Category Archives: Pass the hankies

Frolicking in Limbo

Hello, Gentle Readers. Went the week well? Shall I tell you about my week? Of course I shall, it’s why I started the blog – to babble into the void, whether the void liked it or not.

Item – Last weekend I went to stay with Hairy Farmer Lady, who fed me cake in epic quantities, and then ice-cream in epic quantities, and having done that, booze in epic quantities, and then let me rant in epic quantities and took me to the theatre to boot. It was beyond awesome. And I felt, well, I felt wanted. And funny and cute, but above all wanted. Worthwhile. Worth making an effort for. Wanted. Excuse me, I must just attend to a face-leak.

Item – I don’t think H ever consciously meant to make me feel worthless and unwanted. But! People of the World! If your partner continuously complains that Behaviour X makes them feel worthless and unwanted, you have to deal with the motherfucking fact that persisting in Behaviour X sends a very distinct and hard-edged message to your partner that actually, yes, they are not as important to you as Behaviour X. It doesn’t matter if X = having a meths lab in your shed or X = just being obsessed with golf to the point where you are never available to go to Sunday lunches with the In-Laws and run interference. (Caveat, obviously, sometimes, Behaviour X is no big deal and you may feel partner is being a dick about it. Then you have to ask yourself ‘do I want to live with a dick who is less important to me than X?’). But to do something dinosaurish, and to lie to your partner about it, even though your dinosaur is making you behave in a boorish way and your partner is crying about it again, HUGE WARNING WHO’S BEING THE DICK NOW KLAXON.

Item – More limbo, in that my mother is experiencing delays in her finances, which means I am experiencing delays in my mortgage-planning, which means I am still living with H, which is a colossally awkward life experience which no doubt is vastly improving to my character and morals at the expense of my fingernails and sleep-habits.

Item – Living with H does not suck, because we are both being very adult and polite and we are both trying very hard to remember that the situation is fucking awful for both of us. Well, it does suck, but it could suck so very much more. I do remember, I must remember, that H is bearing a burden of his own and it’s galling, chafing and wearying him too.

Item – H does artistic things from time to time. I went to one of these events this week. I had been looking forward to it, you see. H came over to say hello at one point, and when he’d gone back to The Art, the person next to me said ‘oh, is he your husband? You much be so very proud of him!’. ‘Yes,’ I said. Yes. And no. And, oh God, no.

Item – I got into a bit of a panic about moving out, about not being able to move out, about renting instead for a bit, about how I couldn’t really afford to rent unless I shared, about how very much I did not want to share, about money, and was I doing the right thing? Was I? Was I? I went to see my counsellor and flailed at her for a bit. There, there, she said. Baby steps. It’s OK to take baby steps. It’s OK not to know quite what to do. It’s perfectly OK for this all to take ages and ages. If I’m more comfortable sharing living-space with H until I can sort my own place out, even if that takes months, that is OK. As it would be OK if I ran squeaking into the night carrying nothing but my laptop and spare knickers. If stability is very very important to me, that is also OK. If I am phobic about moving house at the best of times, guess what? It’s OK!

Item – Also I am strong and intelligent. It’s a thing people keep saying to me, but when my counsellor says it she means just that, rather than ‘so stop crying because you’re making me uncomfortable’ Thank you, beloved NHS, for this woman and her well-trained kindness and the fact she laughs at my jokes.

Item – I went out again this weekend (see? Frolicking!) with more people who laugh at my jokes and make me feel wanted. So there’s that. Which is good. Which is very good. There is life at the end of the tussle.

Item – And now for a quick bitching – I am baffled by the small, (very small, not you) quantity of people who have attempted to ‘comfort’ me or ‘cheer me up’ by telling me anecdotes about their own lovely children/spouses/four-bedroom houses with gardens. It’s one thing to tell me about children and spouses and houses in a spirit of ‘well, this is what is going on in my life’, because I do actually give a damn or indeed several about my friends and their offspring and belongings. But to offer up a ‘look at my adorable child! My splendid spouse gave me a present! I have walk-in closets!’ anecdote to cheer me up, when I am childless, getting divorced, and soon to be homeless does not strike me as classy.

