Category Archives: There is a husband

The strength of innocent victimhood.

Gentle Readers, how kind and supportive you are all being. So very kind. I read my comments and feel like I’m having the most glorious group hug. Thank you.

I am moving out, you know. Just… not very fast. I want to get all my ducks in a row (pecky little fuckers) and move out in one graceful and majestic step, into my own place that I actually own. The thought of short-term renting makes me feel ill, as does the thought of moving in with family while commuting a trillion miles a day. Both are indeed possibilities, yes, and are emergency back-up plans should things hit a critical mass of mutual displeasure. Meanwhile, I don’t want to leave my stuff, my home for the past ten years (my entire married life) and, frankly, I don’t want to leave my husband.

Don’t get me wrong. I am nevertheless going to leave my husband. The particular nature of the Velociraptor made that completely non-negotiable.

But I regret it horribly. H and I started dating in our teens. He’s been part of my life for more than half of it. There were bits, great long bits, chunks even, where our relationship was pretty bloody wonderful. He really was my best friend, I adore him. I love his company, his quiet slightly daft sense of humour, his everyday thoughtfulness (the cups of tea, the dinners cooked, the bunches of daffodils just because). There will be a hole torn in my heart the size of the Taj Mahal when I do move out, and I don’t know how long, how painfully long, it will take for the frayed edges to knit together again.

I worry about being lonely. I worry a great deal about money, and budgeting, and dealing with mortgages. I worry about H being on his own, and going back to play with his Velociraptors. I worry I will panic and buy a flat I hate. I worry I won’t find a flat I don’t hate. I worry I won’t be able to have a cat. I worry about slipping when getting out of the bath, breaking my neck, and being eaten by the sodding cat before anyone finds me. I worry that I am being a pathetic cliché, and any of my Gentle Readers who do live alone are curling their lip at me right now.

As for H, well, as for H. This weekend I ended up crying like a toddler who has lost his Irreplaceable Blankie – great, wracking, purple-faced, open-mouthed, howling sobs (It was not fun. It was not good. I had such a headache afterwards). And yet, H was crying too. It would be simple and easy to set fire to his clothes, tell all his friends and family exactly what he has done, burn bridges, change locks, and deep-fry his amaryllis. Even he would probably agree he deserved it. But, and this is an important but, a very important but, he has to be H for the rest of his life.

I get to suffer the pain of betrayal, and the shock (I thought things were looking up! I really did!) and losing my chance of having a biological child (do not fucking argue with me on this one. I am 39 this year and have had ten miscarriages and the last one very nearly killed me. I am not going to be having biological children now, and it’s cruel and silly to pretend otherwise, and not in the least bit comforting). I get to suffer a loss of income, and the loss of my home, and my marriage, the loss of a good and much loved husband. I lose my identity as wife, as the half of a whole, as Life President of Federation H&May.

But H has the burden of being the Bad Guy. He too has lost his marriage, his beloved wife (I don’t doubt he did and does love me. Just… not enough, and certainly not wisely and thoughtfully enough). He too will lose income, and his home of the past ten years. As he is only 39 and healthy, he may still have a chance of children (if he can find a woman dumb or brave enough to not mind about the Velociraptor, but, yes, he has to find a woman who is either spectacularly stupid or suffering from some kind of St Teresa complex and won’t that be fun for the pair of them?). He is going through all the grief I am, of loss and abandonment and his whole life falling apart around him, but whereas I get righteous indignation and the golden burning knowledge that I did my utmost to make this marriage work, he gets guilt, shame, the ugly reminders that he did this to himself. And to me. When I weep, he knows exactly who just stabbed me to the heart.

So, yes, H is the Bad Guy. It very much is that simple, which I agree sounds unlikely, but there it is. And he will have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. I can afford to be civil, and patient, and kind to him on occasion, for exactly that simple reason: He is to blame, and I am not.


