Mother****ing Sunday March 18, 2012

It’s not the best day of the year for the childless infertile woman, Mother’s Day. In Britain, we hold it on the fourth Sunday of Lent (i.e. today), and its roots are all entangled with Mothering Sunday, which was originally the day in Christian Europe when people who had moved away returned to their ‘mother’ church – the church where they were baptised – for a thanksgiving service in honour of the Virgin Mary. Of course, most people didn’t leave their village or town for generations, so not many people needed to do this. Later, in Britain at least, it became the Sunday servants were allowed to go home to their families for a little holiday, and that’s when it got inextricably linked to the idea of going to see one’s mother and celebrate her. When the celebration was revived during the First World War, it became explicitely about celebrating motherhood, and the original celebration of one’s first church and congregation got completely swamped.

Other countries hold the whole schemozzle in May. As the USA does this, and wherever America goes, Britain follows bleating like a lamb, we now seem to have two Mother’s Days. This one, where British mothers get their glitter-and-pasta-shape cards, breakfast in bed, and if they have sufficiently guilted prepared their partners, flowers and gifts, and the ‘internet’ one, where every fertile woman in Blighty joins in the FuckBonk memery and ‘copy and post this if you’ve ever…’ nauseating shite, for the sole purpose, as far as I can tell, of making all their childless and/or motherless acquaintances feel like a bucket of fermenting shit for the day.

So hello! Welcome to Bitter McTwisted’s Angry Festival!

(I’ve sent my mother a card. I am getting her a gift. I am grateful I have a mother I can send cards to. Look at me not letting Bitter McTwisted piss on anyone else’s day. I’m so good).

Every few weeks, H and I go out for brunch on a Sunday morning. We’re lucky – we live in walking distance of five good places to get splendid brunches, and given that I have totally, unconditionally, utterly banned H from getting his iPhone out at these meals, we actually get to chat and argue about Art and Politics and make each other laugh. This morning, H suggested we go out, as is out want, and just as I was scrambling out of bed it occurred to me: we live in Young Families Central. The last time we went out for a meal on Mothering Sunday it was like being dragged naked and screaming over a red hot microplane grater made of other people’s families (also, we got the shitty table in the corner with no flowers. Hell, yes, I’m bitter). So… we stayed in. You could say, in fact, that we skulked.

H spent the morning setting up his (technically, our, but All Shiny Thing Belong H, because though we eschew gender stereotypes chez nous with every fibre of our left-wing woolly-liberal hippy granola beings, well, I knit, and H likes fiddling with electronics) brand new can-talk-to-the-internet (it’s magic!) stereo. This caused a cascade of Things That Need To Be Updated And/Or Reset. This caused quite a lot of internet outages and non-workingness. This caused a bit of a row about the iTunes thingy H updated the permissions for on my lap-top weeks ago after I complained that it didn’t work for months, which of course still didn’t work because, remember, I switched lap-tops a few weeks ago, and the new lap-top also needed the permissions updated. Umm. Anyway, I lost my bloody mind and burst into tears, because it’s Mothering Sunday (bear with me (no, of course it’s not ‘bare with me’. Do I want us all naked together? Emphatically I do not. It’s bear, as in endure, put up with, have patience with. This is your grammarian public service announcement from blogland)).

I have an, eh, issue, shall we say, with people who allegedly know their shit telling me that whateveritis I am vapouring about isn’t a problem, or is already fixed already!, or dealt with in whatever way, while I stand there whimpering ‘but it doesn’t actually work! It really doesn’t!’. H, bless his Fix All The Things! little mind, has a bit of a record in this department when it comes to things electronic, because he really does know his shit and I really don’t. However, I do know when something’s not working, on account of not being an eejit who can’t tell the off-switch from the contrast button.

I also have an issue, of the huge, never-to-be-resolved, variety, with many doctors who, since I was fourteen, have told me my problems with very irregular periods, severe menstrual pain, and that awful lump I was sure I could feel in my lower abdomen, were variously, normal, all in my head, caused by constipation, and nothing to pester a doctor with. And so I lost my left ovary to a dermoid cyst or teratoma the size of a motherfucking grapefruit, that twisted, ripped my ovary in half, and gave me septicemia. Since then, I have had doctors who dismissed my increasingly-painful-even-on-the-pill periods as ‘not possible’, doctors who dismissed my weight-gain, acne and hairy upper lip as caused by my being lazy and over-eating, doctors who dismissed the fact I didn’t menstruate for nearly a year after coming off the pill as ‘one of those things’, doctors who kept telling me the reason I couldn’t get pregnant was because I was fat (and nothing to do with, say, anovulation and a collection of polyps all bleeding away like Iguazu), the reason I couldn’t stay pregnant was because I was fat (and nothing to do with, say, a blood-clotting disorder), and who when Clomid made me anovulatory said ‘huh’ and made me try Clomid again, even though it made me anovulatory, and doctors who didn’t bother to check my FSH/oestrogen balance on the right day of my cycle until I’d been in treatment for six motherfucking years (which proved my ‘fatness’ wasn’t, actually, fucking up my ovulation at all), doctors who insisted visit after visit that IVF would not help me get or stay pregnant, and all the while, time ran on, time ran out, I am 37 in May, and if, oh, if only someone had paid me, actual me who lives in this body and who has always been saying ‘this isn’t right’, some respectful attention, do you think I’d be nearly 37 with no children and seven dead ones and one ovary and a pelvis full of scar tissue and a womb agonisedly bloated with cysts and scars and misplaced endometrium? Not one of which issues had a motherfucking thing to do with the size of my arse?

