idiot.
That one pink line will mock me as I bend the stick back and forth, up and down begging it to tell me something different. But I know it won’t. I don’t know if the disappointment gets easier or worse.
On one hand, the angel on my shoulder tells me, “just one more test closer to a positive”. And the devil laughs a knowing laugh while stating bluntly, “open up a bottle of wine, there’s no baby coming… ever!”
Watch the trailer for Mamamia’s pregnancy podcast, Get Me Pregnant. Post continues below.
Every month, as I get closer to my period, I become more and more anxious as the likelihood of a positive becomes higher and the lack thereof more definitive.
Bad luck, try again next month.
The last two months I swore I’d give up trying. I’d throw away the ovulation sticks, the pregnancy sticks, delete the app and become an avid wine bottle collector. Maybe grow some plants as they were really the only thing I was capable of keeping alive, apparently. (Actually, that’s not true, I managed to kill my basil pretty quickly).
But one afternoon, as I began to plan my night ahead (red wine and my best friends to comfort me), I leant over and grabbed the stick. It was early so my vision was still adjusting to the harsh light but I swore… wait…. is that… No!
My hand flung to my mouth as a tiny “oh my god” escaped. A second line. I nearly cried, but I didn’t.