Like many teens, I became sexually active while still in high school. Unlike enough teens (unfortunately) I immediately took responsibility of my sexuality; weeks after losing my virginity, I started on the pill (and stayed on it for almost a decade). I made my appointments for Pap smears and STD screenings every 6 months, and I did all that I could to help my friends do the same. I helped a few of my peers make appointments with the clinic and then drove them there; I compiled all the information I could find about safe sex, pregnancy symptoms, and STDs on inconspicuously labeled floppy disks (remember those?) and distributed them to my friends; I took as many condoms from the free clinic as I was allowed and gave them out to anyone who asked; and I even showed a friend the proper way to put on a condom using an empty wine bottle as a prop. I was known among my friends as the go-to girl for information and advice about safe sex. I would help anyone that needed help, and I would do it without judgment.
I always practiced what I preached, but as I got older and entered committed relationships that I thought would last forever (I'm grateful that they did not, and my husband might be too), a little voice inside my head started to complain. She was getting a bit antsy, with all this sex and none of the pregnancy. But she understood that the time was not right, and it would not be fair to me or any child I had to jump the gun. I wanted badly to become a mom, but I did not want to be a teen mom.
College was more difficult. By then the little voice was not quite as impatient, as I was in a long-term relationship that I was pretty sure would end in marriage [Insert silent prayer of thanks here for that relationship's dismal failure], but she was starting to become paranoid. What if something were not right with me? How could I be sure that I was capable of pregnancy? How could I be sure that I would not have a miscarriage someday?
Back then, miscarriage was a bogeyman to me. It was this beast that lurked deep in my mind, and I was sure that if I ever saw its face, I would not survive the encounter. I had the naive privilege back then of believing that miscarriages were these rare anomalies that only happened to women that had something wrong with them. It terrified me.
In my early twenties, that voice once again began to get impatient. I was not a child anymore, I was not a teenager, but the situation was still not right, dammit! My boyfriend was dragging his feet on the marriage thing (praise Zeus!), and as I started to realize that our relationship was a mess that could not be salvaged (which happened around the time that I realized that his drinking habits were like not your typical college binge drinker, but much more insidious), that little voice inside started to despair. Nothing was happening like I always thought that it would. I had waited, patiently, and the time was still not right.
Surprisingly, less than a year after breaking up with the alcoholic, I met an amazing man. He was so amazing that I broke my vow to be single for a while so that we could date. So amazing that we were married less than a year after we met (on a Tuesday!). So amazing that even though he snores and hogs the bed at night, I love him with all my anxious little heart.
Anyway, after I got married, the little voice inside that for years had only whispered and whined started to yell. I wanted to start trying within a year of our wedding. He wanted to start trying significantly later. It was something we fought about regularly - the only thing we really fought about. When we bought a house of our own, that little voice evolved into a full-fledged banshee. We finally came to an agreement; we would start trying after Christmas.
I got pregnant in November, a month before we were supposed to start trying. I can't really call it an accident, as we had gotten lazy with the condoms (but if you can't have spontaneous unprotected sex with your spouse, then who can you do it with?), and I would never call it a mistake. But it was unplanned. And intensely joyful. And entirely too short.
About a month or two after the loss, I encountered a feeling that I had never once imagined possible. I did not want to be pregnant. I was terrified of the very thought. And rather than being a relief, it was devastating. My one faithful desire, the only thing I have ever been sure of in my life...was gone. I was unsure. I didn't know who I was without it.
This might all seem a bit silly. But everyone has their passions, and while there are people who would be quick to dismiss mine because it's "only" motherhood, I can assure you that the passion I have always had for being a mother is just as valid, just as alive and organic, as some people's passion for music. Some people have a talent for dancing, and they need to dance to be happy. I have a talent with children, and all I've ever wanted to do was raise a couple of my own.
Time healed my uncertainty. It may have happened gradually, but it sure didn't feel that way. One moment I didn't know what I wanted; five minutes later, after listening to this song for the millionth time and having yet another good cry, I did. It was an astonishing relief.
And now here I am. For better or for worse, I suppose.
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My chart looks a little different this cycle. I'm on CD8 and today is my highest temp of the cycle so far, and hopefully it just continues upwards. On my other failed cycles, my temperature peaked at CD5 or CD6 and then it was all downhill from there, tanking around CD9 or CD10. It might not mean anything, but then again, it might. It's different. I know what my chart is supposed to look like and this one has just been different, even pre-ov. Hopefully different means good.
I'm waiting until Saturday morning, when I'm on CD12, to test. I have a date with the stick after my daily romantic interlude with my thermometer. And I'm nervous. I hate seeing those stark white negatives. I hate wishing to see something that will not be there. I hate thinking Yes? and being consistently told No.
I hate putting my hand on my stomach and wondering, Are you there? and being told, time and time again, There is no one here with you.
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