Three Months

I lay still in bed, the darkness of the house lingers.  It's 4:30 in the morning.  As I try to make sense of my alertness at such an hour, I'm met with an uneasiness. I begin to quietly hyperventilate, my heart pounding so hard that I'm certain to wake up Zack, who's sleeping soundly right next to me.  Remembering the steps to calm yourself down when on the verge of panick (thank you, Psychology 101), I begin taking deep breaths and releasing them to the count of 8.

There, that's it.  Everything is going to be okay.  My heart slows down to a purr, my breathing to a soft hum, and I close my eyes,  hoping that magically I'd fall back asleep.  Nothing.  "Might as well do it now, " I think to myself.   I lay glued to my bed,  unable to move.  The voice of reason and the voice of wishful thinking battle inside my brain.

After a bittersweet game of "just do it and no," the voice of reason wins the battle, but takes no bow.  This is not the triumphant win that a bow would be acceptable.  I peel myself out of bed and walk out of my bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me,  and into the bathroom.

I turn on the light, and briefly stand in shock, as my well-adjusted to the dark eyes are interrupted by said light.  The stinging pain feels as though a lightning bolt struck them dead center, "we really need a dimmer in here," I say, while half-blindedly reaching under the sink cabinet.  I pull out a rectangular box that I had hidden in the back of my beauty supply box (hair dryer, makeup, soft rollers... things Zack would have no reason to need access to,  thus preventing an accidental discovery of the secret box), and softly place it on the counter.  My heart begins to pound, and my knees begin to shake.  I once again start the calming routine and brace myself for the endeavor.

I manage to get control of myself and slowly and quietly open the box.  I hush myself, but am sure the sound of the box being opened is deafening to all the people who live here and I'm sure I've woken Zack up.  I close the door and lock it just in case.  "He'll just think I'm going to the bathroom," I assure myself, and proceed on my mission.

I then quietly open the wrapper and pull out the long,  white and pink stick. I take a deep breath.  "Just do it, " I pep-talk myself. I sit down and follow the steps of the test,  replace the cap and place it on the counter.

Five. Agonizing. Minutes.  I don't allow myself to look early.  Wishful thinking wins this battle. I distract myself while looking at Facebook and Instagram, and continually praying for a favorable result, being sure to look at the time every 30 seconds.

After what felt like an eternity,  I slowly walk over to the white and pink stick. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.  This is it.  I open my eyes and quietly cry.  I sink to the floor and sit quietly for sometime, processing my fears bevoking reality.

I hide the evidence in the kitchen trash, slowly make my way back to the room,  quietly open the door and lie back down next to Zack, who is still peacefully snoring.

One pink line,  3 months no baby.  "Maybe next month," I think to myself and quietly fade back to sleep.