Item – Oh, yes, Cerazette! Some kind souls have asked about Cerazette and Shark Week (or, Shark Festival Fortnight, as it insisted on becoming). I am still on said pill, I plan to stay on it until I am very elderly and menopausal. I do have a slight ‘issue’ (ho ho ho. Hee hee hee) with spotting, as it comes and goes unpredictably and hangs about for weeks, but it’s light and unobtrusive, by and large. And no periods. No burning pains in the uterus and bladder and cramps in the bowel that go on for most of the month. I’ll take the spotting, ta.


Parenting, UR doin’ it rong

We went to see my Dad. It was simultaneously awful and liberating.

Awful, because my Dad is still, fuck-and-alas, a galloping narcissist and if the situation isn’t all about him by heck he will make it all about him. We did have a fight. His heartfelt apology, for which I was at first so very grateful and by which I was at first so deeply moved, rapidly turned into a ‘thing’ about his self-awareness and how therefore we didn’t get to mind when he was a tiresome old arse because he always had been and always would be and because he was aware he was a tiresome old arse, it was an endearing quirk rather than brutally rude and cruel to his children, and the fact we’ve all got Serious Issues from is behaviour over the years is… Not a Thing? I guess? Because reasons?

Liberating, because my heart, which has always lagged miles and years behind my head on this, suddenly realised that there is no magic combination of saying the right thing or doing the right thing, at the right time in the right way, that will unlock Parenting Level ‘Unconditional Love’.

Awful, because there were good bits about having this man as a father – the love of words and books, the stories he used to tell, his wit, his humour, his good days when he was delightful and delighted with us – and as soon as you open yourself up to the good bits, you’ve made yourself vulnerable to the bad bits. And if you shield yourself from the bad bits, you’ve cut yourself off from the good bits. This is not a dance I can do well, or at all gracefully.

Liberating, because this is not my problem. I am not my father. There was enough balance and good example in my life to save me from this ugly inheritance, this inability to see people as people, as equals, this inability to empathise, this raging fear that someone else’s gift (brains, knowledge, money, charm) is a direct threat to him and will somehow annihilate him. And that is not me. And does not have to be me.

And then we came home again, and I went and discussed all the above with my counsellor.

It would seem that a life-time of being shamed for having the wrong sort of body/hair/eyesight/attitude/artistic talent*/height/academic aptitude/pubertal development/sized breasts/menstrual problems can leave a girl feeling profoundly inadequate. Being treated as a flaming nuisance and being repeatedly accused of hypochondria and whining every time I was ill or having a bad time with my periods left rather a tiresome selection of psychological scars. And therefore, when it came time to have a baby of my own, with a body I’d been taught was flawed (and its being flawed an act of perverse rebellion on my part), my inability to make a baby was for me a great source of shame – bitter, bitter shame and guilt. My brain knows this is fucking ridiculous. My brain always knew it was fucking ridiculous. I am quite bright, after all. My poor silly heart, which has the IQ of a golden retriever and a similar desire to love all the grownups even when they kick it, needed more time to realise that I am no more ‘flawed’ than anyone else.

All humans have issues, health problems, non-Barbie-dollness, scars, lumps, wonky bits and hormones, and are nevertheless lovely, loveable, wonderful creatures. I have just had bad luck. Not as bad as some people’s obviously. But definitely worse than other people’s. This was not because I brought it on myself, in any way. Why would I? How could I? It’s not even physiologically possible.

I cannot fathom the guilt, shame, embarrassment, and self-loathing that lead my parents to take a child with obvious health problems and frantically alternate between blaming her and insisting nothing was wrong with her rather than, say, take her to a decent gynaecologist and Get That Seen To, Because Poor Kid, It Sucks. But I know I’m not the only woman who has been shamed for having menstrual problems, fertility issues, and miscarriages. And I don’t know what is wrong with our society that this happened and keeps happening, but it needs to stop. And if you have ever tried to dismiss, down-play, shame, or judge a woman over these issues, I hope you get your pubes caught in your zipper and have to be cut free by a paramedic.

*Writing instead of drawing. Yes, my family went there.


‘Tis the season. Hi.

Gentle Readers, Season’s Greetings. How have you been? How are you all doing? Me? Oh, fine, fine. It’s a long story. Have a cup of tea. Or coffee. Or cocoa. Or wine. I don’t know what you like. I don’t know what I like. Excuse me, I shall just go and stare into a cupboard for a few minutes.

