I’m trying desperately to pretend that I don’t know I’m 11dpo on my first monitored cycle. I’m trying to pretend that there’s nothing special about this cycle, that it’s just another chance for disappointment, that I know I’m not pg. I’m trying to pretend that I don’t care, that the sticks in the medicine cabinet aren’t singing a siren song to me, that I’m not making the conscious choice each morning NOT to test.
But that isn’t true.
The truth is that I very well know that I could be pg right now. That for this month, between the clomid and the trigger shot, that I have the same 20% chance as a ‘normal’ woman to get pregnant, instead of the 3% chance I have on my own. I know I ovulated. I know our timing was good. I know that there’s nothing wrong with Manly’s sperm. There is actually a chance this month that this might work.
But I also know that “figures lie and liars figure.” I have a minor in statistics; I know the tricks that are used to make those percentages add up. I know that a 20% chance of success is the same thing as an 80% chance of failure. And like most infertiles who end up blogging, I know I’m already starting from the wrong side of the statistics. I’m 26 years old. We started trying when I was 24. The statistics say I should have already gotten pg and had my first child.
I’m caught in a balancing act between hope and reality. I’ve already gone through the scenarios in my head, both good and bad. I’m going to test next week; I’m going to wake up and pee in a dixie cup in my bathroom, my heart pounding loud enough to hear it in my ears. I’m going to dip the stick wait three minutes, checking off each second staring at my watch. And then, then is where it gets tricky. If there’s a second line, I’ll run screaming back into the bedroom to show Manly and spend the rest of the day on cloud nine, spend the next 8 weeks trying to keep my mouth shut around family, and then have the joy of telling my family and girlfriends. That’s what I hope for. But if there’s no line, well, that’s the reality I know all too well. I’ll stare at the test, trying to get better light, willing a line, any line, to show up in the white field. I’ll get in the shower, trying to avoid my husband for a few more minutes to pull my composure together. I’ll let the tears mix in with the water and run down the drain where they won’t hurt me anymore. I’ll have a cigarette that morning driving around campus, and I’ll spend the day with my office door closed so that no one will see me if I start to cry. The wine with dinner won’t make the pain go away; it will just be a reminder that once again, reality came crashing down.
I really, really want to believe that I’m pg right now. I want hope to win, for a change.