I’m finding this very hard to write about. I’ve written several versions of this post, re-read them, and cried, ‘Oh, the drama!’ while frantically jabbing the delete key. And then I wonder why I’m channelling my mother so very efficiently, and start again.
(My mother has only recently come round to the idea that her eldest daughter is, in fact, borked, and not merely a gigantic whiner).
So, for the past eleven days (since the day I got my period, for those of you singing along), I have been getting into a fouler and fouler mood. By foul, I mean the whole sulky rat-bag deal, insomnia, bad dreams, inability to concentrate, strong urge to staple colleagues’ tongues to their desks. H is being saintly and doing most of the cooking, possibly in self defence (it’s hard to work up a good snarl against a man who is cooking you dinner. Husbands of the world, take note), so I can come home of an evening and fling myself into an armchair with a face like a slapped arse in peace.
Anyway. I am getting sick of myself, so I decided perhaps I had better sit down and actually ask myself what in hejeebuz was eating at me. So I did. Not that I liked the answer much.
You see, a small part of me is convinced that I had a chemical pregnancy this last cycle.
And so far, all the stern talking-to I am capable of hasn’t budged this part of me an inch.
Sensible me (shades of the Positive Thinking Fairy) points out that my period started on time, that I never had a positive pregnancy test, that I never got bullet-nipples or sore breasts.
And Bitter McTwisted replies, yes, periods do that with chemical pregnancies. The Internet Pee-Sticks of Doom are not exactly those sensitive ‘test the day before you’re due!’ types, are they? And last time I was pregnant, I noticed the almighty rockery-boob danger-nipples a few days after the positive pregnancy test, which was therefore also a few days after my period was due.
And Bitter McTwisted points out that I had that weird watery spotting and cramping episode on day 10. And after it, the cramps and spotting stopped again. She mentions ‘implantation’, darkly, and I want to hit her.
I wish I could talk that small part of myself out of this morbid, self-tormenting, melodramatic, stupid (did I mention morbid? Oh yes, so I did) delusion. It’s making me miserable.
And that small part of me sticks her middle finger in the air and wishes someone would say, ‘well, yes, you probably did have a chemical pregnancy. I certainly thought so at the time but didn’t dare mention it. You have every right to be in a funk. You don’t have to keep pretending everything’s OK. You’ve got a really good reason not to be OK.’