“Five days late”
“Let’s get a pregnancy test”
“I won’t take it unless I’m one week late”
I am now one week late. I pee in a plastic glass that I got at a local music festival, dip the stick in my morning golden liquid and jump in the shower. I am not going to stand there, motionless, waiting for the result; I know it’ll be negative. I know I can’t get pregnant. I’ve always known I would never get pregnant; that there was something wrong with me. I get out of the shower, pick up the stick and wait a few seconds before flipping it around. The digital screen reveals: “2-3 weeks pregnant”.
Wrapped up in a towel, my body lets me down. Water still dripping, my legs decide they can no longer hold me. I sit on the bathroom floor, in shock. I am starting to panic. I am touching my lower tummy as if it were a part of me that I’d never known. My body is escaping me. Shit. Shit. Something alien inside me [deep breaths, in and out, cries, holds belly, pushes hard on it]. I can’t escape it. It’s inside me, a thing that I have – we have – made, growing inside me.
I can get pregnant.
Later I ring my older sister. She can tell that something is up but all I talk about is stuff, anything but this stuff.
I need to tell someone.
I sit in the garden for an hour before the start of my shift. It’s a beautiful sunny day.
My world has changed.