I knew something was off when I found myself tearing up during Sister Act 2. I’m not one to cry, especially while working out on the treadmill. Sure, it’s a heartwarming tale, and I do have a soft spot for gospel music, but really?
In the days following that emotional episode, I experienced an overwhelming sense of fatigue. I mean, I was truly exhausted. My limbs felt as if they were weighed down with bricks, and my eyelids would sometimes shut without my permission. Surely, it was just hormones. My cycle was due to arrive any day now. Wait, it was supposed to show up on Tuesday, and here I was on Friday—uh-oh.
I couldn’t possibly be pregnant. My partner and I had only been trying for a couple of weeks, and I was merely four days late. It felt too soon. According to the endless information online, many women who stop taking the pill might not ovulate for several months or might skip a period entirely. That had to be my case. I was just experiencing a missed cycle. There was no way I was pregnant. Why do pregnancy symptoms and PMS symptoms have to feel so identical? I was not pregnant.
By Saturday night, I had convinced myself it was probably the flu. My muscles ached, and I felt almost feverish. But I was also grappling with other, more concerning signs: debilitating fatigue, mild nausea, and intense dizziness. A quick search on Dr. Google revealed these are classic early pregnancy symptoms. Uh-oh.
“I feel really strange,” I told my partner that evening, sprawled across the couch, too tired to do anything but blink. “I think we should take a pregnancy test.”
“You’re not pregnant,” he replied. “It’s too soon.”
“But I feel really weird,” I insisted.
“It’s too soon,” he repeated.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” It was indeed too soon.
I let it go, and that night I fell into a deep sleep for nine hours. When morning came, I felt almost normal again.
That day, while I was out running errands, I decided to grab a pregnancy test. I even briefly considered purchasing a bottle of wine for the inevitable negative result—because, of course, that’s what you do when trying to conceive: buy yourself a drink after confirming you’re not pregnant, but before you try again.
Once home, I discreetly went upstairs to take the test, not wanting to alert my partner. I felt a bit silly. We had agreed I was just skipping a period.
The result was ambiguous. A faint line appeared—the kind that signals pregnancy—but it was very light.
“Um,” I said as I came downstairs, test in hand.
He glanced up from the game he was watching.
“Um,” I repeated.
“Um, so I took a pregnancy test…” I finally managed to say.
That caught his attention.
“…but I can’t tell if it’s positive or negative.” I showed him the test.
After studying it together under better lighting for several minutes, we determined I should take another one. I had bought a three-pack—smart thinking. I took another test, and this time, the line was slightly darker, but still faint.
“What’s it supposed to look like if you’re not pregnant?” my partner asked.
“There’s supposed to be nothing in the circle. Look,” I said, pointing to the instructions.
He was skeptical. “Want to take Pacino for a walk with me?” he suggested.
“Sure. Aren’t you freaking out?” I asked, clutching two positive pregnancy tests. He, however, was calm. I wished he’d show a little more enthusiasm.
A few minutes into our walk, we decided to test the tests: my partner would take the last one in the three-pack to see what it looked like for someone who was definitely not pregnant. Genius idea, I thought.
As we walked, I was anxious to get home, but Pacino, our English Bulldog, was taking his sweet time. He had no clue I was slowly losing it.
“Isn’t there some home test or something to find out if you’re pregnant?” my partner asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s called not getting your period and feeling awful.” Check and check.
Surprise, surprise: no line appeared on his test, not even a faint one. We went to the store and picked up another two-pack of tests—a different brand to ensure we understood the symbols correctly. I took two more tests, both of which were positive. If this were a commercial, my partner and I would have embraced joyfully, he’d have placed his hand on my belly, and we’d have gone shopping for baby furniture. But this wasn’t a commercial; after four positive tests, I scheduled a blood draw for the next day and spent the entire night awake, imagining how we’d rearrange the spare bedroom for a baby.
The next day, the blood test revealed low levels of hCG in my blood. My doctor emailed me, stating I’d need an ultrasound to confirm the viability of the pregnancy, but I would have to wait eight days for that. “Does that mean something is wrong?” I replied. He sent back a brief note explaining that 20 to 30 percent of pregnancies terminate spontaneously in the first trimester. That was that.
Back to the internet I went. I discovered that a low hCG level could mean everything from a perfectly normal early pregnancy to the remnants of a miscarriage or an ectopic pregnancy. I learned that low levels of the pregnancy hormone don’t give a clear answer; the key is whether the levels rise appropriately.
So, am I pregnant? Not pregnant? Was I pregnant? Do I need another blood test? What’s happening? My doctor hadn’t suggested a follow-up blood draw, so I requested one. Did he really expect me to wait patiently for eight days to find out if my pregnancy was “viable”? I waited three days for the second test, and the result took another day. But a four-day wait was better than eight.
Finally, after wandering around in a fog for most of a week, unsure whether to feel happy, sad, exhausted, or nauseated, I got the news: my hormone levels had risen appropriately since the last test. I was pregnant! We were having a baby! Oh my God, we were going to have a baby!
The first thing I did after telling my partner was call my close friend, who had finally become pregnant after years of trying and had welcomed a little girl the previous year.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Well…” I hesitated. “Something’s happening.”
“You’re pregnant!” she exclaimed.
“Yes!” I shouted, recounting the emotional rollercoaster of the past week.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “You’ll need ultrasounds to see if the baby is growing. Even if they hear a heartbeat on the first ultrasound, you’ll have to wait for the second one to see if the baby continues to develop.”
Wait, what? The uncertainty wasn’t over?
“You can’t tell anyone until the second trimester,” she cautioned, “That’s the mistake I made.”
Not tell anyone until the second trimester? That would be at least another two months. My partner had already spilled the beans to his mom, and I was planning to tell my parents that very evening. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops to everyone I met on the street.
Many of my friends are parents; my sister has four kids. So why didn’t anyone ever mention this phenomenon called pregnancy limbo? Those first three months where you know you’re pregnant but must navigate a series of hurdles—Is my hCG level rising? Is the baby developing? Am I past my first trimester yet?—before you can truly celebrate. Before you can share the news. Before you can organize the nursery. Before you can stress about maternity leave and labor.
I felt as though I was becoming pregnant in phases: feeling pregnant, maybe pregnant, probably pregnant, and pregnant but cautiously optimistic. How could I love something—someone—who might never become more than a tiny cluster of cells in my uterus? But from the moment I discovered it was there, I loved that little fertilized egg unconditionally.
Now, at thirteen weeks, that fertilized egg has officially become a fetus, and I’ve shared the news with everyone. I’m starting to realize that this is merely the beginning of a lifetime filled with worry. We’re past the first trimester, but what about the next six months? What about after I give birth? What about the first year? What happens when my child starts school? What about their first heartbreak? And the years that follow?
Maybe pregnancy limbo is nature’s way of prepping parents for a lifetime of worry. All we can do is love that little fertilized egg, take good care of it, and hope for the best.
For more insights about navigating this journey, check out this enlightening post on pregnancy limbo here. If you’re considering home insemination, a fantastic resource is Make a Mom, a reputable retailer for at-home insemination kits. You can also find valuable information at Facts About Fertility, which offers excellent guidance on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, the journey of pregnancy is often filled with uncertainty and emotional ups and downs. From the initial signs and symptoms to navigating the waiting period of “pregnancy limbo,” it’s a rollercoaster ride that prepares you for the joys and challenges of parenthood.
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