Trial Period**

5-26-09

By the end of last week I am convinced that there is no way I’m pregnant. Thursday brought cramps. Friday brought more cramps, but also a bit o’ nausea. I tell myself that my body is imitating pregnancy out of habit. It picked up a few things that it liked during the previous tangles with the knocked up life. Now when I feel hunger pangs, nausea will be their annoying sidekick. At least that’s my theory. Thanks again, body.

By Saturday I’m not so sure. My calendar is marked with one To-do: Period? Since MC #1, I’ve grown all too fond of the question mark. Instead of “End of first trimester” during the reign of Dewey, I added the question mark as insurance. Ditto for the due date. So what have we—we being my body and mind even though I know they are connected because I do yoga and shit-- learned? Nausea and question marks. Miscarriage really is the gift that keeps on giving.

The nausea persists on Saturday. I have a massage appointment with my hopeful-doula-to-be, Kelley. At my last appointment I regaled her with my suspicions.

“I mean I got a negative on my pregnancy test, but I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant,” I said.

She clapped her hands with excitement. “That’s so great.”

This time I return chastened. No special feelings or spidey senses tingling although you can set your calendar by my period. 26 days, baby. And I’m usually woken up by it. My 5:00 scrambles for Advil are legendary in the Crud household. Not today.

I tell Kelley my symptoms.

“Those could mean you’re pregnant or getting your period,” she says.

“Yeah, pretty smart system.”

(Later that day Mr. Crud chimes in with his favorite “Now that’s intelligent design for you!” when I tell him that pregnancy and period symptoms are identical.)

Kelley massages away the thoughts bumping around in my brain and for a blessed 60 minutes I feel relaxed. The cramps stop. I float away not caring one way or the other.

For dinner Mr. Crud calls for fancy tacos, which means Por Que No?!? I heed the call. And order a sangria. I told Kelley that one of the reasons I was holding off on the pee test was my desire to have a few drinks tonight. “That’s totally fine. Especially if it calms you down.” She’s a midwife-in-training so I order my sangria guilt-free.

“Could be the last one,” I say to Mr. Crud.

Instead of going to the party at a friend’s house or the Lady Sov show at the Doug Fir, we stay in. I drink the rest of my bottle of wine and finish off the last couple forbidden cigarettes (yeah, yeah, I know. A week ago I saw a very pregnant woman walking down the street sucking on a cigarette. Instead of mental recriminations, I thought “Wow, that’s brave.” I wanted to follow her and catalogue all the expressions of disgust and snorts of disapproval that she left in her wake.) I had planned on more excitement—a.k.a. drunken party time—had my period arrived, but the waiting game makes me want to stick close to home.

I awake at 3:44 in the morning, mind racing. Fuck, am I pregnant? Shit. What do I do then? What have we done!!!!!????!!!! I go out to the couch, my insomnia cure, and rest there until sleep (and f-ed up dreams) find me. I return to bed. 5:30. Still too early to get up. I contemplate peeing on the stick now, but know that neither I nor Mr. Crud would be able to fall back asleep no matter if it’s a 1 or 2 line kind of morning. I awake for good at 8:00.

“I gotta pee,” I whisper to Mr. Crud.

“Are you going to do the thing?”

“Yep.”

I unwrap the final pee stick and, after re-reading instructions that I can probably recite by heart, I take the test. I set the microwave alarm and busy myself by brushing teeth and putting in my contacts. I avoid looking at the pregnancy test stick like it’s my naked brother. I check on the time. 40 seconds left. I contemplate flossing as further distraction. I let my eyes stray to her honor sitting atop the hot pink EPT box-throne. I spy with my little eye 2 lines. But it’s not official so I look away. Enough time to floss? The alarm: beep beep beep.

It’s official. I’m pregnant. Again. Unlike the first and second times I do not feel the rollercoaster revving up in my guts. Calmly I walk back to the bedroom and kiss Mr. Crud on the cheek.

“So?”

“It’s positive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

We hold each other tight. I wait for something to come over me: tears or waves of panic, but I feel calm. I choose to enjoy this pregnancy. I choose to be a warrior instead of a victim.

“Bad things can happen at any time. Might as well enjoy it while we can,” I say as much to reassure myself as Mr. Crud.

