I thought it was indigestion.

Denial is a wonderful thing.  It is a psychological device that allows one to prolong the status quo and prevent the rude intrusion of an uncertain future.

After I returned from Europe, I had a hard time shaking off my jet lag.  I kept waking up later and later in the morning, and it’s a good thing that my office is just 2 km away or else I would never had made it in at all during the first month.  Later, I kept getting tired in the afternoons, and would take afternoon naps during weekends.

Then my tummy started getting some fat deposits.  My dear, wonderful, loving husband would helpfully describe me as a tub of lard.  It felt tight, and I couldn’t have a regular pooping schedule like before.  It felt like I had a lot of gas inside, but no matter how long I kept the knee-chest pose, nothing was coming out.  Eating more fruit and veggies didn’t help either, when they used to be good ways of trimming my belly.

To top it off, I started getting moody at my unbecoming middle section, my temper grew shorter, and I started to worry why my period was 2 weeks late.  Daniel said, Maybe you’re pregnant.

Wham!  What a blow.  What if I am?  I recalled the bottle of white Asti that I drank by myself 3 days earlier, the slab of ham from the fastfood joint, the Thai ice teas (very sweet) and Thai ice coffees (very strong and very sweet) that I had been drinking daily…

Before the list of recriminations grew longer and my stressing delayed my period any further, I decided to take the pregnancy test.  I did it during my lunch break.  To you possible mothers out there, THIS IS A BAD IDEA.  Always try to take it with your husband/lover/boyfriend, and if you don’t want them to know yet, then at least with a good and supportive friend or relative.  You need another person to witness it, and to ask coherent questions for you when your brain ceases to function.

Two Thai nurses were conferring in Thai, and I heard "positive" and "negative" from them, so I was thinking, Cool it’s a negative.  Presently, one came to me and asked, How you say Congratulations?

blink blink

I’m pregnant?  Yes.  [can't be]  How many weeks?  Seven weeks.

I made an appointment with the OB GYN consultant who comes once a week, and just my luck her schedule was for the day before.  Then I rush out, burst into tears before I could make it into my office building, blubber to colleagues whom I passed in the hallways that I was just feeling emotional, then packed up my things and went home sick for the day.

After that, I had it in my head that maybe I am carrying a squid, you know, like in Men in Black, when Agent J helped a female alien in the back of a station wagon have her offspring.

Being a woman, this happy state of denial doesn’t last long when there are things like solid blue pregnancy test sticks being waved in your face.  After crying it over with your husband/lover/boyfriend, and especially if you are financially independent, then a wave of calm takes over and you start thinking of the baby’s welfare.  Everybody else is happy for us, and right now I am a little scared when I think of my age and health and what it could mean for the baby.  But otherwise, I am not unhappy or excited.  I have simply accepted as fact that for the next seven months, Daniel has the right to call me Blobby.

Interestingly, it is at this post-Denial point that Denial changed its name to Daniel.  But that’s his story now.  I hope he shares it because it has to do with epistemology.  Now he KNOWS that having sex leads to pregnancy.  Of course, he was aware of it before as THEORY; now, he KNOWS.

And by the way, I now know three Daniel’s who will be first-time fathers this leap year.  Keep an eye out for the other childless Daniels out there.  Tell them that they may get to KNOW something this year.