All weekend, my breast pain continued, leaving me achy and smug. The more my boobs hurt, the more cocky I got about being pregnant. A big fan of Greek mythology, I have no doubt that hubris is real: if you get cocky, the gods will punish you. Fly too close to the sun and your wax wings will melt and you will crash down into the sea like a dumbass. And, listen, guys, I’m a poor swimmer.
When the breast pain mellowed early this week, I saw the sea up close. We spent Monday night at the casinos, losing money and watching TV from a giant bathtub. I woke up Tuesday in the aftermath of a nightmare. In the dream, I looked down and saw blood all across my legs, coming from under my skirt. It was bright red and vivid and devastating.
I’m no better with disappointment than with deep water. If I get my period for real, I will crash down into a sea of tears—like a dumbass—and wish I’d never paid attention to my boobs. Heather and I keep talking about “the universe,” debating whether it will consider this attempt a first time, since it’s my first insemination, and therefore find it ridiculous to allow me to get pregnant, or if it will take us as a couple (unlike the IRS) and consider this the 9th or 10th time, therefore meriting a boon from the gods.
We’ve gone back and forth on testing. I’m sick of the minute-by-minute anxiety—Did my left breast throb? Was that an early PMS cramp?—but yesterday’s dream and diminished pain left me with such a nauseating sense of failure that I can’t imagine looking at a negative test a second sooner than I have to. Heather, ever impatient when her own body was the vessel of all our hopes and fears, is now advocating that we wait to see if my period starts. If it doesn’t by Saturday, then I should test, she says.
Saturday is very busy in retail, and, since I know I’ll be miserable all day, I’ve decided, instead, to test on Friday morning. Per an arrangement with my work bestie, I will call her if it’s a no, then take the day to marinate in my grief. Lots and lots of junk food—cake with heavy frosting, French fries, more cake, cheese danishes, Oreos, McNuggets, hot dogs—and a massage and mindless TV. Heather and I will snuggle. She’ll tell me that it’s okay, that it’ll happen next time, and then I’ll sob myself to sleep. Then I’ll wake up and eat more cake.