“There’s a pink line!” I called out through the closed bathroom door. “One or two!?” my friend Katie shouted. “Two.” Dazed, I went to the door and opened it, feeling numb. This was surreal….bizarre.
I fought through the haze of exhaustion in my mind, trying to remember the past few months.
When had I even seen my husband?
I had limped, then crawled, to finish the spring semester, straining under the weight of a load and a half of courses while working.
I had pulled all-nighters and periodically spent my last dime on espresso.
I could barely take care of myself. How could I be having a baby?
Now it was summer. I wanted to lose the weight that had been piling on and attaching itself to my usually-slender frame. I wanted to relax with friends and lie by the pool and be carefree and nonchalant again and get my life back.
I did not want to be pregnant.
It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to be pregnant then. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be pregnant ever. My husband, Dave, and I hadn’t ever really talked about it. We had been having too much fun and were too preoccupied with trying to figure out how to be grownups.
At home the next night, I unceremoniously presented him with a gift bag. He pulled out the tissue paper to find the pregnancy test. I don’t remember what he said, only that he held me close for the next two and a half hours in our tiny dark living room as I heaved with sobs that came from the depths of my soul.