A year ago today, almost to the minute, I paced my new, freshly painted office holding an object on which I had just peed. The result in my hand was positive. The result in my hand was positive?? POSITIVE?? I was pregnant. Waves of emotion flooded over me; elation was the principal feeling, closely followed by fear. Could I do this? Could I be a mum? Was I ready? Is anyone ever ready? How was I going to tell Nick? How would he feel? Happy? Terrified? What if he didn’t want the baby? Surely I couldn’t be pregnant. It was definitely a false positive. Yes. They happen. A cheap pregnancy test. *Google “false positive”* Oh yes. Definitely not really pregnant. *Look at test again for 15th time* It still has two lines. Maybe I really am. Don’t be silly. There’s no way. Disbelief.
I spent the next hour trying to get hold of Nick: text, email, phone calls… No reply. I didn’t want to go upstairs to find him (we work in the same department) because he’d take one look at my pale, frightened face and demand to know what was wrong then and there.
Finally, he came downstairs:
“Are you ok?”
“Um” was my reply – I handed him the stick. Silence. Shock. Tension.
“Really?” he asked “Wow. Um. Wow. Um. Really??”
“It’s probably a false positive” I replied, “I’ll take another one at lunch time. I can’t be pregnant. There’s no way. Not with my endometriosis and everything.”
It took three pregnancy tests and a visit to the doctor (who refused to do another test “Three positive results means your pregnant, Hannah”) to convince me I was pregnant. I was pregnant? With a baby? Wow! Just wow!