After breakfast I turn to my old buddy old pals: the internet pregnancy sites. “You just got a positive on a pregnancy test!” they say. I remember that pregnancy websites have a romance with exclamation points and how I hate the forced cheer. They caution me that it may just be too early to have taken the test, that I should wait until a week after a missed period for accurate results. False negatives are far more common than false positives (false positives in fact being very early miscarriages). I try to remember if these cautions were here before or if I just chose to ignore them. As I scroll through websites I’ve read before my heart rate takes it up a notch. I close the open windows on my screen. I can’t read these yet. Too soon.

Sunday—which I mark on my calendar with “Positive test” instead of “Pregnant!”—feels like it lasts 3 days. Mr. Crud and I walk around in a haze, hugging each other, offering weak smiles, cleaning. If all else fails, I will have a clean house.

“It doesn’t feel real,” I say. “I feel like I’m only kinda pregnant.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Mr. Crud says.

We debate telling our families. I go back and forth. Can I handle my mom’s cautious congrats? I should know how to do this by now. I’ve already done it twice.

In the afternoon we Skype with JADE (Mr. Crud’s brother, sister-in-law, and our niece and nephew). Niece Emma swoops in on the monitor camera and growls at us. We growl back. Mr. Crud and his brother discuss the recent end of the Sri Lankan civil war. The elephant in Mr. Crud’s office snorts behind us. JADE exits the camera’s view while Mr. Crud’s brother soothes my nephew’s puzzle demands and Emma runs off to check on dinner. “Should we tell?” he asks.

“Yeah. When the kids are gone.” I say.

“Of course.”

“You tell.” I say.

“You.” He says.

“No you.”

His brother and sister-in-law come back into the frame. Mr. Crud and I look at each other, take a deep breath and he spills the beans. “We got a positive pregnancy test result today.”

Just like I would have done it. “Kt is pregnant!” has become too presumptuous. Just the facts, ma’am. We’re still in kinda-sorta territory,

They raise their arms in a cheer. I suddenly feel bashful. I don’t want to discuss it further or talk about the particulars. I want to talk about their visit to Portland in a few weeks or the lovely weather we’ve been having. Mr. Crud does most of the talking, taking up my slack. I decide to hold off on calling my family. Wait until the trial period is done.

This morning, Tuesday, I call Dr. Awesome’s office for an appointment from my desk at work. Over the weekend I was haunted by nightmares of the bad doctors that would treat me while she is on maternity leave. Plus I feel like I need her to tell me it’s real. The receptionist asks me for the reason for my appointment.

“I think I’m pregnant,” I say.

“You took the test at home?”

“Yes. It was positive.”

“And you want to come in to confirm it?” She asks.

“Yeah. I’ve had miscarriages. I don’t know. I want to see my doctor.” I mumble, eyes on the work horizon. Not quite ready to let my coworkers in on my status.

“Okay, sure. How about Wednesday?”

Tomorrow. Hmmm…

“Do you have anything on Thursday or Friday?”

“No, she’s booked. You could call back later.”

“No, Wednesday is good. Tomorrow.”

I want to tell the receptionist about the trial period, how I’m not sure if this one is going to take, how the others didn’t take but it took me a trimester to discover that, but I keep it to myself for once. She and the other receptionists will know enough about me in time.

I imagine Dr. Awesome’s face, her pulling up my chart on the computer screen. I make my mental list of things to ask: how sweaty is too sweaty in yoga practice? Can I take a fiber supplement to head off pooping problems? I turn on the internet and do my early pregnancy ritual of re-reading all the websites that tell me it’s okay to practice yoga. Again I pray this is the last time I have to do this.

Symptoms: Hello, middle-of-the-night pee breaks
Light nausea when the hunger pangs strike
Ever so slightly bigger boobs (or maybe that’s hopeful augmentation)

This week in Miscarriage Pop Culture: Mr. Crud and I are catching up on our new favorite TV show, Battlestar Galactica. In tonight’s episode, Cylon Number 6 miscarries her baby Liam, the hope for the Cylon future. I totally called it. When she got knocked in the gut during a fight scene and then hyperventilated as her Cylon fellow’s newly returned-from-the-dead wife told her of his infidelity, I looked up at Mr. Crud. “Total miscarriage.” It was a sad scene, but also funny (for us) in a well-that’s-fucking-great way. Still, totally opposed to miscarriage as a plot point. Hollywood and Sci-Fi Channel, take note.

** To my friends who are finding out the big news via blog, I apologize for not telling you personally. I owe you a drink, which I will buy you once I’m not pregnant anymore. Hopefully in 9 months or so. Fingers crossed.