So, yes, I lost my mind, I screamed at H, I cried. Mothering Sunday is a triggery bitch.

Two item posts in a row? You’re spoiling… something February 21, 2012

Item – My laptop died. I think. Or at least is terminally unwell. I don’t know. I daren’t switch it off and on again in case it melts. But! Happy ending! I have a new (well, second-hand reconditioned) laptop! Which is not terminally unwell! So I may actually post more often, also comment! Wheeeeeeee!

Item – H isn’t very well. Actually, now we stop to do sums, we realised he hasn’t been entirely well for a couple of months, but we kept putting it down to stress (H very much emotes with his guts), or Christmassy rich food, or too much chocolate at Valentine’s Day, or, eh, well, whatever. So he went to the doctor, and the doctor said, oh dear, and wants to test his iron levels, his thyroid, his liver function, blood glucose, his bone somethingorother and his levels of creatine and urea (kidney function, right?). Just in case. Meanwhile H is having text-book symptomatology of IBS. Poor H. He would have IBS. I’ve just mentioned he emotes almost entirely with his gut. If he complains of stomach ache, my first question is now always ‘is anything stressing you out?’, because I know him. His gut knows he’s stressed before his brain does. So I worry. (I emote through the spasming arteries in my skull, whereas. And being wide awake).

Item – Dance workshop last weekend half-slayed me. I am still hobbling about and making distressing rusted-machinery noises every time I have to lift something heavy (including self out of armchair). Would I do it again? Oh, probably. But maybe not for another few months. Years. Months. Another lots of months.

Item – Tangientially, I was glaring at my (static) weight-loss ticker, and gearing up to give myself a psychological kicking, waily waily, which no doubt would have lead to OverEating Extravaganza and self-dislike-spiral-of-sulk, when it occurred to me to check the private little Bridget Jones-style list of weight-loss I was keeping a few months ago. Um. Well. Yes. I’m 5 pounds skinnier than I was then. I am the skinniest I have been for years. I am more than a stone lighter than I was on my wedding day. So, May, leave May the fuck alone, OK? OK. Right.

Item – On matters more internal, this past week has been rather hard on me. I’ve been having very painful cramps every day, usually worse at night (insomnia! There you are!), and generally feeling grim and tired and royally fucked off. Combine this with the Day of UnGodly Misery that kicked off my most recent period, and, well, what in buggery did I give wheat up for then? Eh? EH? Gah.

Item – Of course, Fertile Signs are Fertile again. Am I in the mood for sex? Am I fuck. Or, not fuck. Just, fuck everything. Even me, if possible. Fuck it.

Hacking onwards August 15, 2011

Item – I’ve answered the final question at last (sorry, Womb for Improvement) on the 666 post, and I think that’s the lot. Please, please poke me if I’ve missed your question. I promise totally it was absence of mind, not avoidance of subject.

Item – I finally managed to nail down a receptionist at the GP’s (phones, they will not answer them. The one quirk in an otherwise excellent practice) to book a telephone appointment with a nurse, who will tell me whether or not I am anaemic and what to do about it at some point tomorrow morning. It all seems a tad convoluted, but clearly they must cater to patients who are hard of thinking and silly about Dr Google as well as to the Genius That Is Me. Also, Sod’s Law dictates the nurse will call me while I am up to my oxters in something complicated or in a meeting. Of course.

Item – Meanwhile, I am taking over-the-counter iron supplements, wotthehell wotthehell, and if it is anaemia, they are not cutting the bedamned mustard, in that I am still knackered, easily out of breath, prone to faintness, and inclined to occasional Restless Legs when tired of an evening.

Item – Restless Legs are not fucking funny. They’re driving me batshit. MUST. KICK. STRETCH. AIGH.

Item – It is 6dpo, for those of you keeping count and giving a monkey’s. Ovulation-wise, my last nine cycles have gone day 19, 18, 20, 22, 19, 21, 19, 17, 18. It’s got to the point where I even predict what week my period may well turn up before I ovulate. Something Is Bound To Go Wrong.

