When you’re trying to fall pregnant, waiting for your period is a bit like waiting for a last minute pardon when you’re in the executioner’s chamber, or the sound of the buzzer indicating the end of a boxing match round when you’re up against a mammoth opponent. Will the tampons and panty liners win, or will a positive sign on a pregnancy test declare victory?
For the past year we’ve been trying in earnest to conceive a baby. The timing hasn’t been perfect by a long shot, but I’m not getting any younger and nor is my husband. My life has begun to centre around my monthly ovulation timetable. There’s no romance involved, just serious baby-making business. Given the total focus, when the attempts to fall pregnant fail month on month, it’s hard not to take it personally.
This past week has been particularly taxing though. I confess: I was truly convinced I was pregnant! I knew it was too early to officially tell, yet for the first time since we’ve been trying for a baby, I just had that “feeling” that this time I really was. Throw in several early symptoms of being pregnant (complete exhaustion, some severe mood swings, tender breasts and an absurd food craving), and my hopes were cemented. And so the wait for my period was torturous; a volatile combination of excitement, eagerness, impatience and anxiety.
In a cruel dashing of hopes, I began to spot today. I sat on the loo with tears streaming down my cheeks and lamenting that I am being punished for my past sins. Motherhood has never before been so elusive. At a time when I should be celebrating Christmas with cheer and thanks giving, I am mourning the loss of a child that wasn’t even conceived. How pathetic! The worst is that I can’t even vent my feelings openly (other than writing this blog post).
I therefore apologise for being dark and gloomy in the full knowledge that you’ll understand when I say these words:
“Christmas, bah humbug!”.