On Saturday I woke up knowing it wasn't coming for another day or two. I happily went about my life. Studying a bit for finals, hanging out with a friend who was visiting, drinks and jazz in the evening.
On Sunday I spent the day at home studying away like a good little child. In the back of my mind the countdown ticked on, but I typed away in a studious blaze.
On Monday I got a prick of anticipation. Any time now, I thought.
On Tuesday I waited and waited and waited. That prick turned to a stab.
I know this happens every month, but every month worry away. I start imagining the horrid scenarios. I start looking up options. I once even worked out in detail the amount of money I would need just in case. In case. Because I know the choice that I've already made. But it isn't one I want to have to put into practice. I check every couple of hours and come away with my heart heavy. I wear a morose look on my face, convinced that this is it. This is the month I've been dreading, the month I'll have to go buy a test. I've read the literature online enough times, I know it's not cause for concern this early on. I'm good about sticking to the schedule. Never more than three hours late. Like clockwork each day I reach for that little pack. And yet every last week, like clockwork again, I turn the thought over and over and over in my head.
I mention it to D, just to get him to worry. I can't be alone in this insane process. He knows I do this. He tries to comfort me. And strangely, it works. Not his words or his hugs. But the fact that I see a little doubt where there was none before. Is that wrong of me? Shouldn't I keep my neuroses to myself? But it feels better having company, doesn't it?
Wednesday morning: hallelujah! Here it is. I shake my head. Of course. Why wouldn't it be? Don't I take my precautions? Don't I know the pattern? And yet inside my head the little voice says: but you know what you'll do next month. And I know. Saturday I'll go about happy as a bee. And Tuesday I'll be Googling the closest clinics.