My Bichon successfully delivered the news to M.
“Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Wow!” he said. After the initial shock subsided, he piped up again, “What if it’s a false positive? How do you know it’s real?”
I proceeded to inform him of the near impossibility of a false positive in women my age who have not undergone fertility assistance. “Ask any woman,” I firmly asserted.
That any woman turned out to be my neighbor—mother of a 15 month old. “You should take another test and visit your doctor to confirm the pregnancy.”
I don’t need a doctor to tell me I’m pregnant. My home test detected HCG in my urine. My boobs hurt. I’m nauseous. I have to pee ALL THE TIME. I’m good. Just to appease M, I did a second home pregnancy test the next morning and threw the even darker second line in his face.
I do need to decide on a health care provider for prenatal care, and I intend to make a decision by the end of this week.
The worry warp is still hanging out on my front porch inviting me to jump in. The worry, of course, is miscarriage. I acknowledge the 15 – 20% possibility, but my focus is on the very good probability that my little zygote will turn out to be just fine.