OK, so I confess. I did it. I tested.
I hear the wise and valued words of those of you who say, "No! NO! Whatever you do, for the sake of your sanity and the love of floor cake, refrain from the peestick!" But I have to be honest with you here, I was getting more than a little frayed around the edges with the waiting, and the serene bubble of "not knowing" just wasn't doing it for me. At all. I am not, ah, good at waiting, really. So even with the spectre of Bluebeard's castle hanging over me, I tested.
I did promise myself I wouldn't read anything into the result one or another, it still being a bit early and all.
As another grasping at the straw of justification for testing- I know I explained that the clinic doesn't offer a beta- instead, I am to bring a pee bottle with sample in on Saturday morning. But did I mention they apparently tell you the result right there and then? Within about four minutes? Yeah. I don't know about you, but I would rather have some distance between me and potentially bad news- so that when the blow falls, I am sitting somewhere safe and private, preferably with a large bottle of stiff liquor by my side. Can you imagine the horror of waiting with absolutely no idea of the outcome, only to have Nurse Fraulein stomp out and deliver the crushing blow, blinking her cold reptilian lids? Ah, no. Thanks but no. I suppose I could always hand over the pee bottle, run away and phone them later from higher ground!
Oh, and did I mention the other potential nightmare looming on the horizon? Well, some months ago, E. got it into his head that it would be fun to have a sort of party thing with a group of friends. Drinks here first and then tickets for a late night show. We did this last summer, and admittedly, a very good and drunken time was had by all. I did gently point out to E. that the timing of this event may prove problematic. But with a wave of the wrist and a stirring proclamation that Life Must Go On!, the tickets were booked and complicated, uncancellable arrangements were made. FOR SATURDAY. It's ironic, really- I could count the number of times on one hand that we actually ever get around to seeing friends and making plans in any given summer. What were the chances it would be on the Formal Pee Bottle of Doom Day? OK, arguably there are worse things than hosting a party on the day that you have had your heart gouged out with a blunt instrument, but mmm. The timing could have been, shall we say, a bit better.
What's that you say? It might not turn out badly? Well, yes. Maybe. But the test this morning was negative. No sign of a second line whatsoever, except with the Goggles of the Deluded. I swear I held that fucking thing up to the strongest light in the house for about half an hour afterwards. Wait! Was that the ghost of a line? Or just the glare off the control line? Maybe if I tilt it that way. I see it! Or, ah, not. Actually, not.
I know, I know, I know, I know. I promised not to read anything into it, and I'm not. It could still be OK, right? Right. Right. Lalalalala, just whistle a happy tune.