Just Another Day

I sat on the couch watching the credits roll on a Christmas movie I had already forgotten the name of. It was cute in its own way, but so like any other Christmas movie I could have recited it from memory before even pressing play.

“Ten days,” I exclaimed incredulously to the golden retriever snuggled up next to me. “She has only known him for ten days and she gives up her job, apartment, everything to be with him.”

Nellie lifted her head from my lap and slowly blinked. Her face was silvered with age all the way up to her ears.

“I bet they break up before Valentine’s Day.” I said, and scratched her behind the ear.

Nellie huffed, but leaned into the scratching. I picked up the remote and half-heartedly scrolled through more Christmas movies. I wasn’t really in the mood, but it was Christmas Eve and I had nothing better to do. The couch was comfortable. I was warm wrapped up in a  fuzzy blanket with the dog half in my lap. It was 10:38, late enough for bed, but it seemed like too much trouble.

I switched off the TV and stared at the Christmas tree.  It had lost enough needles that the bottom branches looked a little bare. I purchased the live tree with so much joy the Saturday after Thanksgiving from the tent outside the hardware store. I played Christmas music and decorated the tree that afternoon. I had inherited two boxes of ornaments when my mom had given up her house in favor of a condo in a 55 and up community down in Florida. I missed having her near to reminisce with me as I hung the hand painted ornaments from my childhood next to the intricate glass baubles that Greg and I had carefully selected over the nine years of our marriage.  

I tried to imagine what I would do tomorrow and came up blank. Bake? What does one do on Christmas when there are no kids anxiously waiting to open gifts and no family to make a feast for? Mom had gone on a cruise to the Caribbean with some of her new friends from the senior community. Not really an option for me as I was broke and all my credit cards were maxed out. I felt the thin veneer of happiness crack to expose the deep well of sadness beneath.

Tomorrow is just a day, I told myself. You already had Christmas and tomorrow is just a day. Saturday a week ago, I celebrated with my brother Marcus. His little girls were at a beautiful age for enjoying Christmas. Lilah was two months away from her fifth birthday and Tiffany was three and a half. They talked excitedly about Santa coming and going to the Christmas parade. Mom had flown in from Florida and stayed the weekend. We played games and exchanged gifts. The girls loved everything I brought.  I ate way too many cookies. It was a beautiful Christmas day. Except it had been the 16th. Last Saturday they had gone to see his in-laws, so that they could spend Christmas with “just the family”.  I guess I no longer counted as family. 

I levered myself out of the couch, dislodging the dog. I slid the switch on the tree to timer and the lights went off. Nellie moaned and oozed bonelessly to the floor. The house felt cold as we padded down the hall towards bed. I flicked the hall light on and adjusted the heat. At first I set it to 68 out of habit, but ,remembering that there was no Greg to complain about the heat bill, I nudged it to 70. 

I climbed into bed. It still felt strangely empty to lay in the center of the huge bed. Nellie had beat me to the bedroom and was already curled up in the dog bed in the corner. 

“Come on Nellie,” I said, patting the bed beside me. 

She came over to the side of the bed wagging her tail, but didn’t jump up.  She put her front paws on the bed and looked at me expectantly. I leaned over and boosted her onto the bed. She circled twice and lay down on the foot of the bed. I couldn’t remember if I had given her the arthritis medicine tonight. Probably, I gave her the pill after dinner, right? I hesitated to turn off the lights, trying to avoid the wave of sadness and self-pity I knew would come with the darkness. Tomorrow is just a day, I reminded myself.

Maybe next year will be different. The thought brought a genuine smile to my lips as I switched off the light. I rested my hand on my stomach and fell asleep while visions of little girls dressed up as sugar plum fairies danced in my head.

It was still dark when I woke up the next morning. I lay very still trying to convince myself to go back to sleep, but it was no use. I was too excited and I had to pee like a racehorse on furosemide. I peeked at my phone 6:15. I wondered if Marcus was up with the girls yet, they must be almost as eager to open their presents as I was. I slipped out of bed, scrunching my face in displeasure at the cold. I crept into the ensuite bathroom. Nellie followed me in.  I pulled open the bottom drawer closest to the toilet and got out the only present I had bought myself this year. A pregnancy test, and not one of the cheap strip ones I used to get in bulk from Amazon. An early response pink dye test, the gold standard for squinting at lines. Mine would be dark though, the clinic had said I should test on the 23rd, but I had waited two extra days so I would get my big fat positive on Christmas day. Best gift ever! 