Anyway (I went for tea. I’m British) anyway, (I see you were serious when you asked how I’d been. In that case, I shall tell you. In Items. Because Items are traditional.

Item – Working from the toes up, my left leg, the one that developed the big fat DVT. How is that? Well, I had a final ultrasound scan of it, during which the sonographer kept a poker face to out-poke all poker faces. Then a week later we saw the haematology consultant (a third one. Consistency being a thing that huge NHS hospitals can’t actually do on the budgets they actually get). I had been somewhat bothered by the way my leg is still more likely to cramp, to get tired, to ache, than my right leg. It was weird and I didn’t like it, and I was somewhat concerned that despite all the walking about and trying to get fit again the stupid thing was not cooperating. And, well, of course it isn’t cooperating. Third Haematologist told me that though my popliteal vein was no longer completely blocked (yay?) the clot hadn’t completely dissolved and had now scarred over. So my left leg will get oxygen starvation if I over-do it, and will ache and swell if I stand about for too long, and is at risk of another socking great clot if I push my luck. Fucking A, man.

Item – Compression socks. I hate them. They have a purpose and their purpose is excellent and my ankle is not swollen on a regular basis with thanks thereunto. They still suck. I still hate them.

Item – Cerazette! Still my bestest friend in the universe. Every few weeks, I spot painlessly for a week. Otherwise, my pelvis is filled with peace, calm, sunshine and dancing rainbow unicorns.

Item – Cerazette! Demon! My hair is falling out. I have a metric fuckton of hair to start with, so it will take a great deal of falling-out-ness before I start to look so much as wispy, let alone Leonardo da Vinci, and yet I am not amused. Not at all. Sodding hormones. On the other hand, I’d rather be spear-bald than spend three weeks out of five in so much pain I can’t really function, so fuck it. I have hats.

Item – Wheat. I ate some. Within 24 hours my oesophagus was so swollen I was having trouble swallowing (and had to go retch a few times when I had not chewed obsessively 27 times before swallowing, as ‘stuck’ is a thing). This is an official food allergy thing, apparently. I also got gut ache and wind and mild runs (trots?). I decided I hate delicious yummy wheat with a passion. Not trying that again. Damn it all to hell.

Item – Trying again. We were waiting for the all clear from the Haematologists (many and varied). The consensus is I will have to be on low molecular weight heparin AND aspirin from conception to six weeks after end-of-pregnancy. Also, I will have to wear stockings on both legs, and will probably be a physical wreck throughout. Hurrah! But, I can try again if I like. So we will go see Riverside Clinic in January, and see what can be done about tucking Frosticle back in me. On the other hand, a fresh IVF cycle? Possibly a really bloody silly idea, as ovarian stimulation/hyperstimulation is in itself a damn fine way of triggering blood-clotting. We shall see. My current feeling is, if Frosticle doesn’t ‘work’, I am getting seven cats and a pet owl and a horse called Horse.

Item – To my fury, Third Haematologist went on about there being no genetic ’cause’ for my thrombophilia, therefore I didn’t technically ‘have’ a thrombophilia, and I rolled my eyes, and what I would like to say is, actually, I don’t have a currently recognised genetic cause that you can test for. I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO have a thrombophilia. You fucking idiot.

Item (secondary, diversionary) – I much preferred First Haematologist, who was sympathetic and sensible, and Second Haematologist, who was actually The Doctor slumming it while evading the Family of Blood or somesuch. (I am perfectly serious. He referred to ‘eight of your Earth weeks’ at one point and H got the giggles (yes yes yes, so did I)).

Item – Work. I am back at work full time. It’s fine. I’m coping. Leg is not being so much of an arse as it were to interfere with my day-to-day duties.

Item – Family. Oh my God I have had it up to here with my family. I will no doubt get back to you all on this.

Item – Counselling. My NHS-provided counsellor, who I see once a week, is lovely and wonderful and has made me realise I spend an inordinate amount of time beating the everlovin’ shit out of myself for everything and anything from untidy hair to being a vile antisocial Bitter McTwisted of Doom. If anyone spoke to a friend of mine the way I speak to myself I’d disembowel them. I am practicing being sweet to myself. It is weird and hard. Also, she keeps reminding me, my family’s hang-ups are theirs, not mine, and I don’t need to take them on board at all. Build Team May! If people are not on Team May, skip briskly away into the distance singing ‘la la la’!

