It’s been 10 days since I saw the double pink lines in the 99 C store pregnancy test I had reluctantly purchased.
I hadn’t had my period for a couple months, but that was THAT odd, it did sometimes happen. Not usually to me, but there were plenty of stories from women (on the internet) who skipped periods for nothing more than a slight hormonal problem so why not me? Maybe I would get lucky and have an ovarian cyst that was stopping up the works. Huge tender breast can come from a cyst right? Right. I checked it on every medical website around. They totally can. Moodiness happens from being premenstrual so that was covered, I was very premenstrual. Cravings can come from that too.
The night sweats were harder to explain. I immediately assumed that as a 32 year old it was perfectly reasonable to add pre- menopausal to my list of possible ailments. I looked it up, it can happen at 32. It can happen younger for Pete’s sake, so why not? Well, at least if I was about to enter menopause, at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the ovarian cyst any longer. I could get used to the hot flashes.
Sleep disturbances are totally normal for me, so I wasn’t even really trying to figure out why I wasn’t able to sleep till 8 am and why I was sleeping till 5 pm. Those were pretty close to my normal hours anyways. The only thing was I found myself too exhausted to go out. This is truly a shocking development, as for the last few years of un or under-employment I had become almost a professional partier. But now, I couldn’t even be bothered to take a shower. I would be on the guest list +2 every night and all I wanted to do was layabout and read and nap. I had become a house cat. It was this that led me to believe I had sunk deep into depression or maybe I had Chronic Fatigue. The CF self-diagnosis was convenient because the diagnosis is so vague anyways.
I always have to pee so that also wasn’t such a concern. I drink tons of water, but that is mainly to deal with the tons of bourbon I (used to) drink. The only nausea I experience was when I was my bartender friend poured me a shot of Wild Turkey because I was in the bar dressed as a turkey. Yeah, that’s a long story.
Alas, I was beginning to not fit into much of my clothing. I was eating like a manatee after all, so that would make sense. But, really it was more than that. I may have been in denial, but I’m not stupid. I knew what it all added up to. I just didn’t want to know. I was hoping my patented Immaculate Intervention method would work for me and if I didn’t really confirm it, I could miscarry and not be sad about being a poor vessel. Once I knew, for sure, I would have to make a decision.
Abortion seemed to be the obvious answer. A single, 32 year old, party animal who lives in a ware house with three guys and four dogs and is living by the seat of her pants is not exactly what one thinks of when they think of a good time or person for motherhood. I’m not at all pro-life. I mean, sure, live. But, I’m not even pro-choice. I would say I’m more, well, not pro-abortion, because that just seems wrong, but pro-planning and pro-doing the right thing for all parties involved. This was not how I had “planned” my journey into motherhood starting. God, “journey into motherhood” sounds so ridiculous. But, what is this? My abrupt transition? My sudden realization that this is what is going to happen? My one thing in life I can’t procrastinate about? Fuck it. I don’t know. It is what it is.
Maybe adoption was the way to go. After searching around the internet for a bit, I knew couldn’t possibly let some bible-thumping weirdos from Temecula or Salt Lake City raise my child. Oh no. Not this kid. I decided it would have to be a nice gay family. I had a lot to choose from. I read hundreds of stories. I read their websites and looked at their pictures. I was the first time I cried about my pregnancy. Reading the stories of how they met and how much they wanted to raise a child together made tears stream down my face. I felt for them. I really wanted to help them, but it made me feel so callous. I was carrying this one thing that so many people would be willing to mortgage their houses for or fly around the world for and I was going to just give it away. Actually, that’s a lie. I was hoping to make some money on it. Trade it for a new car. Yeah, I know, it’s horrible. I’m not proud of myself for that, but like all of this, it is what it is.
It was that experience, the looking for adoptive parents experience that made me realize I was an ass. Here I was, at the perfect age for child rearing, carrying a child that would no doubt be beautiful (as I’m a looker and so is it’s dad) and smart (daddy’s super smart and I’m pretty bright) and it was here. It was healthy because it was still there. After 10 weeks of partying it was still there. After the hot tubs, the smoking, the drinking, the coffee and being cinched into corsets it was still there. I was even lucky enough to have relieved myself from my very high pressure, high stress job a while ago and had learned to cut my expenses and live cheaply. I no longer needed to make tons of money, I could be even happier with less. I was at least in a good situation to have a child and actually get to raise it myself instead of plunking it in daycare or with a nanny.
I decided to do it. To keep it. I notified the father via text message. I quit drinking. I quit smoking and I switched to half caff. Those double pink lines had just changed everything.