Item – On my last post, Carole comments:

Clearly ovulating at all IS a big plus, but I wish they would start taking some proper notice of the lateness of said ovulation. I’m still convinced that it was the main factor in my problems. Like you, I was always popping them out at about day 18/19 or even later and like you, I seemed to get to the pregnancy launch-pad considerably more often that one would think, given actual results. Then they hit me with the drugs and after the initial ”mutiny and general blow-up”, my ovaries fell into line and assumed text-book timing for the two normal cycles it took to hit the jackpot (Which they have maintained to this day, incidently, although it’s not worth them bothering anymore).

But Carole, I have been ‘hit with the drugs’. I did six Clomid cycles in 2008/2009. On the first one, I ovulated on day 25, no earlier than I do flying solo, and my luteal phase was still only 12 days. On the second, I ovulated on day 17, got pregnant, and miscarried at six weeks. On the third, I ovulated on day 18, and my luteal phase lasted only 12 days. On the fourth, I did not ovulate. At all. Cycle lasted 88 days and I took provera to end it. On the fifth, on a higher dose of Clomid, I… did not ovulate. Again, took provera eventually, cycle ended after 65 days. On the sixth go, I ovulated on day 44, which we all agreed clearly had fuck-all to do with the clomid I’d taken nearly six weeks beforehand. Short luteal phase, not pregnant. After six clomid cycles, three of them utter, utter duds despite the increasing dosage, I don’t get to do that kind of drug any more. On the NHS, six clomid cycles is your limit, because Clomid is not a tame drug, oh no. My ovary has been beaten enough. And since when, I’ve ovulated anywhere from day 8 to day 65, so it hasn’t bought a post-beating harmony to my endocrine system either.

Item – The one thing (damn it!) my gynaecologist has been right about is that if I lost weight my cycles would regulate. I lost a stone (14 lbs/6.5 kgs), and ta da! my cycles are regular. The idea is, if I lose another stone, my cycles will get even more regular, also shorter (yea, like that appeals right now) with a more decisive luteal phase. So, annoying as it is to admit it, proper notice has been taken of the late ovulating and medical practice as practiced in Blighty has given it its best wallop. It sucks that Clomid was No Fucking Help and that I wasted three long (looooooong also psychosis-inducing) failed cycles dicking about with it once it had started making me anovulatory.

Item – As to the impending scrape, I have been sent a bunch of tiresome forms and an appointment for the pre-op check-up already, and that will be at the beginning of September. Last time I had a lap&hyst&dye, I went into surgery a month after the pre-op check-up, but then, I was lucky, because someone else cancelled and I was offered the slot at short notice. I highly doubt things will work out neatly this time. Christmas Shall Be Ruined. This is a universal truth for May. *gloom*

Item – Also, re.: the impending scrape, Thalia mentioned them dinging me on the weight thing. I don’t think my weight should be a problem. Last time I had this op I was a good deal heavier than I am now and my weight didn’t seem to bother them at all. I think they’re treating it as a medical necessity because my quality of life is so shit rather than as ‘fertility’ treatment, so they’re less likely to be arseholes about my avoirdupois. I hope. Nevertheless, I’ve already lost three pounds this week, simply by not being ovulatory any more, I think, or possibly salad.

Item – HFF commented: ‘This sounds mightily odd, but I really hope you have a single chunky wodge of very obviously painful and easily-accessed endo. They can then zap it away and Make It All Stop Hurting.’. I say, Hear Hear! very heartily indeed to this. But alack and well-a-day, I fear that scraping out the endo will merely mayhap give me my bladder back, also make sure Satsuma is talking to the One-And-Only Tube. There is no removing of adenomyosis without removing the uterus itself, which is pretty damn drastic. And it’s the adenomyosis that is probably causing most of The Pain. Though it’d be nice if the aches and pains post-period, that go on and on and fucking on, like a five-year-old with a grudge, could be Eliminated. I’m not holding out great hopes for this operation, am I? Well, it seems daft to. Cute Ute is pretty much the Elephant Man of uteri, bless her.

ABC of all about me May 25, 2011

I’ve seen this meme on many blogs recently, and rather liked it. Also, it’s a good way of gathering the threads for any newer readers (I am guessing I have them, because my stats keep slowly rising. Hello, newer readers! Thank you for reading!). Also also, I am feeling lazy but talkative.

A. Age when you started TTC: 30. H was 31.

B. Baby Dancing or Sex: Sex. FFS. The one night that H referred to it as ‘baby-dancing’, we were both smitten with such intense nausea and snark that we couldn’t.

