The Train is Leaving the Station

It’s 6 am on a Sunday, and I get up to do the obligatory pregnancy test thinking to myself, the sooner I get the bad news, the sooner I can bury myself in my bed for the day and wallow in the fact that my 7th time trying to get pregnant failed. Failed just like I failed to get my promotion, failed just like every dating relationship I have been in. Failed, failed, failed.

It didn’t work. I know it didn’t. I don’t feel any different; I have none of the symptoms that you read about on-line. Just Google “when did you have your first pregnancy symptoms” and all kinds of posts from annoying women come up saying things like, I knew 5 days after I ovulated. I had a twinge in my uterus, I had inexplicable burps, my breasts were incredibly sore” etc. etc. Here I was 14 days post ovulation and nothing. Nada!

So, I did the pee test. In months past, I would anxiously wait, barely breathing for 4 agonizing minutes. Then when I would get a negative, I would pacify myself by thinking that perhaps it was too early, I hadn’t held my pee long enough for a proper reading, the test was defective, etc. etc. Next came the crying, ignoring the calls from my mother and sister because I couldn’t bear to tell them that, yet again, nothing was going right in my life. Then I would pick myself up, call my reproductive endocrinologists office to hear the sympathetic “I’m sorry. I really thought this might be the month for you!”

I thought of how I would tell my biggest supporters that it hadn’t worked again! For years, (15 to be exact), they hung in there with me while I persistently searched for Mr. Right. On the rare occasion that I met someone promising, they shared in my excitement, then when he turned out to be a dud, they encouraged me, “I know he is out there! You just haven’t met him yet!” Multiply this by approximately 40 blind dates, too many e-mail introductions to even count… 200? 500?, multiple fix-ups by well meaning friends, hopeful conversations with men in bars ending in an exchange of phone numbers only to wait and wait for the call that would never come.

Finally, I had enough. I was seriously done looking, waiting, hoping for Mr. Right. The limbo, the feeling of helplessness was more than I could bear. At 37.5 years of age, I decided to move forward with my dream to become a mom — without a man. Now, a full year later, I sit awaiting another negative pregnancy test. Glancing over at the test, I see what appears to be a pink line. I pick it up for a closer look, “Holy Shit. That is a real line!” I go back to bed and tell myself I won’t be excited until I get another positive. It’s finally time to bust out the expensive “Pregnant” /”Not Pregnant” tests that I have been saving for such an occasion. I wait an hour and pee again. Oh, my god…PREGNANT!

I call my sister and wake her up, “We have a REAL line!” You see, there had been a couple of months where I stared so hard at the pee stick that I convinced myself there was a shadow of a line, where none existed. “It’s REAL, a really REAL line!”

I am now 21 weeks pregnant with a girl who will be named “Emma” after my Granny who I have no doubt helped me from up above to make this miracle happen. I feel happier and more content in my life than I have ever felt. I finally am out of limbo and while it’s terrifying, it’s the most liberating feeling I have ever had. I carry my baby bump with pride and gladly tell anyone who will listen that I am doing this on my own.

The comments that I love the most are from those women who say, “Oh my god, I could NEVER do this without my husband!” I think to myself, I am sure you are right. You couldn’t. But I can, I will and I am! This train is leaving the station and I am in the conductor’s seat! Whoo, Whoo!



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