Four weeks, one day, and a mountain of fear.

Yesterday morning, I hunched over my keyboard, re-reading a draft of a post entitled: "I cheated, and I got what I deserved." It went something like this:

Last week I signed up for Belle's POAS pledge: no stick-peeing until September 19. At the time, I was less than halfway into a two-week wait and was absolutely certain I'd keep my promise; my months of peeing maniacally are over. I swear.

Then Fertility Friend told me that my chart was "possibly triphasic" at 7dpo. Then I started having "symptoms." And then Monday was our first wedding anniversary. What better present than paper ... except a positive peestick? Isn't it time for one – just one – of these idyllically begun fairy tales to come true?

Accordingly, that night, I peed on an internet cheapie.

And the result didn't look entirely negative.

So I peed again, on a bigger better stick.

And, again, the result didn't look entirely negative.

Nor was it positive enough to present as part of the anniversary festivities. But I tucked the potential that it represented into the back of my mind and, for the first time in what seems like a very long time, put on a truly joyful smile to give to my husband instead.

I awoke early on Tuesday, excited to take my temperature and to stick-pee again. However: temperature dropping. (Because I'm up more than two hours early!) However, also: stark white sticks, two of 'em. (Because I drank too much water last night!)

Argue as I might, though, the body always has the last word.

So, yeah, I'm a cheat and a liar and I don't even have a positive peestick in hand to make it all seem worthwhile.

***

Two more tests taken Tuesday night had shown me two more evaporation line look-alikes. I cursed at them for their inability to just tell me no without making me squint and squawk, and at myself for bringing them into being, and then I quickly buried them deep down in the rubbish bin to discourage any future dumpster-diving.

My temperature was still low yesterday morning and my "symptoms" were diminishing. I was bitter and angry at myself for the futile stick-peeing, especially in light of my pledge, as might be obvious from the above. But before I hit publish on that draft, I hesitated, and went to pee again.

And this time, there was no doubt. There was a second line. Not very strong – or, rather, "feint," as I keep seeing it described on Internet message boards.

But it was there nonetheless.

***

A second line.

"CONGRATULATIONS!!!!" Fertility Friend shouted at me when I noted it, rather disbelievingly, on my chart. "You have reported a positive pregnancy test! You are pregnant!"

But I don't feel that way. I don't think this is going to end well. I'm sorry; I'm not trying to be fatalistic; I'm not falsely seeking reassurance; I just don't.

Today's second line is fainter than yesterday's. My "symptoms" have all but disappeared. And as that pompous speck of a gynecologist who somehow dares to stake claim in a profession whose tenets include "do no harm" seemed almost gleeful to tell me, nothing was visible on this morning's ultrasound. ("Isn't it too early to see anything, anyway?" I asked him, having expected only a blood draw. He fixed his beady eyes on mine for a moment before replying, chidingly, "Lots of home pregnancy tests result in false positives.") (His assholeishness, of which there was very, very much, merits its own post.)

***

And then the darling endocrinologist, who was tickled when I confirmed that he was indeed the second to know (or close enough, anyway), broke my heart in the sweetest possible of ways. Reading out my weight from the scales, he added, "with clothes, shoes ... and baby. Tout petit, mais là."

Please be there, baby. Please. Please.

***

"If it dies, I will die," I told Gilles last night, jerking him instantly awake. And as I had to reassure him, I will reassure myself now, too: I won't. Of course I won't. But if it dies, a part of me, at least, will die, too, and it will never, ever regrow.