C. Children wanted: I’d always wanted two. Now, one would be a miracle.

D. Dogs/Cats/Fill in Children: We work long hours, also rent and our landlord doesn’t allow pets, or I’d have a dozen cats by now.

E. Essential Oils/Vitamins/Snake Oils: Prenatal multi-vitamins and fish-oil (carefully choosing the non-vitamin-A brands) for me, and a ‘pre-conception for men’ multi-vitamin for H. Mostly because he takes a multi-vitamin anyway and this one comes on sale in double-packs along with my prenatal vitamins. I have also tried: herbal medicines (did nothing at all for anything), acupuncture (seemed to regulate my cycles, did nothing for the menstrual fucking agony despite the practitioner’s promises, or the miscarriages), essential oil massages (well, I smelled nice).

F. Fertility Meds I’ve taken: Clomid – worked for three cycles, then made me anovulatory despite ever-increasing doses for the next three cycles. Provera, to bring periods on, and also, at first, to get them to bloody stop. After that, I started ovulating all by my self anyway. Last summer, I was told to take low-dose aspirin next time I got pregnant, as I have a clotting disorder (but not one of the usual ones). However, the two pregnancies after that were ‘chemical’ (ie caused by defective embryos, as my sticky blood didn’t get a chance to interfere before I lost them, and anyway, I was taking the sodding aspirin), so we’re still waiting to find out how well that will work. Hmm. After two years of trying I morphed from Infertile Girl to Habitual Aborter, so fertility medications aren’t really an issue for me. Before anyone mentions metformin, read next letter.

G. Gain: I was really quite chubby when we started TTC. I put on a fair bit of weight after miscarrying for the first time, because I tend to eat my feelings, and good golly, but I had a lot of feelings to eat. I now weigh about a stone less than I did when we started TTC, but am still overweight/borderline obese. My doctors think metformin can cause more problems than it solves, and prefer me to carry on using will-power and common sense. Seeing as that when I apply them, I DO lose weight, I think they may have a point. People with PCOS and severe insulin resistance may find will-power and common sense really don’t help and they will need medical assistance, I agree, but just because you’ve heard of metformin or tried it and found it helpful doesn’t mean it’s right for me so kindly don’t tell me I should be on it (but see pet peeves).

H. HSG (Hystosalpingogram): Three. The first, after bleeding for four months straight, showed polyps and a possible hydrosalpinx. The second, under general anaesthetic while removing the polyps and a mass of adhesions caused by previous surgery, was fine. The third, after my first miscarriage left me with a severe infection, was possible mild hydrosalpinx according to the radiographer, and absolutely perfect according to the gynaecologist. I’ve been pregnant several times since, so…

I. Infertile Pet Peeves: Nobody dares say ‘just relax’ to me any more. However, I have a list of these as long as your arm: 1) Being told what medication/treatment/eating regime I should be following. Especially by people who don’t know the whole story. It’s one thing to say ‘I tried X and it worked for me, have you considered it?’, and quite a fucking ‘nother to say ‘you should try X!’ or, worse ‘Why the hell hasn’t your doctor prescribed X?’, especially when they go on to imply my doctor is being ignorant or tight-fisted, or blame the NHS for the lack of provision of X. (Don’t make me come over there and tell you exactly what I think of American health provision. I have friends in America who have to choose between the medication that is keeping them upright and functional and feeding their kids. That simply does not happen in Britain). It never seems to occur to said people that I am not taking X because it’s not a good idea for me to take X. End of. 2) “At least you can get pregnant” (Not even vaguely consoling the first time. By the seventh time? An arsehole thing to say if there ever was one). 3) “There must have been something wrong with it” (Yes. It implanted in my shitty uterus). 4) “Lots of people have really early miscarriages and don’t even know they’re having them!” (Yes, but I did know. So fuck off). 5) Anyone trying to make out that having a newborn is harder and worse than having a miscarriage. 6) “Wasn’t there anything you could have done to prevent the miscarriage?” (Oh, yes, dozens of things, I just couldn’t be arsed. What do you think? Did you even think? Bitch).

J. Job title: Book hamster. Information professional. Will catalogue your ass.

K. Kid’s names you’re afraid will be taken by the time you can use them: One of my many brothers already took ‘Beatrice’, which had been THE girl’s name for me since I was 21. So H and I have made a much longer list. Surely they can’t all be nabbed in the next four years?

L. Length of time TTC: Five and a half years, more or less.

M. Miscarriages: Seven.

N. Number of times you’ve switched OB/GYNS, REs, FSs: I don’t switch, I accumulate. I have seen/am still seeing 2 gynaecologists specialising in infertility, 1 gynaecologist specialising in IVF (we don’t call them REs in Britain) one NHS miscarriage specialist, one private miscarriage specialist (The Professor, world-famous, hopefully correct in her diagnosis).

