The hour I first believed

A year ago today I stepped into my jeans and pulled my Claddagh t-shirt over my head. I thought about my family and my past. I looked at the calender and counted. I had counted the days in my head before. I thought I was supposed to wait one more day. I had one more day of holding out hope that maybe, just maybe this would be the month. But when I actually saw the dates laid out in front of me and ticked them off, one by one, my finger stopped on the 17th when I got to 28. I did it again. Same result.

I felt the hollowness in my stomach turn to a twisting and stretching of what few muscles still lived there after the past year. I was dizzy and light-headed. I went upstairs and logged on, not ready to see what might or might not be happening in the deep, dark cave of my body. There was an email from C., she wanted to know if I had tested yet. Despite my absolute aversion to 'signs' I took this to be one. It was the nudge I needed.

I did it. In the ensuing moments, long, quiet, tense filled moments, I alternated between wanting to throw up and needing to cry. My hands shook so violently when I picked up the stick I thought I was going to drop it. And then I saw it. (+)

And that was the hour I first believed.

Happy Birthday to my Leprechaun. I love you.