Item – Marriage. H and I are not happy. H has dealt with the Summer of You Must Be Fucking Kidding Me, well, badly. I have also dealt with it badly, but H has taken the proverbial biscuit, bless him. Communication has gone to hell. I will let H tell you about it. That is my revenge upon him, ho ho ho. Hi, H! Stage is all yours! So!

Item – Couple-counselling. We tried to find a counsellor. We had an initial visit in which the man would NOT. STOP. TALKING. When I bought up the whole ‘children now seriously unlikely’ thing, he had to stop me there to tell me ‘I didn’t know that’. Which, actually, was the first red flag. A good counsellor does not tell you what you should and should not be thinking about this sort of stuff on the first visit and before he knows any of the medical history apart from ten mother-fucking miscarriages in a row, you absolute 24-carat gold clotheared dickwhistle. And then tried to slut-shame me when I said I had a higher libido than H and the lack of sex and more specifically communication about sex in our marriage was making me sad and angry, by explaining to me as if I was very stupid indeed that in normal marriages, it was normal for both spouses to lose interest and get ‘too’ used to each other. Well then, I’m abnormal, as I haven’t lost interest in H at all, as I just explained, and the issue is the lack of communication, not the lack of sex per se, so sod you very much. And then, he never turned up to our second appointment. He made his excuses the next day via the practice manager. His excuse was not per se stupid, but his not getting in touch himself to grovel just a bit? Was a great fat honking flashing neon sign saying ‘this man is Not The Counsellor For You, Also, Has No Fucking Manners Whatsoever’. So. Start again.

Item – I have a disgusting cold. So there’s that.

Item – Christmas. Every card I write, every Christmas decoration I hang (or get H to hang), every present I buy or plan I make, I drag kicking and screaming from a black, angry, pissy abyss of raging misery. Just so you know. The only thing keeping me going is a) H’s various concerts (it’s a good thing, being married to a musician) and b) the prospect of the Doctor Who Christmas Special.


Not enough tea in all the world

And why are you posting so infrequently, May?

Item – Work. I am still not back up to full-time hours, because I am still tired and weedy and prone to limping and getting all breathless and grumpy. It is so frustrating and miserifying I keep failing to notice that I am better, I am stronger, I can stand and walk citius, altius, fortius!

Item – And this week, I woke up on Monday with a splitting headache and sinuses bicycle-pumped full of rubber cement. I spent all yesterday at home feeling anxious and guilty (and headachey and ill). And then I spent today at home, knitting, and trying to talk myself out of feeling anxious and guilty (and headachey and ill). To my vast irritation, paracetamol doesn’t really work on the headache, but I can’t take NSAIDs because of the fragmin. (Oh, come now, May, you giant wuss, it’s not as if it’s a migraine. Yet).

Item – At the weekend, I went on an outing en famille in honour of my niece Minx’s birthday. Minx and her friends were fine. My mother and sister were… a little difficult to make plans with. And though they were very nice about it, they were clearly bewildered by the fact I did not want to walk back and forth and up and down and to and fro all day long. I was very tired (I have been sleeping so badly), and Mum was startled and concerned to see how very pale I was (it was Halloween. I don’t need no crummy make-up to do ghostly), and yet she was still surprised that I wanted quite a few sit-down breaks. Oh, for the love of…

Item – Ah, yes, the Sleeping Badly. I am the Queen of Insomnia at the moment. I. Do. Not. Sleep.

Item – Matters have not been helped by our landlord, who suddenly offering to raise the rent by holy-fucknuts percent. But, amusingly, not to do any of the numerous little repairs and restorations that the flat rather needs. We are very amused. For a few weeks there, we were also entertaining the jolly notion of a sudden desperate house-hunt over Christmas. H has been negotiating with The Law on his side, so things may be less drastic than that, in the end, now that I’ve already had the stress-induced apoplexy. Keeping in mind this all came on the heels of The Father’s Heart-Attack, The IVF, The Miscarriage, The Embolism, and The Threat of Redundancy.

Item – You know what? Fuck 2013. Fuck it exceedingly.

