February 19, 2011: I’m on an airplane when I find out I’m pregnant. We’re on our way back from Mexico, where we had been celebrating what was, all in all, a pretty kick ass first year of marriage, fertility woes notwithstanding. The plan was to enjoy the hell out of the trip, including booze and raw fish and street tacos, and once we got home we’d dig into the sad business of doctors and tests and fertility clinics.
C had been urging me in the last few days of the trip to take the pregnancy test I had brought just in case. He has a feeling, he says. My feeling is that he is full of crap, and just wants to be able to say he knew, if he’s right. There are a few minor, only if you were looking for them/obsessing about fertility kind of signs, but I’m kind of over it. I don’t want to admit that a tiny part of me has started to hope. I have, by this point, gotten really good at pretending not to hope, if you count sobbing my face off every time I get my period as “really good.”
C keeps haranguing me about taking the test, but I won’t do it. I figure we’re on vacation, we’ve had a lovely time, and there’s no point ending it on a crap note. When we get to the airport, he says, “look, vacation is over. We’re already depressed about leaving tropical paradise and going back home to sleet and freezing muck. How much worse can it get?” I grudgingly agree. As it turns out, you have to hold it for 3 hours before you take a pregnancy test– something about letting hormones build up in your system. Or something. The kicker is that I have a hamster bladder; rarely (if ever) do I go three hours without peeing, even at night. These are the sacrifices we make. We decide I’ll hold it through the first leg of air travel and take the test in the airport during our layover. However, once we get through the first flight, we realize we have 45 minutes to get from one side of the airport to the other, get through customs, and get on the next flight. No time to breathe, let alone pee on a stick.
When we make it to the plane, C is getting all excited. I don’t care anymore; I just have to pee. So I go straight to the cramped bathroom as soon as we set foot on the plane, and I take the wretched test. I’m sitting there grumbling to myself about how pointless it is, and how deflated and mopey we’re going to feel all the way home. When I look up, there are 2 lines. TWO. LINES. I stare at myself in the mirror. In this happiest of long-awaited, life-altering moments, what I manage to say to my reflection is, “Shut the FUCK UP.” I said it twice.
Looking back, the only sign I can point to is that in the last few days of the trip, I lost my taste for tequila. I mean really. I should have known.