Free What Doesn't Kill You by Virginia DeBerry

first thing in the morning.” Like I could wait one second longer. So I peed on my hand, my leg and the toilet seat before I got my aim right and hit the strip. Then I watched the second hand creep around the face of my watch and prayed the line wouldn’t turn blue. After seven minutes I couldn’t tell what color it was. Gray? Lavender? Mauve? Now, I’ll admit I wasn’t seeing anything clearly at that point. I’d gone past worrying about telling Amber, to imagining what I could say to Ron—and/or Gerald. I already felt like I’d cheated on him, which, under the circumstances, didn’t make any sense, because Gerald went home to his wife. But when I showed him wedding pictures, I felt guilty every time Ron’s smiling face appeared. Not crazy enough toconfess, but I did feel sorta bad, and somehow announcing I was pregnant by another man was not the way I would want to end things.
    Lucky for me, the test I bought was a twofer. Clearly, they expect you to screw up the first time. So I drank three bottles of water and did the whole thing again. This time the line seemed rosier. I was almost happy, until I checked the instructions. They specifically said not to drink three bottles of water and repeat the test because the results would not be accurate, which meant I was back at the starting line, and I still didn’t know what color it was.
    So I did what any woman in my predicament would do. I begged my doctor’s office for an appointment. After much sighing and clicking of computer keys the receptionist told me the doctors were booked solid, but a nurse practitioner could squeeze me in in an hour or so, if I could get there. If I had to flag down a police car I was going to get there. And when she said squeeze me in, she wasn’t kidding. The office was jammed with women of every size, shape and trimester, and they all seemed to know each other. I hoped not to be pledging their sorority—Sigma Gamma Round.
    After giving up my seat three times to women who were sitting for two and trying to find magazines without “baby” or “maternity” in the title, they finally called my name.
    Margo—we’d agreed to first names—had spiky blond hair and wore a white cotton jumpsuit like a mechanic’s, minus the grease. When she asked the reason for my visit, it came shooting out like a hot, shaken soda. But she stayed cool, flipped through my chart, asked my age, and then whether I still used my diaphragm. I mumbled something like, “Most of the time.” But for Amber’s wedding, it never made the suitcase. What for?I wasn’t planning to need the love dome. So much for planning.
    Margo did an exam, drew some blood, said she’d call with results the next day.
    I almost leaped off the table. “Tomorrow?!”
    She said the pregnancy-test results would take a few hours, maybe longer. There was no need to wait. I assured her I didn’t mind. Right then, I didn’t want to be by myself. So I resumed my vigil in the waiting room, every second hoping that in the next one I’d hear my name. Three hours and fifty-four minutes later I did.
    Margo quickly put me out of my misery. “Well, you’re not pregnant.” I have never been so happy not to be something. But before I got to feeling too good she announced she was waiting for more test results to confirm the likely cause of my missing cycle. It was a symptom of perimenopause. Was she talking to me? I could not be old enough for menopause—peri or otherwise. I guess she’d seen the blank stare before, because she launched into a song and dance about changing hormone levels and the irregular periods, night sweats, mood swings and other fun that could be coming my way. It almost made me wish I was pregnant—not just old. Margo stressed that I shouldn’t slip up on birth control or be having unprotected sex. Just what I needed, sex ed for seniors, but at least I