Everyone has a story about some cousin, a friend of a friend, or maybe a woman their mother went to high school with who suffered–or you might say, experienced–an unexpected and unplanned pregnancy.
They said she was infertile, that she’d never conceive, and look at her now!
His mother had a tubal, his father had a vasectomy, and yet, there he is!
She was forty-six, hadn’t had a period in over a year, had sex once — and they used a condom!
I scoffed at these stories.
When it came to unplanned pregnancy, I was sanctimonious and judgmental. I assumed — and declared — that anyone who who found themselves pregnant while using reliable contraception was either an idiot or a liar.
It was only a matter of time before the universe found me, and offered my face its very own cream pie.
So here I am: scared and pregnant.
I spent the first twenty-six years of my life successfully managing to remain un-pregnant, and now, just when I thought I had all manner of my reproductive function under control, I realize: I had no idea what I was doing. My body, and my birth control, have betrayed me, and now is time for payback.
But what is my recourse?
I could curse my condoms, my diaphragm, my boyfriend or my life; none of this will change the facts.
I could have an abortion, yes: I am pro-choice (and in fact pro-abortion), but I’m not sure that this is the right course of action for me personally.
I hope I don’t have to turn in my NARAL card, hope that this doesn’t kill my poor Catholic grandparents, who believe that sex before marriage is a sin before the Lord, hope at moments, that a strange man in the night comes behind me with a big brick and hits me over the head.
I was legitimately shocked to find out that I was pregnant, but all the signs were there. My period was late (it’s never late). I burst into tears because my boyfriend said goodbye “the wrong way”. I was exhausted, my breasts were huge, I was supremely hungry and yet disgusted by the sight of food. Everything smelled bad, including me. I needed a nap, a hug, a shower, a bar of chocolate and a lobotomy, all at once.
I took one test, which was positive (but barely):
and then I took another, also faintly positive:
and another (note my sweater, barely able to contain its pregnant bosom):
Each time, I believed (most sincerely) that the results would change, that the faint hcg line would grow fainter, eventually disappearing. Only it didn’t go that way. Shocking, I know.
After 48 hours or so of utter denial, I made an appointment with my OB/GYN to confirm that I’m (an idiot and) pregnant, and sure enough, there it was. I was about five minutes pregnant when symptoms revealed themselves, and am now a whopping six weeks and one day down the long and lonely road of pregnancy.
I know I should be grateful, that a baby, or even the prospect of a baby, is a gift — a blessing, the religiously-minded might say — and that I should be happy. But I can’t, not yet. Later, if all goes well, I can be happy. Right now, I am bewildered, exhausted, hormonal, hungry, and desperately ready to pee. I’m not ready to be happy. Right now, I’m scared and pregnant.