O. Ovarian quality: Only one ovary, afflicted with PCOS. Does put out fairly regularly, after a very lazy start. My weight is probably affecting my egg-quality. Also, I’m 36 now (damnitalltohell). However, AMH and FSH both good.

P. POAS or wait for period: Obsessive POAS.

Q. Quote from an obnoxious fertile: This.

T. Time you tried naturally: Before Clomid, 2 years or so, with interruptions for surgery. After Clomid, 2 years, with interruption for proper diagnosis.

U. Uterus quality: Utterly shit, according to me (adenomyosis, fibroids, periods that hurt like a nail-bomb going off in my pelvis, is arcuate or heart-shaped). Just fine, according to the medical profession, in that my lining is beautiful and none of the issues that make my life hell make said uterus inhospitable.

V. Vagina: Just lovely, thank you.

W. What baby stuff do you already have?: A baby-name book (I claim it’s an aid for fiction-writing). A lace shawl I am making, and can’t bring myself to finish until I get past the first trimester (and then, I tell myself gloomily, I may as well finish it as it’d make a shroud if necessary. This is what RPL does to the soul).

X. X-tra X-tra Hear all about it! How many people know the ins and outs of our crazy TTC journey? Me. My husband. The internets. My family? Not so much. They don’t want to know. It means I win the one-down-man-ship contests and that really fucks with the status quo.

Y. Yearly Exam. Do you still go in even though someone sees your lady parts most months?: The past few years, very time I get the invitation from the GP to go for a smear, I’ve been having a miscarriage and can’t. I should do something proactive about this. I really don’t want anyone else up by precious. Gah.

Z. Zits. I have PCOS. So, yes. Luckily only one or two at a time.

ETA at 4:30 pm: I was missing the S! WfI pointed this out in the comments below, and I thought, what is she talking about? Since when is there an S? Oh. Ah. Sheesh. The absence of the R, however, is universal and inexplicable. S. Sperm. Lots. H’s SAs keep comng back lavishly normal. I’m the main attraction round here, folks.

Too busy to process the anxst October 8, 2010

Item – So, you know, my husband is quite interesting. What else shall we get him to talk about?

Item – It’s been a hell of a week at work. It’s the beginning of term, and we are overrun with brand new deeply confused students who need patting and soothing and instructing and restraining and shushing and redirecting and, occasionally, shaking until their teeth rattle. We are very short-staffed at the moment (don’t ask. Big, easily-identifiable-workplace drama. Ugh) and I, who am only supposed to be doing two hours a day face-to-face with the hoi polloi because I am so very senior (no. I am not), am currently doing four hours at least, while my actual behind-the-scenes, back-office-boffin work gets done by the Invisible Non-Existent Gnomes of Not. My desk is disappearing under the Pile of To-Do. I think it ate my travel-mug.

Item – Speaking of which, when you take the lid off the travel-mug to check how much coffee is left in it, it’s fairly important to make sure you put the lid back on properly. Bent over the sink in the staff toilet, half-naked and cursing like Al Swearengen while you rinse your shirt-front is not how you want a colleague to find you. But no, I wasn’t burnt, thank you for asking. Just soggy, decorated with shreds of tissue from the impromptu mopping, and frankly quite glad to let the Pile of To-Do keep the sodding travel-mug.

Item – Anyway, I had a large G&T as soon as I got home, and I don’t think I want to stab anyone anymore.

Item – No, I have not ovulated. Current strategy, pretending I don’t give a flying fuck. Too busy, life goes on, concentrating on other things thank you, tra-la-la, haven’t even got an ovary, I just take my temperature every bloody morning at 7am for the heck of it. Ohhh, yes, this strategy is absolutely working, I’ve never been so relaxed. Hah.

Item – I’m certainly too much of a level-headed atheist to go about ascribing Malign Intent to the Universe, but really, this is all turning into the most insane obstacle race. First I don’t ovulate for nearly two years, and my uterus fills up with polyps and bleeds incessantly, so we send in the surgeons and they sort that out (false hope alert!), and then I even ovulate occasionally (false hope alert!), and then there’s Clomid and Satsuma the Bitch Ovary is forced to cooperate, so I get pregnant (FALSE HOPE ALERT!) and that goes wrong, and then my body decided Clomid is for the birds and it stops working for me AT ALL, but hey, I can ovulate on my own (yes! False hope alert!), which turns out to be a nasty game of moving goal-posts (see?) as I keep miscarrying, so at last we find a possible cure for the miscarriages (ohh, I’m tired now), but no! The goal-posts hare off back to the other side of the field! I’ve stopped ovulating again! Whatever next? Cysts? Endometriomas all over the Only Tube and Ovary? Hostile cervical mucous? Homicidal immune system? Barbed wire and trenches filled with crocodiles blocking the cervix? Armed nuclear warheads in tucked in each uterine horn? Armageddon?

