Do you, oh Gentle Readers, remember mid-April chez nous? I was doing a magnificent job of convincing myself I was pregnant again, despite negative tests, and then my bastard period turned up on time after all, never mind.
But, you see, I had metal-mouth. And high temperatures until the last possible second (usually my temperature starts dropping a couple of days before the Crimson Menace sweeps in) (for those of you who don’t chart, or who don’t find it works for you, sorry, but it works for me. Therefore the temperature thing is highly indicative of, well, stuff). And nausea. And the godawful throwing up when the bleeding started. And basically, I felt like I have felt on occasions when I have been realio, trulio, medically certified pregnant.
A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned the above vapouring to H. Hell, I was getting bored of the squeak of the ‘was I, wasn’t I?’ hamster-wheel and wanted to share. To my, well, my disconcertment, I suppose, H took it all quite seriously. Not only that, he shared his own conviction that I’d been a teensy smigeon knocked-up, and that it had been another chemical pregnancy.
(The same thing happened in August 2009. I had every single possible early pregnancy symptom except the, well, pregnancy, (oh! Oh! And there was vomiting during the bleeding!) and wound myself up into a pretzel of embarrassed rage because I was so sure I had been but had no. Sodding. Proof. But I’ve been Really Pregnant With Medical Drama a couple more times since then and, well, I have a lot more faith in my gut instinct (gut instinct! Gut! Get it? Oh, never mind) these days. So).
Which is all well and good (not really), and would indicate that H’s sperm and my eggs love each other with an unhallowed and doomed passion à la Tristan und Isolde because crikey fishnuts, how many times have I been pregnant now?
In any case, I was just going to fling it into the heap of Things May Havers About, Especially At 3AM, and carry on. But H had rather got his teeth into the idea, and decided we needed to let The Professor know about these possible chemicals. So he added them to the massive medical history questionnaire. Oh, not behind my back, not at all. I was there, I said ‘well, I suppose, yes, then.’ At the time, I was feeling very pro my gut instincts (possibly because I was feeling very anti my NHS gynaecology team and their Enormous Meh).
And now I have anxst. Because while three of my miscarriages involved More Medical Drama Than Strictly Necessary, Damn It, and are therefore On Record, the two possible chemicals? So easily dismissed as the neuroticism of a very neurotic woman being neurotic about getting pregnant.
Including them in our ‘stats’, as it were, feels like cheating, or artificially inflating my score (because there are Cups and Medals for habitual aborters, and all the accolades society can throw at us, right?). To not include them also feels like cheating. The fact that H, who is the level-headed, phlegmatic, less imaginative partner in this (I am wildly imaginative. So, ‘less’ in no way implies H is deficient in imagination, just as the Irish Sea is in no way deficient in salt water just because it shares a planet with the Pacific) – where was I? Oh yes. The fact that H is convinced I was pregnant both times, if only for a couple of days, brings me up rather short. Why the hell would he wish that on me, on us, if he didn’t feel sure? Why the hell would I wish that on us, if I didn’t feel sure? We’ve had our Regulation Standard Three (and therefore the NHS mandates investigation) so it’s not as if we’re trying to convince anyone we need investigating.
It’s just, if I am getting pregnant every other bloody month, isn’t it useful information? Isn’t it?
P.S. – This is exactly why I bought the Extremely Sensitive Internet Pee-sticks, by the way. The whole ‘was it a miscarriage?’ mental head – well, not fuck exactly. Head-grope? – in April.
P.P.S. – And, this is exactly the wrong moment for anyone to tell me that eighty-bazillion-and-three percent of all conceptions end in ‘chemical’ pregnancies but most women don’t know because they are not neurotic obsessives and anyway, don’t have a fucking clue when they ovulate and have normal healthy pregnancies as and when they want them so the whole subject of what is going wrong never arises in the eternal sunshine of their spotless minds. I’ll take several dozen chemicals in exchange for having got to keep Pikaia. Hell, several dozen plus the other two miscarriages plus a hysterectomy plus my eye-teeth and a leg. I’m running low on grandmothers, or I’d sell one of them as well.