I wrote this on Friday morning. I didn’t post because terror, JINX, etc. But now, here you are.
For those playing along at home, you may be wondering whether I had any symptoms that would foretell this dramatic turn of events (I’m just guessing, seeing as I google “symptoms of pregnancy” about 30 times a day).
The answer is yes – but I didn’t know it. As exquisitely described in this hilarious post, the net effect of infertility is that you lose all trust in your own body. Your body is a deceitful bastard, sending up phantom pregnancy symptoms on the regular. A subtle twinge anywhere near your pelvis/abdomen/ovaries/breasts/eyeballs – start painting the nursery!
Putting aside the most striking of symptoms – i’m. not. menstruating. – I actually did have other signs. While the hot flashes were probably just the Clomid talking (REMEMBER ME, said the Clomid), I was also suffering from excruciating gas pains. Yes strangers and friends, I was, in a word, gassy. But it did not occur to me that this could be explained by anything other than totally plausible non-pregnancy reasons – my period was about to arrive, I have a diagnosed gastrointestinal auto-immune disorder, I just ate a bunch of red onions, etc.
Thankfully, I had asked a good friend (and veteran pregnant lady) what her earliest symptoms were. Her only answer? Gassy. Well, well, well. False sense of confidence in tow, I started noticing other (kind of real, but probably just psychosomatic) signs – I was really tired, I was craving citrus,
I felt a kick!
For a second, for just a very quick, blink and you’ll miss it, second, I allowed myself to believe that I might in fact be carrying a
smaller-than-one-millimeter gaggle of cells
that could one day turn into a living, breathing, baby who grows up to spend
her teenage years resenting me. But anyway, because I was still living in utter terror, I let that moment pass.
And today? Well. Gas pain. I think. Or something else. That’s the problem; I still don’t trust anything my body does. While my pelvis is calculating the due date and picking out cribs, my mind is spinning with doubt. Any pain in any place between my neck and my ankles feels certain to portend some horrible fate previously unknown – Ectopic pregnancy? Early miscarriage? Appendicitis?
IMMINENT DEATH. You
know, reasonable things.
Is Xanax compatible with pregnancy?
 You will pay The New Yorker to break through this pay wall. Because Tina, Jeff, Alice and ball of fingers are WORTH IT, goddamit. (Or you will coerce your richer, more sophisticated friend into giving you her New Yorker password. Either way, really.)
 Murder of cells? Flock of cells? Quiver, pack, school, herd? Really, I have no idea.