Item – It’s my niece Minx’s 7th birthday soon. (Oh God, she’s seven. And I’ve wanted a child of my own since the first moment I held her and she fell asleep in my arms, less than 24 hours old). What do 7-year-old Minxes want for their birthdays, anyway?

And back again July 16, 2009

So, we got the internet back. Why yes, we lost our broadband; where did you think I’d been? Anyway, I’m here now.

(Oh God, I nearly went mental not having access to the internet. Evenings went ‘oh, I’ll just check my post, wait, no. OK, I’ll check my blogs, arse, no. Twitter then, arse arse, no. Fine, I’ll just go online and see what’s on telly, ARSE, no. I shall have to google that actor I’m sure I’ve seen in something else AAAAAARGH,’ and so on and infinitum. I am such a sad eejit).

Anyway, update on current situation. Today, 12 days post ovulation. Past form would indicate period starts tomorrow. I was so bored what with the lack of internets I whizzed on two separate pee-sticks, both so very negative I am snow-blind from staring at them. Mind playing usual favourite trick of talking me into feeling nauseous every time I think about it too hard. Also, I have spent days being bothered by nasty metallic taste in mouth, which Logic would dictate is caused by extensive building works at work, which fill the air with dust, but Logic is being chased round the locker-room and towel-flicked by Hysteria at the moment. So, two pee-sticks sacrificed the gods of MindFuck.

Having peed on the second (blanketty-blank) stick today, I now feel crampy. Go me.

All change July 11, 2009

Why yes, this is absolutely a two week wait. We performed our marital duties most assiduously at exactly the right time and everything.

Naturally, I am using the fact I ovulated merely as a good indicator of which day I will need to have filled the bathroom shelves with sanitary products and feminax ultra by (Friday or Saturday week, thank you for asking).

Eh, no. I am not going to let that bitch Hope in the house again. No no no. She can stay out in the yard and howl at the lighted windows in the drizzle and the dark. Now she knows how I feel.

Meanwhile, in the rest of my life, H, poor lamb, has my horrible cold/possible swine flu. I came home on Friday evening to find him tucked up in bed feeling shivery and pathetic. As I type, he’s huddled in his towelling dressing-gown, laughing very feebly at the comedy on telly, and looking clammy and glassy-eyed. Oh joy. Especially as he is a man, and therefore a rotten patient:

a) He will whimper about how much he aches or his head hurts, and I will recommend two paracetamol and a cup of tea, and I will make him tea and fetch the pills, and he will drink the tea, and he will complain about being achey, and I will say sympathetically ‘oh, isn’t the paracetamol working?’ and he will say ‘I didn’t take the paracetamol,’ and I will stare at him in bewilderment.

b) He will roam incessantly about the flat in nothing but underpants and slippers, answering every query with ‘dunno’. Can I bring you anything? Dunno. Are you hungry? Dunno. Are you thirsty? Dunno. Do you want a cup of tea? Dunno. Shall I cook dinner now? Dunno. I’m going to the shops, can I get you some throat sweets? Dunno. Do you want a sharp kick on the shins? Dunno. Shall we find out the hard way? Dunno. Etc.

c) He has naps in the middle of the day when he’s unwell. I am a royal bitch, aren’t I? Of course the poor ailing lamb should be allowed a nap. Lots of them. But I am envious. I am an insomniac and I can’t nap unless I have a migraine (in which case I think it’s technically passing out, not napping). Envy envy envy. Also, I can’t do a bloody thing when H is asleep, I can’t watch tv or listen to the radio or otherwise crash about; well, I could, but then I’d wake him up, and like I said, the poor lamb should be allowed a nap. I retire to the kitchen and read a book in conflicted and resentful silence. The stupid thing is, I like reading, and by the time H wakes up again, I am thoroughly absorbed and wish he’d go back to bed and stop pacing about and opening and closing the fridge behind my head.

‘Do you want me to bring you a drink, sweetheart?’

‘Dunno.’

You mean… all this time… we could have been friends? July 9, 2009

Do you know what pisses me off?

Well, apart from everything, I’m easily pissed off.

But just right now, what is pissing me very much off indeed (can you tell by the swearing?), is the bloody irony, that back in the Autumn I was ovulating solo. Yes, OK, late, and erratically, but I totally was. Start Clomid, stop ovulating. Stay stopped. Stop but totally. Up the Clomid. No doing. Try a third time. Nope. Satsuma pulls all her follicles in and pretends to be dead. Weeks pass. Eight weeks.

Fine, I cry. Bollocks to the Clomid. We shan’t bother any more. I will set fire to the remaining packets with much ceremony in the back yard. Ha ha.