Item – I saw the NHS counsellor once, and she was very nice, and I am interested in seeing what happens next. She couldn’t see me the next week because reasons, but we have a regular Thursday thing scheduled starting this week. My only twitchery twitched because she wanted to refer me to her hospital’s miscarriage specialist (Which is all very well, but the NHS has so far done something between crap-all and fuck-dickery about my recurrent miscarriages beyond the mopping-up afterwards. They ran all the tests the NHS runs, and then fat-shamed me. It took private consultants to reveal the thrombophilia-despite-no-genetic-reason-for-it and the immune issues. I do not think there is anything this new NHS consultant can do even if he wanted to). There’s something about my current medical situation that is making people leap six feet in the air and run in four directions simultaneously trying to FIND THE ANSWER FIND THE ANSWER OH MY GOD THIS IS TOO WEIRD AND MUST BE MADE BETTER. It’s a very odd change from previous years’ ‘shit happens, you fatty McFatfat fatperson fatzilla. Eat lettuce only and keep trying’. I have cognitive dissonance. But I could do with people just calming their tits a minute and letting this be what it is: A shitstorm. All this constant THERE MUST BE AN ANSWER LET ME SOLVE YOU thing is uncomfortably denialist (it’s not a bad thing because we will solve it and solve it and then it won’t be bad so you can’t be sad because we will solve it!) and very uncomfortably victim-blamey (well, you just haven’t tried XYZ, have you? If you tried XYZ this wouldn’t’ve happened, would it? More fool you!) with a side-order of God-complex (I will save you, puny mortal! Here is my solution from on high! There! Now you are saved! I said now you are saved, damn it! Be saved by my Wisdom!).

Item – Two more weeks of fragmin injections. Then another ultrasound scan of my affected leg, and another visit to the haematologist, to discuss how matters stand, and if there’s any permanent damage and so on. And then, apart from the bastard son of a donkey’s rectum compression socks, the Saga Of Clotting will, let us all cross fingers, be over.

Item – I happened to go past the Riverside Clinic the other day. Our other embryo is frozen in there, waiting. I felt like Gerda seeing Kay trapped in the power of the Snow Queen, unable to rush in and thaw it back to rosy life with my tears. I wasn’t expecting to feel like that, but now that I do, how do I say no to a FET after Christmas? And how would I bear it if the Frosticle didn’t take, or worse, miscarried as well?


Hello, hi, well… um. Hi.

There comes a time when chunks of the brain just shut down in the face of Too Much To Process. There’s the part that is ordering you to grieve (‘Go on then, cry. Feel awful. Cry, damn you! You lost a baby, didn’t you?’) and the part that will not go there (‘But it feels awful! I don’t want to! And there are endless CSI reruns to watch instead!’), and the part that is still being struck amidships by the whole ‘and then I nearly died’ thing, and the part that has decided the whole business is ridiculous and we should just get three cats and an Alpha Romeo Spider, and the part that is nevertheless planning a FET in January.

And – how could I forget? – the part that was dealing with H’s looming redundancy, and thereby putting on a cheerful face of unconcern and trust in a)H’s general excellence and b) the benevolence of the future [Based on what, you absolute lunatic? -- Bitter McTwisted]. In the event, H was not made redundant. It was only when he came home at the end of last week announcing he was transferring departments merely, and not being slung out on his ear by Christmas, that I realised just how bloody anxious and, frankly, angry I’d been about the whole thing; and how ready I’d been to march in there and punch H’s various bosses in the collective groin for doing this to him all over again (we had a major redundancy scare a couple of years ago as well, you see).

Which was not helped by the part that has just been told that the rent is going up 20%. Which is all very well, as it hasn’t gone up for several years and the landlord just noticed that every other comparable property in the area costs many many lots. And not at all very well, as H’s pay has been frozen for the past five years and I earn somewhere between diddly and squat. (OK, yes, as a perk I get to be ill for two months solid and not get fired. So there’s that).

We may be moving house next year.

AAAIIIEEEEE.

So, yes, a lot of Being Very Anxious While Quietly Watching Far Too Much Daytime Television was going on.

And that is why I was not writing. I did not want to sit down and look any of it in the eye. For similar reasons, I was staying away from blogs. I did not want to read another word about loss, or pregnancy, or fertility treatments, or adorable children. It was all anxiety-inducing, good news or bad, happy or sad, reminding me of what I had been through and what I had lost alternately, and I decided that actually I was well within my rights to pull the metaphorical duvet over my head and pretend to be a Scotch Egg for as long as I cared to.