Scenes from the beginning of the end of a marriage

May and H, sitting side-by-side in the living-room, watching the ice-dancing at Sochi, gleefully discussing the relative merits of sequins, frills, and little black gloves in costuming. H has just made May a cup of tea. Anyone would think they were going to eventually die aged respectively 87 and 88, holding hands in bed. 30 minutes earlier, May was shrieking ‘A Velociraptor, for fuck’s sake! In my house! In my house!’ while H sat with his head in his hands and wept.

May, at the end of her evening commute, standing outside the house in the dark, looking up at the stars, longing to go home, for minute after minute, because there is no home anymore.

H, weeping after finally telling his parents about the impending divorce, and May, automatically, unthinkingly, putting her arms around him.

‘I’ll have the Claudia Roden cook books and the Elizabeth David ones.’
‘What about the Madhur Jaffrey ones?’
‘One of them’s yours. I gave it to you.’ Pause ‘You can totally have the Complete Potato book as well.’
‘OK, what about Nigel Slater?’
‘I’ll arm-wrestle you for him.’

H is watching The Voice while May cooks dinner, and May dances about the kitchen area, singing along, suddenly happy. Suddenly actually happy. About what? Foolish woman.

May is sitting in the lavatories at work, stifling her sobs in case someone comes in and kindly asks who is that sobbing in the cubicle? And can she come out so we can have a wee now?

H is troubled. He’ll be seeing some of his family face-to-face, and doesn’t really want to tell them about the true nature of the Velociraptor, for verily, no one likes a Velociraptor-owner. ‘Don’t tell them then,’ says May.
‘But they’ll ask, and I don’t like lying to them.’
‘But you had no problem at all with lying to me for four fucking years?’
May storms into the kitchen and starts rage-making coffee. H follows her, looking pathetic, to apologise. ‘Look,’ says May, depressing the cafetière plunger, ‘Just tell them it’s too painful to talk about. And then if they push it, they’re the ones being awful.’ H looks relieved, both because of the advice, and because May hasn’t hit him with the kettle.

May spends a few minutes spitefully hoping H’s family do winkle it out of him, and the whole episode ruins lunch, before roping in Bitter McTwisted and setting her to googling divorce blogs.

May goes to brunch with a good friend, but has cried so often she just sort of sits there like a waxwork while her friend’s eyes fill with tears on the reciting of the Tale of the Incipient Divorcening. In any group of friends there is one who, hopefully only for a few months at a time, takes on the role of That One To Whom All The Shit Happens. For now, this friend is May. May drinks entirely too much coffee and talks energetically about Shakespeare instead.

H makes a couple of pitiful attempts at blaming the Velociraptor on the miscarriages. ‘I always thought I’d’ve been able to get rid of it if we’d had a living child…’ he begins, before May erupts in a painfully ugly fury. Because May herself wasn’t worth remaining dinosaur-free for? Now H is channelling Henry VIII? The fuck? A few days later, H uses the unwise phrase ‘well, you weren’t entirely to blame…’ and comes within a whisker of having his entire wardrobe left out in the middle of the road.

May goes back to googling properties within commuting distance of her place of work. Shamelessly, in the middle of the living-room, where H can see her.


The Paradise of Fools

So I am living in limbo right now.

I think, I think, with my mother’s help and my savings, I will be able to get a mortgage on a very small flat. My mother, however, is smack in the middle of an insanely large (and gloriously insane) project right now and is communicating mostly 48-hourly text messages saying, basically, ‘thinking of you, speak to you when Project Insanity is over’. I don’t want to start flat-hunting until I know exactly what I can afford. I call this ‘being quite sensible’, but my sense of what is sensible has taken such a smacking it has demagnetised and occasionally points to the Faroe Islands.

The Velociraptor is, I suppose you could say, in a cage in the middle of the kitchen. It’s no longer chewing holes in the marriage/floor joists, but every time I have another quick peek at the damage, I find something else shredded, sagging off its hinges, or barely held together with duct tape and white-wash. And the cage is taking up rather a lot of room. And it’s still in my house.

The thing is, at least one of us is stuck here until the end of May, as that’s how long the lease is for. H and I are being very adult, civilized, and polite to each other. And, vitally, there are two bedrooms, and H is now sleeping in the other one. Technically, I could stay here until the lease runs out. It’s not horrible. It’s just miserable.