I sat down and ripped open the plastic like a kid tearing the wrapping paper off a present.

I eagerly pulled open the box too. I dipped the end of the test and counted to ten. I capped the test and held it, watching the dye crawl across the test screen. No lines. I set the test on the edge of the tub where I could keep an eye on it and read the directions on the box. Read the test after five minutes. I glanced at the test, one pink line had showed up. The control line. I set a timer on my phone. 

Nellie nudged me.

“I’m coming,” I told her and glanced again at the test.

The Christmas tree lights had come on, lighting the living room with a soft glow, but bright enough that I didn’t need to turn on lights to get to the back door. A blast of cold air entered the house as I let Nellie out into the frost covered yard. I closed the door, but stood there watching so I could let her in as soon as she had finished her business. I checked the timer on my phone, four minutes remaining. I watched the timer count down, mesmerized by the gradually widening gap in the circle that was the on screen depiction of time passing. Nellie scratched the door wanting in. I opened it to another arctic blast. I walked back to the bathroom, Nellie patiently following.

I could see from the doorway that there was still only a single pink line on the test, but I picked it up anyway. Still only one line. I glanced at the timer a minute to go. I sat on the closed toilet seat watching the test. It felt like an eternity. When the alarm sounded I stopped it and squinted at the single line on the test, willing the second line to appear. I moved to the sink to stand directly under the light and squinted again. I put my fingernail to the seam and started to open the test, but I hesitated. Maybe take a picture and invert it, that was something I had seen online. I was hot, the house was way too hot! I was cold like falling into a frozen pond. I looked at the test again, still negative. 

My mind raced, urging me to pull it open! Take the picture! Where can I get a blood test on Christmas day? Those thoughts circled each other, spiraling like coins in gravity well and when they finally reached the center a single clear thought emerged and fell through my mind like a stone. I am not pregnant. 

Tears slid down my face and I crumpled onto the bathroom floor crying huge tearing sobs. Nellie appeared out of nowhere pushing her way into my arms. We both lay on the bathroom floor until I cried myself out. An alarm on my phone reminded me to take my medications. I turned it off and the ones for later in the day and cried into Nellie’s shoulder some more. Eventually the tears ran out, but I felt no better. I sat on the floor stroking her soft red gold fur. I spotted the test under the cabinet. I grabbed it and threw it into the garbage can.  It hit the bottom with a satisfying clang. Nellie lifted her head to look at me, startled. 

“You’re right,” I said, my voice a harsh croak. “We can’t stay here forever.”

I peeled myself up from the floor, my whole body aching as if I had the flu, my head pounding. Nellie got to her feet and headed for the kitchen, hopeful it might finally be time for breakfast. She stopped a few times to look back at me as I followed her down the hall. The house was bright despite the Christmas tree having turned off.  Cruel as it seemed to me the world had continued to turn and Christmas morning had dawned. I imagined all the happy families sharing Christmas traditions together; special breakfast, presents, games and laughter. I glared at the tree in the corner. In the bright morning light streaming in through the window it looked shabby. The pile of needles under the tree was noticeably thicker than last night, the branches more bare. Even the famous “evergreen” seemed more a dull grey this morning.

I poured kibble into Nellie’s bowl. She dug into her late breakfast eagerly. I rummaged in the pantry searching for coffee. I found nothing but decaf. Caffeine should be avoided if you are pregnant, or trying to be. There had been no reason to keep regular coffee in the house since Greg had been gone. I made decaf hazelnut coffee in the glass French press I had ordered because the hot coffee going through the plastic parts of a coffee maker isn’t good for fertility.

 I thought of all the small ways I had changed my life to improve my chances at having a baby. With the exception of a few weeks right around my divorce when I had taken a break from trying I hadn’t had caffeine or alcohol for eight years. I had bought shampoo and conditioner without phthalates or parabens. Switched to an “all natural” deodorant that didn’t work as well, but I pretended it did. Given up makeup and dryer sheets. I had a vitamin regime that I kept organized in one of those old lady pill minders boxes with the days of the week on it. I followed crazy diets full of purported fertility superfoods. The medications, appointments, maxed out credit cards.  All useless. 

