Wednesday, I carted around my double-lined pee stick, proudly showing it to M every now and then. It went from the bathroom to my bedroom to the livingroom, serving as the tangible proof I so desperately needed. I even took pictures. (That’s what I do.)
Thursday, I was just plain excited! I no longer needed that piece of plastic to remind me what my mind keeps repeating like a mantra: “I’m pregnant!” I started looking at calendars and counting weeks and planning things around those weeks. (That’s also what I do.)
Today, Friday, I’m struggling. Worrying about every little thing, including the brown spotting I had this morning (just a little and just once, but still!). I’m suddenly wondering where my pee stick ran off to. I'm wondering if my husband threw it away, you know, now that it’s documented in photographic history. And, you know, because it has my aging urine on it (even though it’s capped). Suddenly, I need that pee stick the way a child needs a blankie!
Today, I keep reminding myself that I’m not half pregnant, that false positives don’t just happen, and that if I was pregnant Wednesday, I’m still pregnant today and I will still be pregnant tomorrow. I keep thinking “maybe L was right. Maybe taking a hpt this early was not such a good idea!” Because maybe my body hasn’t fully signed on to do this for the next 9 months. . . . maybe it’s having second thoughts!
Today, I’m checking to see if my “symptoms” have plateaued – or worse, disappeared. (They haven’t, but I still worry!) I keep trying to convince myself that it’s ludicrous to worry about having a positive test on Wednesday and being suddenly un-pregnant come AF Sunday. Except . . .
It’s happened before. One day I was pregnant, the next I wasn’t.
And even though it might be a little crazy thinking that what’s so obviously “did” can be undone, especially in light of the glaring difference this time of not having that awful spotting, I still worry. Because it can!
So, call me crazy. I would. Especially since I’m running to the bathroom every hour to check my underwear, panicked by the sight of browns of any shade, and I’m scrutinizing toilet paper like I’m reading tea leaves or divining runes or something.
I keep telling myself, defiantly so, that I will not have a fearful heart! And as I say it out loud, I look out the window and imagine myself actually getting to 8 or 12 weeks – passing that critical things-go-belly-up stage – and actually hearing a heartbeat. . . . And I pray my mid-day daydream becomes a sweet reality.
~Nichole
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