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‘I still have to work.’
She sits on the side of my bed and holds my hand, her expression turning serious. ‘Be kind to yourself, Milly.’
‘Look at me,’ I try to joke. ‘I’m relaxing—’
‘I just mean, this isn’t something you can will to happen. Don’t blame yourself if it doesn’t. It isn’t all up to you.’
Her perception both rattles and touches me. ‘I know that,’ I say, but I wonder if I do. I feel such pressure, because this is up to me. It’s up to my body. And my body has betrayed me before.
* * *
The next twelve days do feel like the longest of my life. I can’t keep from tiptoeing through them, as if I am holding an ancient and precious Ming vase that no one else can see. When Seth, one of my Year Ones, pokes me in the stomach to get my attention, I am seized with both terror and fury that he might have injured the tiny life inside me.
Anna and I check in with each other almost every day, and I know she is nearly as hopeful and excited and scared as I am. She is nothing but supportive, stopping by with coffee and doughnuts on Saturday, asking how I feel. That weird aloofness I first felt from her has disappeared, and I am grateful.
The day I am to go in for a pregnancy test, Anna texts me a raft of emojis – champagne, a baby, fingers crossed, and a pregnant woman with a lovely big bump. They make me smile, but they also terrify me. I want this so badly, I feel as if there’s no way I will get it. Hard work and determination are no longer enough. Just as Anna said, I can’t will this to happen, and I hate that. I want to be in control. I need to be.
My heart feels as if it is climbing into my throat as I am called into the examining room; Alicia, my specialist, takes a blood test, then suggests I take a urine test as well, because although the blood test is more accurate, the results won’t be available for a few hours, and there’s a chance I could know right now.
Now. The moment I’ve been waiting for, the moment I’ve been dreading. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle the disappointment if it’s negative. I’m afraid of the intensity of my own reaction, the crushing sense of failure that will overwhelm me.
I go into the bathroom, dizzy with nerves, my hands shaking as I unwrap the stick, and then sit, wee, wait.
It’s a universal motherhood moment – the test, the sight of the double line or cross or whatever it is. I’ve heard mums at the school gate sharing their stories. I couldn’t believe it… I took five tests…
And now here I am, stick in hand, needing only to turn it over to know whether I am going to have a baby… or not.
Just do it, Milly, I tell myself, but I feel as if I physically can’t; my limbs are concrete, my body paralysed. At least in the not knowing, I can hope. In ignorance, there is still possibility. But if it’s negative…
Then my phone pings with a text from Anna. News?
On impulse, I swipe the screen to call her. She picks up on the first ring, her voice hushed because she’s at work.
‘Milly? Have you found out?’
‘I’m sitting in the bathroom at the doctor’s,’ I whisper with a shaky laugh. ‘Holding the pregnancy test.’
‘Is it—’
‘I don’t know. I’m scared to turn it over, Anna.’ I laugh again, because this is crazy. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘You can. And, if it’s negative, you can keep trying. Another couple of weeks and you could be sitting right here all over again.’
‘I know, but still. It would be starting over. And maybe it will never happen. Maybe I’m too far gone with this whole premature menopause.’ It’s my worst fear, and Anna counters it immediately.
‘And maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re sitting there, holding the best news of your life.’
A little, incredulous giggle escapes me; I so want that to be true. ‘Keep talking,’ I say, because Anna might be able to talk me into being brave enough to look. To know.
‘You can do this, Milly. It’s the only way forward. What else are you going to do? You’re in the bathroom, right? You can’t live in there forever.’
‘I could,’ I joke. ‘There’s water and a toilet.’
‘But no TV.’
‘I’ve got my phone, and the doctor’s office has internet.’
‘What about food?’
