I woke up on Test Day like a kid on Christmas morning – that is, a kid who doesn’t want Santa to visit, but hopes they still manage to get everything on their list. I imitated self control by going to the kitchen instead of running to the bathroom when I woke up…no such luck avoiding the topic: my husband was literally making buns in the oven. I didn’t have any, mostly because he used old almond milk in the batter, but partially out of principle as well – we didn’t even know if my oven was bunless or not! So insensitive. After a week of pregnancy dreams and telling myself I’m not symptom spotting (but really, why else would I be so emotional and irritable?!) test day was finally here. And I couldn’t ignore it anymore because the reality was, I really had to pee.
You ladies know the drill: open the test, drop the pants, count to five, set a timer and pretend that you’re not going to look at the test until it goes off.
Well: my timer went off.
Bone white. Stark white. White-out white. It was white. Like any sensible woman I rotated the test around in the light and squinted to try to make one line split into two, but it wouldn’t turn positive for me. My husband, the eternal optimist, managed to say, “There’s still a chance!” after his face fell at the news. He makes optimism look so easy. I, at least, managed to not cry until we went to the Burger Festival (a sentence I never quite expected to say). I couldn’t blink without seeing a baby or a woman with an adorable bump, and eventually found myself standing off to the side silently crying behind my sunglasses (like an adult) as the band played a crappy version of “Hallelujah”. All I could see was the image of the one-lined test flashing in my head.
But then – the days passed and…nothing happened. Hope crept in slowly and cautiously and invaded my mind when I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t say a word to my husband because, you know, jinxing. I fell into the trap of thinking about when would I test again, would I announce to him right before work, how am I going to avoid drinking at that Bachelorette party?! I broke my own rules and continuously searched “negative test at 11 DPO, positive days later” and ignored everything that says you should be able to see a positive on a First Response by that time. I chugged camomile tea and thought wistfully of Xanax while trying to pretend this wasn’t a huge deal (as a part of my mind kept whispering but the negative test…). Turns out, it was all a cruel joke where my body simply wanted to remind me who was in charge.
When I found out for the second time in one week that I wasn’t pregnant, I greeted my husband with a friendly, “You know what sucks?” I stood in the doorway and told him all about my “one day late” emotions while he insisted that he had to go to the bathroom, as if there was anything more important than discussing my cycle at 7:30 in the morning. The conversation was over, we had already been defeated. I’ve tried to convince myself that the only thing holding me together was that negative test, that it was a good thing. If I hadn’t tested, I would’ve been ecstatic at the thought of being late, only to be crushed the very next morning. But if testing early was such a good thing, then why am I still radiating disappointment?