It is so miserable. I already miss H so much. Well, I miss the person I thought H was. As I was coming out of the station this evening on my way home, I bumped into H going the other way (he had a thing to go to), and my poor stupid Golden Retriever of a heart leapt up with happiness – it’s my favourite human! There he is! My human! – and I actually trotted over to him, smiling and pleased, to say hi. And put my hand on his arm, and had him smile back at me. And walked home leaking tears because he wasn’t my human after all and I was going to have to leave him soon.

I loved him so.

My H, who brought me tea every morning we woke up in the same building. Who gave me Doctor Who DVDs for birthdays and Christmas. Who would empty and wash out washing-up basins for me when I was vomiting uncontrollably every stupid month. Who would run me a bath if I was tired and cranky of an evening. Who would text me at work to let me know if the trains were running late. Who took on most of the housework uncomplainingly when my chronic pain and constant miscarriages turned me into a sofa-dwelling slug for weeks and weeks on end. My H, my kind, sweet, affectionate H.

And all the time, he had this catastrophic secret.

Back in, I think, November? H and I had an ugly fight, in which, eventually, I broke down in tears and asked him why he had said so few nice things to me since the miscarriage/DVT/PE debacle? He always used to be verbally affectionate, saying he loved me or that I looked cute in that dress or some such lovely remark every few days. And this had stopped but completely. (In fact, the first time I brought it up, a few weeks earlier, the next day H stopped in the middle of the pavement, cupped my face in his hand, gazed upon me with a faint smile for some seconds, and said, I quote, ‘these last couple of years have really aged you.’ Holy fuck, H, what the hell?). Anyway, we had a row, and I, having ranted at length at how yes I did mind his never saying he loved me any more, asked him why he’d stopped? And he answered, very irritably, ‘It’s never a good time.’

There, that there, should have been the enormous great screaming claxon of THIS RELATIONSHIP IS APPROACHING THE DEATH ZONE.

But instead we were hunting for a counsellor and planning an FET (an FET, incidentally, I should be right in the middle of right now this minute) and I was starting to feel optimistic that maybe this would be OK (the marriage, that is, not the FET, because I was not utterly lost to the pink clouds of delusion).

And then I found out about the Velociraptor.


Back she crawls

Hey, Gentle Readers. How are you all? And look, I’m still alive!

Item – Yes, I have gone for a good old gloomy-pants new look around here. Things are suddenly and to my intense disgust very different, and this is the bloggy equivalent of cutting most of my hair off and dyeing the remains Emotional Midnight Ink.

Item – No, there have been no further shocking revelations about my health. It remains as it ever did – endometriosis, PCOS, adenomysosis, allergic to bloody everything.

Item – Actually, it’s the marriage. Which you, dear kind readers, have watched me occasionally vapour and kvetch about right here on this very blog – the communication issues, the sex (lack of) issues, the not-being-on-the-same-page-hang-on-is-this-the-same-book? issues. It turns out you can’t be even so much as in the same library when one person is hiding a rather important thing from the other. And I found out.

Item – Other things I found out these past twelve days:

  • Fainting from shock is actually a real thing that really happens (being me, I of course politely waited until I was all on my own before fainting from shock, and had to get back up again to make my own hot sweet tea. Which I am still irrationally pissed off about).
  • You can miss a person horribly even when they’re sitting the other side of the room from you, eating popcorn and glumly watching the Olympics.
  • You will actually say ‘please don’t speak to me right now or I will hit you with a chair’ and actually, sincerely mean it as a polite warning made out of concern for the other’s health and wellbeing.
  • There are such things as Deal-Breakers. That will break even 20 years of love and 17 years of cohabitation and 9 years of marriage. And will break them all with a clean, hard, irretrievable snap. And the pain will come closer to killing you than even pulmonary embolisms and RPL.
  • That property prices in Britain are fucking insane and I will be forced to mortgage my every living relative for a cupboard with a chemical toilet in the corner.
  • That it will be my cupboard. That I long for it now with the power of a thousand suns.

