Gosh, this last weekend was hard.
Luckily it was full of love and laughter enough to distract me most of the time from the aching uncertainies following Friday’s pregnancy test results. Saturday was spent at a dear friend’s hen party where, (whilst trying to believe I wasn’t pregnant to buffer the disappointment Monday would bring), I didn’t jump much during the dance class, just in case, and I didn’t partake in the hot tub, just in case, and I didn’t drink any alcohol, just in case. Nonetheless, it was a wonderful day with brilliant people and a welcome distraction from all things fertility.
Sunday was spent at my parents’ house, where we celebrated the fathers still with us, mourned those who aren’t, and took Nanny and Papa to the park for a run about.
Sunday evening I was determined to have concentrated urine in the morning. So I didn’t drink much, and I had a word with my notorious mouse bladder about what lay ahead. I had decided that I wasn’t going to pee after 11.30pm, with a view to retesting at 6am-ish. That’d give me a good 6.5hrs of concentrated liquid gold to test with, thereby removing any test result ambiguity caused by user error.
But what you now need to understand is that I usually pee 3 or 4 times during that time period. And I’m not talking about little, delicate wee wees. No. I’m talking about race horse size pees that have John exclaiming from the bedroom “HOW ARE YOU STILL PEEING?!
This was going to be a challenge.
I was fully prepared for a sleepless night on account of my tiny mouse bladder screaming at me for most of it. At 11.40pm I savoured my last loo visit, then settled in for the night. I actually slept quite well, and despite Toby waking a couple of times (which my amazing husband John delt with because he is a star of cosmic proportions and also now very tired), I didn’t feel the call of nature until 5 am.
“Shut up mouse bladder. Another hour.”
I did manage to get back to sleep, and at 6.30am I peed in the pot.
“Pregnant”
The little sandtimer icon was still working away…. A few more anxious minutes passed at the rate of a drunk slug…
“2-3 weeks”
WTF?!
I was *not* expecting that.
I spent the next 20 minutes walking around the house, unsure what to think or feel. I can’t believe it’s still there and I’m very reluctant to get excited. At this point last time I was getting the same test result, and by the equivalent of Wednesday this week I was bleeding.
I have called the clinic and am awaiting a call back to discuss what the heck might be going on. But I’m guessing I keep taking the drugs to support the pregnancy and test again in a week. I think we’ll exercise tentative optimism until our first scan at around 7 weeks, if we get that far. If there’s a heartbeat, I shall allow this to be a bit more real.
So in the meantime, you may be excited for us, but please continue to pray and keep a bit of a lid on it. If I start bleeding again, I don’t want it to be a long way to fall. It is very, very early days. I’m very emotional and, as you’d expect, utterly terrified.
Also, very importantly, we are not telling Toby this time, until after that first scan. It broke my heart last time to have to explain that the baby seed was gone and see him try to understand it all. So please respect this when talking around him. He doesn’t understand what “pregnant” means, so you can use that term. But stay away from “baby in your tummy”, “your baby” etc please. When/if we do tell him, we’ll likley call it a “baby seed” that may or may not grow into a baby. But we’ll cross that bridge if we get there.
I wish the clinic would call me back.
Thank God I have a counselling appointment on Wednesday.
#Basketcase.
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