I want to apologise to my fellow infertility bloggers who are currently pregnant, and on whose blogs I haven’t left a single measly comment for ages.
It’s not that I’m not happy for you. I am, I really am, so very, very happy. And I still check up on you regularly, and come away smiling from cute, hopeful, joyful posts. I smile all day. I tell H, So-and-So had ultrasound pictures! Such-and-such had a funny story about morning sickness! Isn’t it great?
I just can’t talk to you. Well, yes, obviously a part of it is being sea-green with jealousy and wishing I could happily join in with my own anecdotes and blurred, shadowy, unintelligible and perfectly beautiful pictures. The jealousy is something I can get past, however. I have been known to. I am quite grown-up sometimes.
It’s that there’s nothing for me to relate to in your posts any more. I mean, I was sick too, I even have a cute story about nearly hurling on a friend, and therefore having to tell him I was pregnant to stop him flinging me into a taxi and rushing me home while scrubbing himself down with disinfectant hand-gel. And the cute anecdote ends with an ultrasound image too, but of a dead, deflating gestational sac surrounding no heart-beat. I know this story has no place in your comments. It’s a horrible cross between a piece doom-mongering bitchery and emotional blackmail. But I have no other story to tell yet.
I could just limit myself to saying ‘lovely! Excellent! Good luck!’ and running away again. That would be the mature, kind, thing to do. Do you want to see that week after week? Would that work? It’d stop me feeling like a wart, at least.
Oh, the self-pity I am wallowing in tonight. Revolting, isn’t it? *Pulls self together, and goes off to brush teeth*