The Spur of the Moment by Klaudia Hanssen
Artwork by Beth Adams
I can’t be – I just can’t. Not right now. This can’t be happening! I can’t be pregnant.
My palms are sweating as I read the step-by-step guide to taking the test. An ocean wave of uncertainty smacks me right in the face. I’m feeling my cheeks reddening.
But it could actually be happening. Then again, that could just be my anxiety, and I’m just a couple of days late. I could be overreacting, but better to be safe than sorry, as they say.
Step 1: Unwrap the test and take the cover off the tip.
With shaking hands, I remove the test from the plastic packaging. Trying not to overthink it too much. Taking the cover off the tip. My only thought being how is this possible. I mean I know how; I was there. Hard not to be when you’re having a one-night stand. I just didn’t expect this to happen. Sure, maybe in a few years’ time with someone I was in a stable relationship with, but not now.
Step 2: Pee on or soak the test strip in urine.
There isn’t really a dignified way of doing it, is there?
The cramped bathroom has a claustrophobic feel to it. If I can only think of it like any other time, like any other time going to the bathroom. Then, just maybe, that feeling of the walls closing in will cease.
Unzipping the yellow plaid skirt, I pull it down along with the black knickers I’m wearing and sit down on the toilet. Holding the test, I put it underneath my buttocks, making sure the stick doesn’t touch the seat. Biting my lip when nothing comes out, I start to tap my foot - wishing I wasn’t in this situation. I hear a SPLASH. Quick, with trembling hands, I make sure the test doesn’t come in contact with the interior of the toilet as I position it to let it soak up the liquid.
Step 3: The test strip should be pointed downwards for the duration of the testing process.
Holding the test downwards would have been easier if I hadn’t just peed on it. Besides, it will say that I’m pregnant because the condom broke. I don’t work in the healthcare industry, but even I know what happens when a condom breaks during sex.
Step 4: Cover the tip with the cap.
Where is that cap? Looking around the bathroom, I see nothing that resembles the test cap. Where did I put it? Squatting down, I place my palm on the floor to look under the sink. Where is it? Lifting my palms, I start nervously laughing - realising I have been holding the cap in my left hand.
Step 5: Wait approximately three minutes.
I am biting my nails. I set a countdown to wait three minutes - three of the longest minutes of my life. What if I am pregnant? How long till I have to tell someone? I will definitely have to tell him. But how do you tell someone that you are pregnant with his kid because of a broken condom? Is there a card for it? There definitely should be a card for that.
Would it really be that bad if I were pregnant? I could have something, a tiny human that I could say was mine, that wouldn’t leave me – at least it wouldn’t leave me straight away. I could be there when it grew up, hear its first words, see it take its first steps. When it’s a bit older gossip about their life. Comfort it during its first heartbreak and be there when it leaves me to explore and live by its own rules.
But what if I make a mistake? What if it grows up only to despite me?
I picture the tiny hands grasping my finger, wanting – no needing my attention. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, just maybe I could do it.
Step 6: The results should be showing on the test.
A monotonous sound, broken into segments, goes off. Cautiously, I read the results.
Hold on, two lines mean positive, right? Because if two lines mean positive, then why is there only one line? Did I do something wrong?
Picking up the package from the sink, I look for the explanation. Two lines mean pregnant, one line means not pregnant.
Sitting down on the closed toilet seat, my eyes start to water. Not long after, the first teardrop falls onto my hand. I realise I’m crying, trying not to breakdown. Attempting to stop only makes the sobs louder. The crying turns into agonising silence, which is when I hear my housemate knocking on the bathroom door.
“Are you alright in there?” they ask.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying not to sound like I wasn’t in the middle of a crying session over the comfort of my vanished daydream. When I don’t hear her footsteps going away. I say, “Really, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Edited by Tillie Holmes