And Satsuma, who is two parts contrariness to three parts laziness, hearing this, yawns, rolls over, and idly pops one out.

Can I stop myself from thinking about how many au-naturale cycles I could have had in the last six months if I hadn’t been battering Satsuma senseless with Clomid? Can I buggery.

Too f*****g busy, and vice versa July 7, 2009

Where was I? Where am I? What is this? Is it a blog? Should I be writing something in it? Wait, I can do that. I can try. Yes. This is trying. Right. Updates. Let’s have some of those.

The Cold That I Mentioned Last Sunday – yes! Still going strong! I Have had the sore throat stage, the feverish stage, the sneezing snot-face stage, the hoarse, croaking stage (ongoing), and the coughing-like-a-grampus stage (also ongoing) and I spent two days off work feeling like the arse-end of Blackpool Pier after the stag-night to end all stag-nights has shaken its prongs across it. I thought colds were only supposed to last a week. Hah.

The Huge Big Miss-This-And-Be-Disinherited Maternal Family Sunday Lunch – this was originally complicated by the fact the Father-In-Law was staying with us for the weekend (he was playing at a festival, and I felt, sounded, and by God looked like a barking frog. Originally, H was going to stay home with his father and I was going to catch a train and face the hordes alone. Then H’s father was going to drop us both off at Aunt D’s house for said lunch on his way home, as he was planning on leaving on Sunday morning after all. Then H’s father realised he needed to bring quite a few enormous and delicate musical instruments and would have to strap one or both of us to the roof-rack if he was going to be giving lifts. Nevertheless, H’s cover was thoroughly blown, so we both got the train to Aunt D’s. Wait. I made notes:

• The gathering consisted of Aunts A, B, D, E (C is my mother), Uncles F and G, Spouses B, E, F, and G, Cousins 1 (me), 3 through 9 (this includes Trouble and Diva), 12 and 13 – cousin ages, 34 to 3 -, spouses and boy/girlfriends 1 (H), 3 (Fucktard), 4, 5, one grandchild (my five-year-old (‘five-and-three-quarters, Auntie!’) niece Minx), and assorted friends of the family. 30 people. For Sunday Lunch.
• Luckily Aunt D has a big garden, and maids. I am not kidding about the maids.
• My most heartfelt thanks to Roger Federer and Andy Roddick, for keeping their Wimbledon final going for four hours and sixteen minutes. While that was on, most of the Maternal Relations could not possibly spare a thought for any, any, of each other and there was a miraculous lack of nosiness.
• I spent a vast part of the afternoon playing with Minx and the two teeniest cousins in the garden. Minx ran me ragged. Also, bless my dear sweet cousins for this bit of dialogue. Keep in mind, we were only playing football.
  Minx: Let’s pretend! Let’s pretend I’m the Feather Fairy and I’m playing football with dragons!
  Cousin Twelthelina (who is 4): Then I’m a princess! In a ball-gown!
  Cousin Smallest (only 3): I’m a boy!
• Uncomfortable infertile moment: H was talking to Cousin 5, who moved in with her boyfriend in Abroad-land a year or two ago. He asked her how things were Abroad, and she moved from Abroad to getting married before her visa runs out to her future in-laws to how said in-laws are already hinting wildly about babies, in about seventeen seconds. H looked gravely at the table while she went on a little ‘isn’t it funny how badly people want to be grand-parents’ shpiel, complete with amusing anecdotes about the Aunts all competing over cuddle-time with the teeniest cousins, references to biological clocks, and complaining in a jovial way about all the pressure. I tried to catch H’s eye for a brief ‘you have no idea,’ eyebrow moment, but H was studiously avoiding anything of the sort. He later said this was in case it was obvious, and lead to questions. Poor lamb. He’s known my family for 17 years and still can’t quite take on board how astonishingly unobservant they are in mid-anecdote. And then Minx created a diversion by clambering all over us, and then I was dragged away to play Dragons and Feather Fairies Play Tennis (‘Tennis’ in this case consists of Dragon Auntie May being absolutely banned from touching a racquet, and instead having to gently under-arm bowl at the exact centre of Princess Feather Fairy’s racquet, on pain of scolding. Princess Feather Fairy is Very Good At Tennis When Dragon Aunties Play It Properly).
• Minx also dragged me out of another Uncomfortable Infertile Moment. Aunt D saw us playing and came over to tell me I was ‘very good with children’ in tones of astonishment (thanks), awkward pause, ‘I mean,’ she added, ‘you don’t have any yourself…’ at which point Minx rushed up to point out I wasn’t chasing her. Which I wasn’t. So I did.
• Trouble, Aunt D and I got into an awkward conversation about clothes sizes (Aunt D and I, avec curves, Trouble, absolutely sans), which lead to a very tedious conversation about diets, with Trouble being sententious in the middle (did I mention she is sans curves?). Aunt D went off, and Trouble then wanted to know why I was dieting so hard, having always curled my lip at diets before. I started to give a brief response about NHS guidelines for further fertility treatment and do you know what? Trouble stared vaguely into space for a few seconds and then interrupted me to point out we both have thin lips, like our Dad. And then she wandered away. So that was the Trouble WTF? moment of the day.
• H and I eventually got home, after much enfafflement, being driven to my mother’s for supper (the most silent meal I’ve ever eaten there), and more trains, at midnight.