By anxiety-inducing, I don’t suppose I need to explain myself to anyone who has ever suffered badly from an anxiety disorder, but to the rest of you I need to say, no. Worse than that. Much worse. It’s like poisoned.

So. I am now bored of being a Scotch Egg. Hello!

And how am I? Let me count the ways:

Item – I went back to work on a part-time basis last week. It is exhausting. I spend a lot of time, by-and-large, being tired, what with the chronic pain issues and occasional bouts of anaemia, but this is something else. I used to be tired, but I could still trot up three flights of stairs or walk two miles across the centre of town without getting out of breath. Now? Nope. Can’t walk for ten minutes without my stupid DVT-affected leg beginning to ache. I go up three flights of stairs slowly, puffing ‘I… think… I… can… I… think… I… can…’. Work is not the problem – I am on ‘limited’ duties and therefore don’t have to do anything particularly strenuous just yet. Commuting is the problem. Commuting is a fetid pile of dingo’s kidneys.

Item – Speaking of chronic pain issues, let me tell you about my new best friend in the entire Universe: Cerazette. This is a progesterone-only pill which prevents ovulation as well as thinning the uterine lining. Some women don’t care for it at all, but, Gentle Readers, I love this pill. Yes, OK, I started spotting after two weeks, and then near the end of the first packet I started bleeding and carried on doing so for two weeks solid. But it was light bleeding. Bleeding containable with regular tampons. And there were, get this, there were no cramps. I was not in pain. Not. In. Pain. I am not in pain. Cute Ute is perfectly comfortable, my bowels are regular and cheerful, and Satsuma is quiet as a wee mousie. [Ticker-tape parade, marching bands, majorettes, and a 24-gun salute].

Item – Meanwhile, after six weeks, my haematologist lowered the dose of Fragmin (these is a kind of low-weight-molecular-Heparin) I am on. I will be spending six weeks on the lower dose, and then we will double-check the clot behind my left knee has gone, and then I can stop injecting myself every evening. My belly is covered in bruises. I thought for a while there I’d found a way to prevent the bruising (as soon as you remove the needle from your flesh, press down hard on the injection site for 30 seconds with your thumb. Do not rub) but it doesn’t always work, alas. And the worst bruises leave hard lumps under the skin which are showing no inclination to go away at all. Heigh ho, fuck and alas.

Item – I do not like my compression socks. They seem a tad loose in the ankle, and they are frankly gigantic in the foot (‘Oh, just tuck it under!’ said the twatwhistle nurse who fitted them for me. This being the same nurse who wanted to know when I was due, and when I, my eyes filling with tears,said I’d actually lost the baby in August, proceeded seamlessly into her ‘Losing Weight Is Good For You!’ perky lecture). The thing is, I have stocky peasant calves and dainty little princess ankles, and I am not a 70-year-old varicose-vein sufferer. Yet. So. Point of socks, to prevent me becoming a 70-year-old varicose-vein sufferer. Onwards.

Item – Mental state: very anxious, insomniac, and sad. I see a therapist on Thursday, courtesy of the NHS. Our local hospital has a counselling service attached to the gynaecology and obstetrics wards, and I ever so qualify for its attentions, according to my GP, who insisted on referring me. Given that my attempts to find a private counsellor ended in a big fat blank because the people I contacted never got back to me, I’m taking it. Not that that stopped the counsellor having to cancel on me once because of ‘bureaucracy’, but she had warned me she might have to, and then called at once to apologise profusely and have a bit of a chat right there and then just to see how I was. (Note to self: stop being polite and cheerful to counsellors. Not helpful).


Unpregnant notes

And then I remember, with a sudden slapped sensation, that I just had a miscarriage, and was supposed to be focusing on getting over that.

Item – While Cute Ute got a partial grip of the situation on Tuesday, and agreed that any more vicious cramping would just be downright bitchy on her behalf, she still hasn’t stopped bleeding. The bleeding is finally slowing down to heavy red spotting (touch wood. Where’s some wood? Quick, touch it!) only today. Yeah, guess how much I enjoyed sitting about in hospital waiting rooms and corridors with my leg on fire, my heart thrumming like a harp-string, one toilet to share with all these other people, and blood persistently, unstoppably, running out of me?

