The 2nd pregnancy test is basting, and as I sit here willing my mind to not exude any hope over a positive result, I am being swarmed by cats. All four of them are sprawled out on the floor around my feet. It's as though they already know the outcome and they want to be close to me to offer moral support.
It's OK. Although it's really not.
The older and more peaceful I become, the more the sadness grows over not being able to have a baby. In my other life (California Hell, I like to call it) I was too busy, too stressed, too uptight and too depressed. I couldn't imagine carrying a baby to term and having any shot at staying healthy and well. I pictured myself dying in childbirth because it would be too much for me to handle. And there was no possible way that we would have been able to afford a baby. I could not have worked at the same, high-intensity level and we would not have been able to pay the mortgage.
Now, I'm living a different story. I'm a kinder, gentler Jill who is surrounded by pregnant friends.
It's confirmed. I'm not pregnant.
My heart is hurting.
Smart little furr-balls, they are.