Two Lines (March)
Excerpt from a longer unpublished piece, The Fallopian Diaries
This time I tested right away, fully a week ago, so we wouldn't go through the rollercoaster I stubbornly ride: maybe I'm pregnant. Maybe my period is late again. Why do I feel nauseous? Because I do every month.
But I didn't feel nauseous at all this time.
This morning, I woke up beside Robert at day 25 of my cycle and said, "This is the earliest I can take a pregnancy test." And he said, "Will it help?" So we went downstairs together so he could hold me when I cried.
The tests I bought were cheap, three for a pound, a week prior, "just in case". Usually you see 99.99% accurate. That .99 was missing from the box. "One in a hundred of these is wrong," I said, meeting his eyes. He shrugged. I smirked. These are the ones I bought, cheap so I might actually use them.
"We're looking for two lines," I explained. "Like a COVID test. Even if it's faint. It's looking for human growth hormone, and if I have any, it means I'm pregnant."
It was our first month trying; he hadn't done one of these before. I'd been trying for two years with frozen sperm before I met Robert, eventually stopping in the spring as the emotional rollercoaster became too intense. Now, almost a year later, we were trying together.
Five minutes passed while we shuffled around in the bathroom, nothing we really needed to do. He had to go to work, but he was waiting, peering every once in a while at the strip. My phone counted down, both of us squinting for a line.
I turned into his arms, and he held me, and it really was a bit better to know, one way or the other, right away.
So I went and celebrated my non-pregnancy: I had a flat white at the local cafe (and then stayed awake all night). I worked out really hard all week and went rock climbing, taking a practical course in setting bouldering routes. Last night, we soaked for a few minutes in the hot tub. I was sore from route setting and he gave me a massage.
"But what if you're pregnant?" He asked while we sat in the hot water.
I rolled my eyes. "I can't live like that. It's really bad for my mental health. This is why we tested, remember?"
This morning, still no period. I've been carrying my menstrual disc everywhere for a week, waiting for the flood to strike: while climbing, swimming, biking around the city. My app tells me my cycle is "regular" but it never feels that way: somehow, my period is always a surprise. But I looked this morning: in several years of measuring, my longest cycle was 28 days. This morning makes 31.
I lay in bed, processing. I'd slept hard, barely woke when he rose and dressed, kissed me goodbye. 31 is too many days. That pregnancy test came in a three-pack. They were cheap. I might as well.
It didn't take five minutes. In less than two, part of the first wash, that second line appeared.
And I'm all alone in the apartment for the rest of the day. I tried to call him, but it went to voice mail. That's okay. In person is better anyway.
Despite blood tests and even a hysterosalpingogram that all showed me as healthy and fertile, it's hard after so much time not to think there's something wrong with me. This was so simple. And yet, my life is changed: I'm much less stressed, happier, more peaceful now.
I read the pregnancy books years ago and I've forgotten them. I don't remember what I'm meant to be eating, which things are more or less okay to do. And I'm not much of a secret keeper. I need to get outside, or I'll tell somebody, when he should be the first to know.
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