Item – I am still about five pounds up on my pre-IVF weight, but all the bloat and plumpitude around my midriff has completely gone. I no longer look in the slightest bit pregnant. Just a bit… Deflated.

Item – While I was pregnant, my normally very dry skin became almost normal on my body – I could even just shower with moisturising shower gel and not need lotion unheard-of notion! – and my face and neck became downright oily. I promptly broke out in quite impressive acne. It was infuriating and gross and I loved it, because pregnant, you guys! Within a couple of days of losing 6AA, my skin was drying up. I have a whole bunch of acne scars on my neck, collar-bones and alas temples, but they’re slowly going. I need lotion by the gallon after a shower. *sigh*

Item – I can’t tell if I’m this tired because I’m recovering from a pulmonary embolism, or I’m anaemic, or I haven’t slept well for months, or I’m miserable and shell-shocked, or, no wait, I’ve got this, all of the above. You think? I think.

Item – We have our post-IVF WTF appointment with Dr George on Tuesday. I think I may have cornered the market in WTF this month. Shall we be good, and warn Dr George beforehand by email? Yes, yes we really should. Or he’ll spend the whole appointment trying to rehinge his lower jaw.

Item – Talking to pregnant people right now makes me feel weepy and panicky. I know you, oh Gentle Readers, won’t hold this against me for a second, because ten miscarriages and near-death experiences you know? I get such a free pass, yes? But the rest of the big wide world is out there gestating happily oblivious to babies die and mothers die and holy fuck how are there any humans alive at all? and I am a stoic woman usually, but not right now not even a little. I don’t know how to leave the house or be on FuckBook or talk to family or anything. *flail flail*. Ach. This too shall pass. This, too, shall eventually pass.


You’ll never guess what now

Item – Pain and bleeding still very unsatisfactory.

Item – Weeping with exhaustion is totally a thing that I am embracing with every fibre of my tortured being.

Item – Leg cramps still awful, crippling, etc.

Item – So we went to GP, who was disgruntled by leg cramps and insisted I go to Local Hospital for Doppler and ultrasound to rule out DVT. Oh, what the actual FUCK, Universe? Risk factors: pregnancy, immobility, sticky blood syndromes, coming OFF Clexane, fat arse. Shoot me now.

Item – On plus side, GP will deal with maternity services cancelling. And gave me a prescription for Co-Codamol, just to mix things up a little.

Item – Re: previous whine about people ignoring me and my piteous plight, if you’ve texted, commented, emailed, twittered, DM’d, phoned, written or FB’d me in the past fortnight, I did not, do not, mean you. At all. I am thinking of a couple of friends and specific family members in absolute particular, and both honour and honesty compel me to admit that I am not handling the situation fairly or gracefully and a Rethink Is In Order. I’d delete that paragraph in that last post if you-all hadn’t read it already. Onwards!

Item – I am writing this while H sorts things out at work so he can take the afternoon off and manhandle his limping, wilting, sagging, wailing, snivelling wife down to the Local Hospital so she can Alarm and Distress him with greater convenience to all parties.

Item – I fucking hate my life right now. Hate hate hate. Hate hate. Hate.


Various pinches

Item – Pain a lot better, but still bleeding merrily scarlet. Not heavily, just merrily. It’s the only merry thing about me.

Item – Given that Cute Ute is being merely content (for the moment, touch wood) with working her way through all my leftover sanitary towels, I have time and attention to devote to my feet and calves. Which went into huge almighty cramp on Wednesday (no, no idea why, really. Too much lying down glaring miserably at things? Not enough grotesque nonsense in my life?), and which I am still crippled by. I can’t really walk very well, and one ankle is downright bruised. The hell, the fuck, the what the crikey? And why both feet? And why? *looks disconsolate, rubs foot again*.

Item – I finally cried today. I had been limiting myself to having my eyes fill with tears when a nurse tells me she’s so very sorry for our loss. Poor H burst into tears and wept in my arms as soon as we got back from the clinic. I just gaze glumly, or angrily, at the middle distance, depending, and occasionally shout at particularly obtuse people on the radio or telly. But today I lay flat on my back on the bed, with tears running into my ears, sobbing because I come from a long line of revoltingly fertile women on both sides, all popping out babies by the half-dozen with not a single bloody loss between them, and yet here I am.

