If you were to ask me if I am superstitious, I would say no. I would say no because I think that superstitious people are also likely to be living in Dickensian boardinghouses in rooms filled with cats, manifestoes detailing the occupants' conspiracy theories, and the pungent smell of urine. But I would be lying to say that I'm not superstitious at all. For example, whenever I get on a plane, I have a discreet little ritual that I perform in order to keep all of us from crashing. I shall never reveal what it is, but should you and I be on a plane together, I hope you will feel safer. I also have a hard time not making a wish whenever the clock hits 11:11. And I can't help feeling a bit doomed when a black cat crosses my path or a mirror cracks upon the wall.
Similarly, if you were to ask me if I am religious, I would say no. Although I went to religious schools from pre-kindergarten through 12th grade and can still, on demand, spill forth all the books of the Bible in order and spelled correctly, I do not go to church (unless there's a wedding at one, which happens less and less frequently these days as most of my friends are older when they get married and thus are less prone to the traditional hometown nuptials and more prone to the destination wedding). Now, I am more religious than my husband, or at least I have more of a positive feeling about religion than he does. At our own wedding, I desperately wanted the officiant to boom: "Those whom God has joined, let no man put asunder!" I love that shit. And I got it, despite my husband's initial demand that the word God would not appear in our ceremony (which was going to be a tricky proposition in any event, since our officiant was a minister). Still, though, my point is that I would not call myself religious.
But my denial of any religiosity is kind of a lie, too. Throughout the course of my life, I have certainly prayed in times of fear - everything from air turbulence to driving over what I consider to be attractive-terrorist-target bridges to situations much more personal than that. And here's where the title of the post comes in. Over the course of the past, ahem, let's say many years, there were times when circumstances were such that my anxiety-prone brain worried What if I'm pregnant? I'm not married! Woe is I! Bleat! So in moments like these, which in retrospect obviously shouldn't have caused me a moment's irritation, I would pray to God that I was not pregnant. And I never turned out to be pregnant. (Maybe this should have served as a clue to me to start TTC a bit earlier, but it didn't.)
So here's where my superstitious tendencies and bad-weather religiosity combine somewhere in the recesses of my shrill brain. [An aside: I just looked at my watch, and it's 11:11.] Here's what my brain surmises: maybe I entered into some kind of contract with the powers that be, whether that's a supreme being or something more like karma, and not until the number of heartbreaking BFNs surpasses the number of oh-thank-God BFNs will I ever succeed in getting an embryo to stick around. No, I can't remember how many of the latter there were. But it seems like there were many, even though I really shouldn't have been so worried, for a long list of reasons that I won't go into now but that anyone who's read TCOYF will understand.
Yes, I'm crazy. I should be a real treat when my naturally insane personality is combined with Alzheimer's in about 40 years.
But that's not all...stay tuned for Part 2 of our continuing series.