Aaaaaand… the spotting has stopped.
And can we not have anything like that again, thank you. Freaking the fuck out is not my favourite way of spending a Saturday and did I mention I was supposed to be revising? Exam tomorrow morning. I’d be freaking out about that, if at all possible, but I think I ran my adrenal glands into the ground yesterday and shan’t be able to for a week at least.
H, too, freaked out. He hid it very well, bless him, but confessed, when he got back from the supermarket, that he’d seen ever so many pregnant ladies and that had made him quite uncomfortable – a face-full of ripe bellies when his own wife was supposedly putting her feet up but really obsessively checking her gusset and trying not to cry again.
Right. There were several things I wanted to write about before yesterday banjaxed me. Let me see what I can remember.
Item: Thank you, dear kind people, for your comments, the congratulations, the sympathy, the advice (and the outrageous flattery from Emily – I went pink to my hair-roots). It was wonderful, you are all wonderful, and I’d buy you all coffee and cake any time.
Item: Geohde asked if my clinic did betas. Apparantly not. They seem to have inordinate faith in the humble pee-stick. Of course, I peed on another one yesterday (against H’s better judgement, who thought it would only freak me out) and it came up not only positive but a BIG PINK POSITIVE within 30 seconds. Which helped at the time, however unscientific it might be. What my clinic is doing, is a scan at 7 weeks, to check, I suppose, that there is something in there and it is where they want it to be. Can you or can you not see a heart-beat at seven weeks, by the way? I told H he was coming with me, even if it was at crack of dawn, because there is no way in Hell that I am prepared to see or not see Pikaia for the first time with no one to cry all over after. And I will cry, either way, even if all is perfect. Because I just will.
Item: We have decided to tell people after the scan. Not quite leaving it to twelve weeks, not quite developing uncontrollable logorrhoea. This meant lying my bloody head off to my step-mother last night – I called her to say happy birthday, not a call I could put off for a couple of weeks, and she very sweetly wanted to know how the fertility treatment was going. I told her it was very well, and I seemed to be responding nicely to the Clomid, and I would be having some more scans at the beginning of June. Umm. That’s it. Umm. H said he was very glad he’d gone into the other room for this, as there was no way he’d've been able to keep a straight face and that of course would’ve set me off and giggling and sobbing simultaneously down the phone might have surprised my dear step-mum very much indeed. I think H is shocked I lied to amazingly calmly and convincingly. I know I’m shocked. I hope to God my mother doesn’t ask any bloody awkward questions as I really can’t think how I can possibly lie to her (she could always tell when I was a kid – it used to freak me out), and if I tell her then I have a seventeen minute window in which to tell everyone else before she beats me to it.
Item: Symptoms – even H thinks my breasts have grown now (and he tends not to notice any changes of less than four feet in diameter, usually, being a man). There are little faint blue veins appearing all over them too. I am feeling sick every evening, but usually feel better after eating, for a couple of hours at least. I tend to feel icky again by bed-time. I keep getting your-period-will-start-in-six-hours’-time cramps. The bloating of the past week seems to have gone, and my belly is looking as flat as it ever does (ie, not very, but not exactly expectant, whereas I did spend last week looking like the proud bearer of jelly quintuplets).