Item – I feel I have merely skimmed an inch or so of tears off the top of the pan to stop it boiling over. Heigh ho.

Item – Things to do this week: Go to the GP and sort out sick leave and letter to work. Sort out prescription for weaning self off Prednisolone. Phone maternity services and cancel all scans and booking appointments. Call Riverside’s counselling service for a chat – this at H’s insistence, because he can’t exactly share his own counsellor with me, and I am clearly freaked out and havering about the whole trying-again/not-trying-EVER-again/FET/fresh IVF mind-chess, coupled with the ‘You can’t seriously expect me to hang about menstruating for months for no reason’ PTSD horseshitaria (and apparently no, I can’t go on the Pill back to back while we sort it out. 38, fat, migraines with aura in presence of oestrogen). Buy shoes.

Item – My darling Gentle Readers and Lovely Twitterers, what on earth would I be doing without you?

Item – Some of my friends and family are busily ignoring me, of course, and because they are, I can’t tell if they are just extremely busy and preoccupied themselves, or, having sent me a card already a few times this past decade, are thinking: ‘To lose one baby, Ms May, can be regarded as a misfortune; to lose ten looks like carelessness.’ This last item is very whiny, I know. But this is part of loss and disaster – the friends who run out of patience, the family who are too self-conscious and awkward to want to deal with it, the huge unspoken cloud of ‘Again? Seriously? But I sympathised with all this shit already! You want more sympathy? Well, I’m sorry, but I have school uniforms to buy and the gerbil just died and don’t you know the triplets are teething and I haven’t been on a date night since 2012 and my spouse is job-hunting? Only the first three miscarriages count! After that, I’m sorry, but it’s all too fucking weird and anyway you must be used to it by now so why are you crying, FREAK?’ Or at least, that’s what Bitter McTwisted tells me. The Positive Thinking Fairy reminds me they’re very very very busy and no doubt thinking of me very warmly indeed and/or too busy to check my blog or emails or talk to other family members or ask after me or wonder why I am so sad and silent these days…


Large tired bitchy mermaid

I am not getting off scot-free after all, you know. Last night the Universe saw that I was physically comfortable, and the Universe saw that this was not on at all, and any and all suffering done in the past eight years by no means entitles me to a ‘get out of jail free’ card this time, and yea, verily, the Universe woke me at four am for a smiting.

Basically, and predictably, I stopped taking the progesterone supplements, and my hitherto politely dormant endometriosis awoke with a start, and leaked blood all over my lower bowel. What else was it going to do under the circumstances? So now I have that pain, in my lower abdomen, the crampy irritated pain like trapped wind or someone wrapping elastic bands round loops of my intestine, which makes me feel I constantly need to fart even when there’s nothing up there, and which causes outbreaks of diarrhoea. I also have lower backache, because my pet endo-monster does that. Not to be left out, Cute Ute is angrily sore and tender, and is spilling a little fresh blood, but she’s not able to work herself up to full-on Despoiler mode, as she’s fresh out of lining, for which relief much thanks. I have a headache, a stiff neck, and a sore throat (oh, well, cheers, Universe. Why not a summer cold, at this point?). More weirdly, and frankly unpleasantly, I woke with violent cramp in my left calf and both feet, which makes walking to the lavatory and back into something melodramatically tragic à la Little Mermaid, original worryingly sadistic Hans Christian Andersen version.

I am a fucking wreck, Gentle Readers. And much of it feels like a dirty psychosomatic game being played against me for elaborately sadistic metaphorical reasons. And I resent it.


Not much to see (outlook negative)

Scan: gestational sac and yolk sac but nothing else, no sign of foetal pole, let alone heartbeat.

Scanning nurse thought she could see where bleed came from, very close, but below implantation. Re-emphasised not necessarily a bad thing… Then May started bleeding…

We were ushered to a small, airless room while a report was collated and doctor found to have chat with us. A few minutes later a new to us doctor was confirming to us, what we were beginning to suspect, that chances were slim and we should have another scan next week.

On the way out May needed the loo and there she passed a massive clot. I ran off to find the doctor again and she said that doesn’t change anything, still worth having scan next week to “check everything has gone”.

A mercifully quick bus ride home. Punctuated, of course, by toddlers wailing. We held each other tight.

Now we are home again. Anger, numbness, sadness and incomprehension.


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