My Amazing Inner Organs, Or, The Saga Continues – I wonder if H stopped to wonder why, despite the heavy cold and the Social Engagements Of Libido Death, I was so very eager to make sweet sweet love leading up to and over the weekend? I’ll tell you why, at any rate. Satsuma was Up To Something. Owing and pinging and EWCM and The Works. So, may as well have a good old college try, even though she’s probably lying and/or deluded. And on Saturday night, I thought, seriously, I know that damn ovary is faking it, she’s done this to me before, I know she’s faking it, but sheeee-IT that felt like ovulation. Only, now my charting software agrees. As do all the physical symptoms. Ovulation on Saturday. Well I never, stap me vitals, crikey etc.

I still suspect she’s faked it.

Several cuts of the whip June 19, 2009

It has been a less than fabulous week.

It ought to have been a fabulous week. There were theatre visits, and a weekend, and my husband bought star-gazer lilies, and I saw friends, and a last birthday present turned up in the post, hurray!

But I was in a foul mood anyway, about the Clomid Doesn’t Love Me Anymore thing, so I was attracting anxst. As you do when your mood is foul.

On Wednesday, the evening of the day in which I had learnt this cycle was another Epic Fail (I am so good at those now), H and I joined my good friend E, and some friends of his, to go to the theatre (that bit was great, we saw Waiting for Godot, and it was AMAZING. A. MA. ZING). Anyway, E’s friend hasn’t seen me for a couple of years, but we always ask after each other, so, as we were walking along, she asked, ‘so, how’s the kid?’

Awful pause.

‘The… the what?’ I stammered.

‘Your kid? You’ve got a baby, haven’t you?’

‘No,’ I said, evenly (yes, evenly! I was impressed too!).

‘Oh, I thought you had,’ she said, looking confusedly at E, who having missed the exchange, smiled back.

Arse. E was one of the first people I told when I was pregnant, mostly because I nearly puked on him. Oh, don’t be angry with E, both his friend and I know he tells the other all about each, and I know eye-watering stuff about her, so it’s only fair. Only, he seems to have missed out the vital point that I did not, in fact, have the baby.

I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t face it. No doubt she interrogated him at length later.

Then, at work, a few days later, a colleague, let’s call them P for Parent, having told me all about the lovely things they’d done with their small children over the weekend, asked me what I’d been up to. I mentioned the theatre trips (I’ve been on several). ‘Oh,’ said P, ‘That’s the problem with having kids. You don’t get to have so many evenings out. You’re so lucky. I wish I could go to the theatre as often as you.’

‘To be honest, I’d rather have the kids,’ I said, stung, and not very evenly at all.

There was a horribly awkward pause. A LONG, horribly awkward pause.

‘No, you wouldn’t. They’re such hard work, they take over your life,’ P began, and then, thank GOD, the meeting started, and P had to shut up. This being the same P, remember, whose children are the light of their life, and whose weekend was one great ocean of family cuteness, three minutes previously. As P is quite a nice person, I can only assume this was a cack-handed attempt at comfort.

Because, really, I’ll totally take the cute kids over the theatre visits and lie-ins. And I’m willing to bet P wouldn’t take the years of fertility treatment, surgery, failure, and the silent bitter weeping of their beloved partner over the loss of their child, even with all the Godot versus the Space Wizards theatrical triumphs in the world thrown in.

Yesterday I was hauling my pathetic arse out of the incommunicado funk everything had hurled me into, when I got a migraine. It was a two-stage migraine. I ran home with one eye completely blood-shot, half-blind, nauseous, dizzy, collapsed, and the actual agonizing headache failed to materialise. I had a headache, but not as bad as that headache, and despite infuriating photophobia, was quite chirpy by evening. Aha, it was merely biding its time, and I woke up at dawn feeling like a rugby prop forward was standing on my head. Most of day spent in bed with head under duvet, as blinds utterly unable to keep a sufficient quantity of that bastard light out of the room.

A fine end to a pisser of a week. I think I shall have a drinkie.

P. S. The oven just broke, blowing every fuse in the house. When I have got over my joy that the modem survived, I shall swear a great deal and have ANOTHER drinkie.