If I ovulated on the tenth day of this cycle, as my chart at FertilityFriend.com originally indicated, today would be the twelfth day post-O. Unless I'm pregnant, by the twelfth day my first-morning temperature should be down around 97.5, menstruation en route. But this morning I didn't feel that tell-tale heaviness in my abdomen, and my temperature was a perky 98.2.
Several days ago, when the FertilityFriend software reinterpreted my data, pinning ovulation five days later, I felt my heart sink. I'd much rather imagine my reproductive system with a conspiratorial mind of its own, all sly and wily, outwitting my tried and true rhythm method of birth control. I even manipulated the data ever so subtly in order to preserve the original reading, to keep that hope alive. Even this morning, I didn't want to rethink the chart. My first excited thought was that I might actually be pregnant after all.
If not, if ovulation actually took place on the fifteenth day, my temperature might continue to climb, just like it would if I were pregnant, and I'd be in for a very long and tense five days of waiting, hopes spiraling up alongside fears, an all-consuming rollercoaster ride followed by a quick and bloody dash into the gutter of disappointment. Not my idea of fun.
So I did it. I POAS (peed on a stick), the second of my precious stash of three home pregnancy tests, the sensitive kind. If I were actually pregnant, it would show up by now. I braced myself for good news I'd need to keep to myself for a day or two, until my car is out of the shop and I can see J~ in person again. I am determined not to tell him I'm pregnant over the phone.
As it turns out, no determination will be necessary.
Gazing at a single rather than double pink line, reality crashed back into view: I'm not pregnant.
Now that I've come down out of fantasy land, I see I ovulated on the fifteenth day last month. It makes sense that I ovulated on the fifteenth day this month, too.
My period should arrive this weekend. There will be no exciting new life to wrap my attention around, to keep my focus off of the still painful fact that my husband abruptly left, that almost everything I lay my eyes on in my apartment, every piece of furniture, every photo album, every plant and CD and book on the shelf, every memory from the last twelve years, tells a story of him and I. It's like he's dead, yet he's not.
J~ and I are still such a tender new love, complete with all the unavoidable highs and lows and vulnerabilities and insecurities that come along with that. It is clear that we need the time. But it hurts like hell that we do. Next month, and the next month, and the next month after that, we will be strict with birth control. I'll teach art. I'll go to the beach. I'll have dental surgery in June and again in August. I'll spend time alone and with friends. And I'll officially move into his place September first.
And then what?
And then, game on.