Item – And this is where I was this time last year.
Which is pretty much what I said to C the counsellor this evening.
Item – It’s been a strange day. H had a job interview for the job he’s been doing pro tem while they interviewed for a new member of staff to do the job that H is, like I said, doing already thank you. They told him later they couldn’t give any feedback on his interview, because it was absolutely perfect. Oh, and would he like the job? So hurrah! We are happy! Go H! And so on!
Item – And then we went for our counselling session and it was all ‘ohh, we’re happy – ohh, we’re destroyificated with anxst and gloom – hurrah, we’re going on holiday – gah, I want to bang my head on the wall for a bit – sob sob, dead baby dreams – wahey, progress from H on sharing feelings – bah, my boss is driving me nuts – arse, but everything is driving me nuts – sob giggle yay!’
Item – I’m knackered. You try being anxst-ridden and grief-stricken and delighted and ever-so-proud of your husband not only on the same day but in the same sentence.
Item – I think a lot of the anxst and bad dreams are to do with sheer, naked, self-widdling terror that I will never get pregnant again (don’t try to talk me out of it. I won’t be talked). It’s reached the point where I flinch when people mention adoption, fostering, surrogacy, donor eggs, and leaving all one’s money to one’s nieces. (By ‘flinch’, keep in mind I am normally ‘flinching’ out of the office, down the stairs, across the street and into the coffee shop. I’m going to get caffeine poisoning).
Item – On Saturday, we met up with some friends for a Nice Day Out. Which it was, I hasten to add, before The Bitching, Oy Vey It Commenceth. I had a fabulous day. My friends are a very special bunch of very kind, sweet, funny, loving people, and I would (and did) pay good money just to sit in the sun with them and talk drivel for hours. And I’m not just saying that because a couple of them read this (hi!). And now I can bitch. Well, whine self-pityingly, really. One of the group’s second child was born only a couple of weeks before Pikaia’s unfulfilled due date. My God, I could have had a baby strapped to my front too. I really could have. I should have. That size. Well, maybe not that size, as she seems to be breeding prop forwards, but still. And I have (privately, silently) had issues about her tendency to go on about how she doesn’t feel like a ‘Real Woman’ ™ because she had a caesarian for the first and some minor issues breastfeeding. Constant refrain in own head: ‘What does that make me then? A fucking replicant? Also, I’ve been cut open twice already, like I’d give a fuck if they did it again in exchange for a healthy baby.’ Why I have such issues (privately, silently) with someone I actually like, and in any case don’t meet face-to-face very often at all, is beyond me. I think it’s probably unfortunate that her pregnancies coincided with a) me realising I was as sterile as a bleached petri-dish and also bleeding to death (or at least, to very, very, very, very pale indeed) and b) Pikaia, or, what should have been Pikaia. I think I am projecting, or possibly doing transference, or both. Can you do both?
Item – Anyway. I have started on the Provera. Clomid cycle 5, the One With The Added Ovary And Still No Dice, is over. Thank fuck.