A possible uh-oh, an almost oops, a potential accident.
Anyone of child-bearing age can probably relate to this. A spontaneous moment that makes you start counting days and wondering if you just changed the course of destiny for yourself. I am 45 years old – far too old, in my life, to be having babies. Well beyond the days of diapers and strollers and pack-n-plays and God knows what other devices they have invented in the near decade since I had my last (and final) child.
I patiently held out the requisite amount of time, waiting for evidence that no such miracle defying my advanced age, broken down eggs and single fallopian tube had actually transpired.
And I waited.
And I waited.
My bestie encouraged me from the first possible moment to take a test and end the mystery. I resisted. My husband laughed and refused to even consider such a crazy notion. But, I know my body. Things were not going down the way they were supposed to. Granted, I am a woman of a certain age (45 – yeah, I gave up the ghost on that one already) and am approaching menopause so all kinds of crazy things go on. Frankly, my body is not my own. Right now it feels like it is inhabited by aliens half the time. Someone else is controlling my inner thermostat, cranking it up at very inopportune times (client meetings, store dressing rooms, airplanes) and leaving me shivering with coats and blankets to warm me in July.
For more than 2 weeks I contemplated the potential outcome of my poor decision-making (well, actually it was my husband’s doing but whatevs). I considered all of my options and mapped out strategies. I made jokes to my business partners. I noticed every upset tummy, every ache, all of my exhaustion. I tracked every unusual pattern with my body trying to stitch together a clear answer to my predicament.
But I refused to take a test.
Nowadays, you can take pregnancy tests just about five minutes after you have conceived and you will get a pretty accurate response. I know this. I am an educated consumer. I see that all of the angst I suffered through with my pregnancies, dying to know at the first possible moment if I had achieved success, would have been far easier in the new era of technology that practically has the stick talking to you. However, unlike my younger days when I was desperate to know, this time I really didn’t want to. This time, despite my absolute certainty that I did not want – nor could ever possibly imagine – another child, I was not ready to know my fate. I was not prepared to put a period at the end of the sentence that so comfortably held a question mark. I was not ready to resign my fate as that of a middle-aged woman whose life no longer really held such miraculous surprises.
And yet, I was nervous. I was anxious. I was also a teeny-weeny bit expectant. (Not in that way though.)
I finally broke down today. My bestie laid out his case to me. The suspense was killing him and he needed to know if plane arrangements were necessary to console me as I worked through some tough decisions. After all, just last week I had been out drinking tequila and wine and all sorts of fetus-screwing-up intoxicants. What would be the fate of this unexpected and truly unwanted baby after I had imbibed a few too many cocktails? In my earlier attempts at getting pregnant, I was pristine. I took prenatal vitamins while I was trying. No alcohol passed my lips for months before and afterwards. I was not one of those women who had a drunken date night only to forget to use protection and, yay, nine months later our perfect child entered into the world. I had to work hard for my babies. I had all kinds of intervention. I had blocked tubes, irregular cycles. I used drugs and needles (the good kind). I tracked and monitored and knew, from the first possible moment, when my beautiful, precious little lives were blossoming within my womb. There were no surprises, no unexpected expectations. There were plans, calculations and wonderful anticipations. We were blessed but never surprised.
I finally took the test. At the drugstore I felt something like a teenage boy buying condoms. I was certain the clerk at the store was looking at me funny and I nearly offered up “It’s for my daughter.” But that would have been a lie. On my way home I considered my possible outcomes. Not a whole lot to consider, of course.
Either I am or I am not.
Neither seemed like a very good option. Neither comforted me. Neither gave me a sense of relief. Both made me really uncomfortable.
I went home, did the test. You know how it goes.
Hmmmm. Not feeling awash with gratitude. Not feeling like I dodged a bullet. Not feeling much of anything, in fact.
Was I looking for a plus sign? Did I secretly hope for two matching lines instead of one facing the wrong direction? What was going on?
I made the decision not to tell my husband until I knew my fate. I didn’t want to screw up what was already a pretty crappy day for him. I did not want to give him anything else to stress over unless we really had something to stress over. My ever-faithful bestie was my confidante for this ride. I immediately texted him to let him know that there was no bun in the oven. There would be no baby bump as I laid on the beach in Florida in a few weeks. There would be no shopping trips for maternity clothes or baby gear. There would be no discussions with my doctor to consider my options. There were no options. My fate was sealed. The decision was made.
He hoorayed and hurrahed and cheered and did virtual high fives. I sat pensively at my desk and wondered why I still felt anxious. I should feel relieved. I dodged a bullet. I escaped an impossible situation. I narrowly avoided a massive accident.
I guess it was the finality of it. The knowledge that what could have been – albeit in some other reality – wasn’t. It was the option that never existed. It was the decision I never had. It was the expectation I never expected. It was the anticipation that would not be anticipated. There would be no baby. Hooray! Hooray.
That ship has sailed into the sunset.