Today we had a negative pregnancy test.
It was our fourth month of trying, this time round.
It was maybe my eight millionth negative test. Eight or nine.
I was about to write “there is nothing worse than a negative test”, but the truth is that ALL of trying to get pregnant post recurrent miscarriage is rubbish. All of it.
There is something very specially rubbish about negative tests though.
This morning I made my partner go and check the result. I stayed, lying in bed, as he padded off to the bathroom. In that moment it was as though time crystallised; the awareness of two possible futures, either one as likely as the other. Which way would our day go? Our week? Our month, year, life?
He took his time. The bugger. Apparently there was a shadow cast by the top of the test. It was a bit confusing. It warranted some examination. A silence. Before padding back to the bedroom.
Happy face or sad face? Happy face or sad face? What would I see?
“It’s a no.”
Every time I have this delayed reaction. For about half an hour I am rational, logical, practical.
Then I cry.
Then I get angry.
Then I go on the internet and look up Other Items I Can Take To Help.
This time I unearthed green tea, grapefruit juice, raspberry leaf tea and lots of water. That will help cervical mucus. Because obviously that’s what went wrong this month.
Like last month the problem was that my partner’s pants were too tight.
YES IT HAS COME TO THIS.
I know it’s all about the illusion of control. Or, not even control, but the sense of myself as someone who can make an impact on things, who has some agency.
Every month that I get a negative I am allowed a Nice Thing; this is my deal with myself. Preferably the kind of Nice Thing I would not be able to have had I got a positive. Since I have now not been drinking for 18 months, this sadly does not involve marvellous cocktails. But it does involve pretty dresses. So I have ordered myself a pretty dress.
(I would rather have a baby.)