I’m told that patience is a virtue, but I can’t say I’ve ever been good at waiting. As a kid, I practically orbited around the car as much as my seatbelt would allow during long trips, by which I mean more than an hour. At age five or six, even the prospect of finding a tiny heart with four or eight chocolates at my place at the table when I went down for breakfast on Valentine’s had me giddy with anticipation and impatience. The major holidays like Christmas had my mother laying down all kinds of preemptive rules, knowing my tendencies: no getting up before six in the morning, no touching the gifts, and no looking for the gifts ahead of time.
So when the first week or so of the famous two week wait passed mostly uneventfully, I was a little surprised. I’d expected to feel nervous, on tenterhooks for the whole two weeks. Instead, that first week was wonderful. No doctor’s appointments to stress about or mess up my schedule at the last moment. No injections. My depression even eased up just a little. At some point, I found myself hopeful that the full two weeks might work this way.
That lasted until Sunday, when I had to go in for a blood test to measure my progesterone levels. All of a sudden, I had a result to wait for, and the philosophical, hopeful mentality I’d settled into flew out the window. What if the test showed levels that proved I hadn’t even ovulated? What if I’d thrown this much money and time after nothing, not even a real chance?
To put it one way, it was like waiting for Christmas morning when I was a child, but not feeling sure there would be presents, a tree, or that it would even be Christmas the next morning.
I restrained myself until about noon before calling the RE’s office. The RE’s office told me one of the nurses would give me a call with the results once they had them. I tried to convince myself that I am a mature, responsible adult that has enough self-control to wait for a phone call. This worked until about three, when I finally got to take the end of my lunch and check my messages. There was one from the RE’s office, saying my progesterone was great and showed that I had ovulated.
So then I proved that I’m not as grown-up as I like to pretend I am and did a happy dance around the break room. The room was blessedly empty, so I didn’t have to explain to anyone why I was grinning like a fool and bouncing around like Tigger.
This has kicked my impatience levels about as high as they’ll go. There’s nothing more slippery than hope. On one hand, I want badly to believe that this worked, and a part of me I didn’t think existed any more persists that it happened, I’m pregnant, and that the tests next week will show that. The other, more familiar part is girding up for negative tests and a period.
It’s like the scenario in movies and cartoons with the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other.
How can it hurt, says the angel, to have a little faith? A little hope? At some point it’s going to work out. You know it is.
If you hope, hisses the devil, do you have any idea how much it’s going to hurt if it doesn’t work?
It will hurt no matter what, counters the angel, so why not enjoy the good feelings now, no matter what’s coming tomorrow?
The greater the hope, the greater the fall, the devil smirks.
I really have no idea which one is going to win. All I know is that I’m going to have to wait and see.