Yesterday offered up a flashback. Today I’m paying for it, so to speak. It has been months since I last recorded my cycle on a calendar. It was once mandatory for me to mark a date on a calendar hidden inside a kitchen cabinet. Even after my hyperactive efforts at conception no longer dominated my life, my calendar addiction continued. It was the last vestige of my once robust regimen monitoring all aspects of my reproductive health.
Then somehow in the last little while I forgot to circle a date. It was a bit liberating when I realized it. I’d lost count. How could that be? A few more days went by and I forgot again to take some time to piece together some history. Then I woke up to find Pamela Anderson and I had more in common than our first names. Hmm. I allowed myself to enjoy the possibility that something more was behind my enlarged bust. I must, at some point, get serious about analyzing the past 30-60 days I told myself on my commute to the office. Then I forgot again distracted by a project that was more pressing.
Later in the day I remembered to call up a calendar online. I started counting. For a glorious five minutes — the equivalent of a pregnant pause — I was convinced it had been 50 days, not 26. Fireworks went off inside my heart. It was a flashback to what my months, hoping against hope, used to be like. I instinctively rubbed my belly. I actually allowed myself to count ahead nine months. I wanted desperately to believe that a miracle had occurred. My mind raced. I knew I still had a pregnancy kit stuffed into the back of a bathroom cabinet. Was it possible that I might for the first time in my life see two pinks lines??
Doubt took hold. I looked again at the calendars now printed out on my desk. Was it possible I had had such an innocuous last cycle that it went unrecorded even in my head? I decided to wait until the morning to search out the pee stick. It all seemed to good to be true.
And it was. At 3:30 a.m. my uterus woke me up. It felt like a nuclear war was being waged. There was no way I was going to be able to fall back to sleep without a large dose of Aleve. I dragged myself out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom in search of my painkillers and for the next hour waited until the war was downgraded to a skirmish. My mind turned off and mercifully I fell asleep.
The skirmish continues this morning and with it a realization of how much my heart still wants to believe.