I poured my decaf coffee into a mug with an uplifting slogan on the side. “The whole world is a series of miracles, but we're so used to them we call them ordinary things” a  quote from Hans Christian Anderson.  I felt zero miracles as I sipped the coffee and zero Christmas spirit. It’s just another day, I reminded myself. The sad Christmas tree in the living room called me a liar.

I set the offending mug on the counter and went to the garage to bring in the Christmas boxes. I pulled the Christmas tree out of the corner and began stripping it of ornaments. I removed ornaments with both hands pulling several off the tree before placing them in boxes. I did take the time to put the most delicate ornaments back into their boxes or wrap them in tissue, but it felt futile. I had no intentions of putting up a Christmas tree next year or maybe ever again. I took the stockings off the mantle, one for me and one for Nellie. I balled them up and stuffed them in the boxes too. In a short 20 minutes it was done and all the evidence of Christmas was out of the house, out of sight in the garage. I shoved the tree into the garage as well. I didn’t think the neighbors would believe I’d had a conversion experience and I didn’t want to explain why I wasn’t feeling Christmas.

I pulled the vacuum out of the closet. Nellie, who had taken the removal of the Christmas tree in stride, headed down the hallway to hide under the bed. I vacuumed like it was a full contact sport, shoving the furniture around to make sure that not a single pine needle was left on the floor anywhere. I wouldn’t say I like cleaning, but there is a certain satisfaction in putting a small piece of the planet back in order. This time I just felt empty, maybe hungry. I ate a bowl of strawberry yogurt and low sugar granola with goji berries leaning against the sink in the kitchen. I washed it down with my now cold coffee. I barely tasted anything, it was fine.

Nellie returned to the kitchen in time to lick the yogurt bowl. She leaned against my leg and I scratched behind her ear. I had a vague notion of going back to bed as I drifted towards the hallway, but instead I stopped in front of the first door. The only closed door in the hall. I turned the handle and it opened with a crack, the sound of my heart breaking. 

The room was a cool blue with hand painted sea creatures on the wall. The dresser, side table, and rocking chair were all  white. It was a beautiful room, the nursery. The crib was still in the closet not yet put together. There were other baby items still in their boxes as well. I would have to decide what to do with them, maybe donate them. But nothing would be open on Christmas day. I picked up a seahorse stuffed animal and sat in the rocking chair. I pushed to start it rocking. I had sat briefly in the rocking chair when we had first bought it seven years ago, but it seemed unlucky somehow to sit in it after.

I could still remember that feeling, the joy Greg and I had felt with that positive pregnancy test. The excitement of planning this lovely nursery. My mom hand painting the sea animals. Shopping for the perfect lamp. Laughing as we struggled through badly translated directions for putting together the rocking chair. One beautiful weekend before it all came crashing down. The memories felt like another person’s. Every time I filled out a form at the doctor’s office and I had to write that once I had been pregnant, it seemed like a lie. It only ever came up at the doctor’s office. To the outside world, except my mom, it never even happened.

I had scheduled my appointment for my lunch break so I could save my paid time off for after the baby was born. Greg met me at the office and we went in together holding hands like newlyweds. I clearly remember the doctor saying the word ectopic, but everything else is a blur. Greg steadfast at my side through it all. The surgery and the aftermath when we learned I had lost my fallopian tube. I thought we had been through the worst and weathered it together, but infertility took that too.

Over a year of trying, another surgery to remove scar tissue, more trying. Greg and I started to argue. I wanted to pursue more aggressive treatment options, he didn’t want to spend our life savings on a maybe. I thought it was just the stress of the treatments, I told myself that as soon as I was pregnant again it would all go away. That might have been true, but I never got pregnant again.  Now he was married to what’s her face. I tried not to know, but we still had mutual friends. Last I heard they had a baby boy. 

Now my last embryo had failed to implant. I wasn’t pregnant. I spent years trying, hanging my hopes on the next month, the next treatment. I rocked in the chair, squeezing the seahorse to my chest. Before me stretched a lifetime of empty Christmases; just me and a ten year old golden retriever, except next year Nellie would be eleven.