I can see you, Gentle Readers, practically bouncing on your seats in your eagerness to type ‘but what the hell happened? What did you do? What did H do? WHAT? WHAT?’ And I am going to cheerfully piss you all off by not telling. H, as furious as I am with him, as shattered as my heart is, nevertheless deserves both his privacy and the right to tell his story his way, should he ever want to tell his story.

The night after I Made My Discovery, I dreamt I was painting the walls of our home, but the plaster kept flaking off to reveal what looked like grey-blue dinosaur hide (I don’t have an unconscious. It’s all Captain Obvious in there). So let’s just say H was keeping a velociraptor under the bed, even though I hate velociraptors, am scared of them, and have always said things like ‘Oh, we don’t have velociraptors! We’re not velociraptor people, are we, H?’ and H would say ‘What? Oh, yes. Quite. No velociraptors. May doesn’t care for them.’

And then the velociraptor burst out and bit my leg off.

So, you traitor, you really believed you’d keep
this a secret, this great outrage? Steal away
in silence from my shores? Can nothing hold you back?
Not our love? Not the pledge once sealed with our right hands?
Not even the thought of Dido doomed to a cruel death?

Virgil’s Aeneid, Book IV, translated by Robert Fagles

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19807#sthash.DPtFK5vF.dpuf

You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

Donal Óg, translated by Lady Gregory.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19457#sthash.RJd5MWfD.dpuf


Fussbiscuiting

Yesterday, I left my dear friends in a state of mild panic, as Cute Ute decided Cerazette be damned, she was Cute Ute The Despoiler, Hear Her Roar. HFF commented on our uncanny bad luck in matters reproductive, and there were reasons… whereapon H confessed that he was a bit freaked out and had been all week.

You see, while I was staying at my Dad’s, I forgot to take my pill one night. I realised as soon as I woke up, and took it straight away, and the next one just before bed as usual, and was then back on track hurrah. When H and I finally got home, we were so pleased to have survived the Parental Oblations with only a few scratches, we fell into our own lovely bed with cries of joy and reacquainted ourselves with the boinginess of the mattress.

I think it was about then Satsuma was twinging, but she twinges at changes of diet, changes of weather, and frankly changes of underpants so I ignored her.

This past week, I have handed a cup of half-drunk tea back to H, asking which tea was it supposed to be, because it tasted weirdly metallic. I have felt sick more days than not. I have had an upset in my lower bowel. I was cheerfully putting this all down to eating stupid things I shouldn’t eat at Dad’s (the wine! There was relentless unavoidable wine! In food! I may as well have eaten the wire-wool pan-scrubber, it’d’ve been gentler on the linings).

Then the bleeding and Christing fucknuts vicious back-ache started, and as you know we all collectively freaked out. Because it would be just like Satsuma and Cute Ute to gang up on me and throw all my carefully thought-out decisions about the FET to the winds in a careless rapture of cruelty, while Bitter McTwisted kicked my head in about being a careless, careless, careless little idiot and this is why we couldn’t have nice things.

In my defence, the Cerazette leaflet suggested the pill had to be more than 12 hours late to be ineffective and this one was 8 hours late. To my horror, various frantically googled websites have suggested it need only be 3 hours late to lose effectiveness. Fuckittyfuckfuck.

So I scrabbled about on the bathroom shelves (Good Lord, the collection of empty moisturiser jars I’ve built up) and found a lone lorn remaining pregnancy test. I peed on it this morning, and it came up resolutely negative. Negatively negative with extra negative, which as you know negates the double negative and sets it back to negative again.

Um. Yes. Putting this one down to ‘hormones, they fuck with you. Even on the pill’ (as suggested by Dr Spouse (see yesterday’s post’s comments)) also Cute Ute’s absolutely vile personality.

Or it could’ve been a chemical pregnancy. Oh, who the fuck cares. Either way, it’s Not A Thing and we’re back to waiting and taking folic acid until the official spotting that signals the beginning of FET, The Maddening, in approximately three to four possibly five weeks’ time. Yes? Yes. Righty ho. Nothing to see here. I’m going to get a large drink, mind.


‘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?


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