Heather cheated again and tested at 1am. Our friends Robert and Kelly, parents of 4-month-old Noah, conceived on the same date that we inseminated and Heather, ever a gun-jumper, was delighted to hear from Kelly that she tested a day short of the full two weeks and had a faint plus sign.
Accordingly, Heather concluded that she was allowed to test early and I agreed (despite my own anxious instinct to wait till Saturday… or Sunday… or whenever we could truly trust the results). Given the fertility-monitor’s expectation that we test the first morning’s pee when hormones were most concentrated, I thought that was the way we’d do it, but Heather, promised a reward, was unable to wait. She is a woman who would open her Christmas and birthday gifts straight from the shipping package, two weeks in advance, and I guess she wants to unwrap the positive pregnancy test. I, myself, prefer to wait until the official, ceremonial moment: after 10 on Christmas morning, after cake & ice cream on my birthday. I can say no when she wants to open a present early, but I can hardly stop her from peeing on a stick. She has the right to repeatedly get negative tests, and lord knows I can’t supervise every bathroom trip she takes.
Still, after the scare we had Saturday night—ironically, on a tour of the local cemetery—when Heather felt cramps and feared she was bleeding, every hour that Heather doesn’t have her period is a precious one. Even if she gets it and we’re not pregnant after all, those moments of hope sustain me for now. All I want is to believe for just a little longer.
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