I didn't wait until Friday to test; I didn't make it until Thursday or even Wednesday. By the time Monday turned up I was already clinging on to the last shreds of my very fragile mind. I didn't want to break but how could I resist? I needed to know. The agony of being so close to pregnancy was driving me insane, really it was climbing the walls time; it was also torturing my husband. We went back and forth. Shall we? No let's not. It won't hurt. No we can't. Eventually, on Tuesday, we flipped a coin. Heads I test, tails I don't. The coin spun in the air, landed on my hand and I peeked. Tails! Arrggghhh. Not tails, surely!?! That was it. Our will was broken.
I unwrapped that first magic stick and let the urine flow. Had I drunk too much? Not enough? Was it too early? Should I wait to use my morning wee? Too late, the stick was soaked. Placing the test face down on our dining room table, we waited. Three agonising minutes passed. We couldn't look, we held each other and then we saw this:
It wasn't the darkest line in the world but, look, there's definitely a second line.
We went to bed happy. Oh so very happy. My mind was filled with bliss, until the next morning when I decided, as you do, that one test wasn't enough to keep me going and I got slapped round the face with this little beast:
Yes, you're right, the second line has vanished. What on earth did that mean? Was I pregnant or not?
Life was not fun that day. The birds weren't singing and the sun didn't shine. I couldn't wait to get home and pee, and pee I most certainly did; this is what we saw:
Yipee! Oh, do pardon the pee pun. The second line returned. We could be happy again. We chatted joyfully about how it would finally be our turn for a little one. Until, of course, I lost my shit and went for another test and then, because I am a lunatic, another. I don't know how anyone stops at one. Good Lord, I admire you solo testers. To me pregnancy tests have the same allure as heroine does to the most drug addled junkie. In case you haven't guessed, and I imagine it's the same for any addict, the fix did not make me smile; we got these suckers:
The lighting is a little different but the story is the same. The final test was lighter than the previous one. What the crappity crap does that mean? Can you get pregnant, a smidgen more pregnant and then less pregnant again? Since that fateful evening there have been two more tests and they don't seem to be progressing in the way any IVF survivor would be proud of.
I'm not an expert, not in anyone's book, but several hours of scouring the Internet makes me believe that something isn't quite right here. Tests shouldn't fade in and out, and by 11pd5dt, or sixteen days past ovulation if you prefer, the test line should be jumping right out of that oval window; it shouldn't pale into insignificance in comparison to the control line.
I am trying to remain hopeful, optimistic and bright. I mean, I've got two lines on a test so why am I even complaining? How ridiculous that I am not shouting "yay! yay! yay!" but instead I am whimpering over relative densities.
Maybe it's all okay. Maybe my embryos are just slow starters. Who knows? I heard on the pregnancy grapevine that sometimes test lines can be stubborn and refuse to pop out as quickly as you'd wish.
Tomorrow is my official test day and I will, once again, be peeing on one of those little devils but this time I can actually tell my clinic I have done so. I will also have to admit that I have been testing for some time now and that I am going berserk. I have no idea what they will say or do about my woes. Under normal circumstances - I think we have established these aren't normal circumstances - the lovely receptionist would book me an appointment for my seven week scan but, holy cow, I can't wait three more agonising weeks.
When I wake tomorrow, assuming I sleep at all tonight, I will also call my GP and beg her to do sequential blood pregnancy tests (betas) to see if the pregnancy hormone is doubling normally. My GP's practice is terrifyingly tight-fisted. The doctors there are so mean they point blank refuse to write a prescription for more than four weeks' worth of medication at a time, even if you need the meds permanently. If they cast me aside when I fall on my knees and cry for help, which is certainly possible, I am going to resort to begging the lovely doctors who took care of my first pregnancy to save me from despair. They made the foolish mistake of writing us a kind letter to let us know that nothing would be too much trouble if I ever got pregnant again.
One more thing, just before I sign off and while I have your attention: I am developing a constant pain on my right side just under my bikini line. Anyone know if that's not something to go a little bit mental about?
If you do have any answers, advice or any knowledge at all, please share. There's a handy comment box below to write out all your thoughts.