In that case, I shall have a whinge. So there. November 12, 2009

I can’t touch a bloody thing without it breaking at the moment. First my lap-top blue-screen-of-deathed me *sob*, then the oven went into a frenzy when I turned the grill on and blew every circuit in the house, and now, the blown fuse-box/ power surge from the oven’s demise has done something drastic to the main house hard-drive (why yes, we back up. H is a computer type. We totally have an external hard-drive) and this is messing with the brains of H’s computer (which he is kindly letting me use until I can sort the effing, blinding lap-top out). I am now absolutely convinced I am carrying a dark static cloud of electronic death about with me. I’m nervous even writing this in case something else goes kablooey. Perhaps I’ll delete the entire internet when I press ‘post’. That’ll be fun.

I’m very close to my extended-due-to-life-being-shit deadline on my first creative writing assignment and I am doing very badly. I was writing a jolly little short story about swimming lessons. Eh. H asked me yesterday how it was all going.

‘I wrote a poem,’ I said.

‘Excellent!’ he said, ‘That’s really encouraging! What’s it about?’

‘Dead babies.’

For some reason, this struck us both as hilarious and we laughed like owls for minutes on end.

Anyway, the jolly short story is rubbish, and I know it rubbish, and I shall have to submit it anyway, and I have never felt so like covering each page in footnotes and footnotes of excuses before in my life.

For I do have my footnotes, pace Pain Olympian Gold Medallists. They’re only footnotes. I’m not trying to claim them as the main thesis of my existance. Anyway, I’ll share them with you. Chiefly because they are going round and round and round in my head and this is interfering with the creative writing. And slightly because I may only be a bronze medallist, but hey! Bronze is shiny too!

You see, whenever I am trying to, in the old-fashioned phrase, ‘improve myself’ educationally or careerishly (lost cause, that last one), something always goes spectacularly shit-tastic in my personal/family life. To whit:

• Just before my GCSE’s (exams of national importance taken at 16, for non-British and puzzled readers), I broke my arm, and had to take half my exams with a cast on.
• During my A-levels (extremely important exams that university attendance is decided on, taken at 18), I started fainting on a regular, weekly basis. I was also in agony a lot of the time, and rather under-weight. It was all blamed on my periods, which were going to be just fine after I’d had a kid or two (such a sensible thing to say to a 17-year-old). I actually had a) glandular fever (infectious mononucleosis/ Epstein-Barr), b) a nicely developing eating disorder (in that, I didn’t) and c) a gigantic teratoma that eventually ripped my left ovary in half. I collapsed and was rushed to hospital for emergency surgery. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I always talk about my ovaries and fallopian tubes in the singular.
• During the third year of my BA, my sister Trouble had a turn at being extremely ill. So ill that at one point she weighed less than 6 stone (80 lbs). Eventually she was diagnosed and got surgery and is now a skinny but reasonable 8 stone, so all was well, but at the time, we were all scared to death.
• At the end of my MA, when H and I were living together for the first time, H lost his job, because of some rather disgusting office politics, and we were both forced to go and live with my mother until we could find new jobs. Yes, my MA suffered (I went from Golden Girl guaranteed a distinction to Slight Embarrassment lucky to pass at all).
• During my PhD (which, thanks to the MA erk, my tutors were now a bit iffy about), my mother developed breast cancer. I took a year off to nurse her. My mother (thank God) recovered. My PhD didn’t.
• During my second MA, I lost my first pregnancy. Did quite well in my dissertation. On reflection, would have preferred it the other way round.
• Now I am doing a creative writing course. Jesus Christ, Universe, I was only doing it for fun.

There. I whinged. And now I shall stop whinging and go find some blessings to count.

If you are reading this, then I did not kill the Internet. Hurray!

I am having a moment November 10, 2009

Please excuse me, my beloved regular Gentle Readers. I must just get a few things off my not-inconsiderable chest. You may prefer to avoid this post and return next time, as I can assure you I am not talking to any of you.

Item – If a blogger wants people to comment on her/his blog, it’s a good (logical?) idea to make sure they can. To take, ooh, a completely random example, if a blogger has a blogspot account, they might want to make sure they haven’t left the settings so only people with blogspot or google accounts can comment. As lovely as a given blog-post is, I am so not going to set up yet another account, on top of my wordpress ones, my hotmail one, my university one, my work one, my favourite forum one, my favourite forum off-shoot one, and my fertility charting one, just so I can say something on a new-to-me blog, on what might be a one-off mission. It’d be infinitely more courteous of the blogger to quickly-quickly-takes-three-minutes change his/her settings to accept openID or similar. No, I don’t mind doing word verification. Yes, I can perfectly see why a person wouldn’t want any old anonymous wing-nut barging about in the comments. Still. OpenID. Is way to go.

Item – Please don’t email me privately just to tell me how your four miscarriages and two failed IVFs trump my two (three?) miscarriages and six Clomid cycles. Of course they do. I never said they didn’t. I am well aware there are bloggers/blog-readers out there whose stories make mine look like a brisk skip through the autumn leaves in my favourite park. But, you see, my blog is about (go figure!) me. It would be very odd if it were about you, don’t you think? You’re perfectly entitled to set up your own blog and ask for your well-deserved cookies and cuddles on that. Meanwhile, as I skipped through said park, I trod on a rake. I may not have fallen in a bear-trap as you did, but my nose is bleeding right now and a hanky would be more… befitting?… than a lecture on the bigness and sharpness of the stakes you fell on. (For the record, I am writing this here instead of replying to you privately because my hand went into a sort of spasm as I read your email, and I hit ‘delete’ and then I hit ‘delete irretrievably forever’. And then I ran away and made a cup of tea and spilt said tea over carpet. When I had finished mopping and hyperventilating, I realised I couldn’t retrieve the email. This is probably for the best). (Also for the record, this email was (apparently) not from a blogger or a regular reader/lurker).

Item – To the person who, anonymously, left a ‘how exciting! Congratulations!’ comment on the post with the positive pregnancy test this morning: That photo was taken more than two weeks ago. There have been, what, ten? posts since that one. While I appreciate the sentiment, it is a good idea in general to check the most recent post on a blog if you’re late to the party. Especially on an IF blog. We are the club of Shit Happens. I’m afraid I have deleted the comment. I’m in a button-stabbing sort of mood. I do appreciate the sentiment, I swear. It’s just the timing of it that… is not quite… you know. (Incidentally, this happened last time too. *sigh*).

To those of you who read all this anyway, despite the fact it didn’t apply to you, sorry about that. I must now go and knit something at a ferociously tight tension and knock another cup of tea over.

Things we can’t say in front of Mothers-in-Law November 8, 2009

We have been dealing with this miscarriage inappropriately.

While we were waiting for the scan to confirm whether I had an ectopic or not I stated calmly: ‘Last time round I made the mistake of only asking to get pregnant. This time, I remembered to ask for a genetically normal embryo, but stupidly forgot to mention in the uterus.’

Once we’d discovered it wasn’t ectopic: ‘Ah, see what I did there? I forgot to ask for viable. I need to make a list.’

While we were walking home from the hospital the first time round, after blood tests and a thorough wanding (during which the technician left the room to find the consultant and H ended up holding the ultrasound wand in place inside me until she came back (um, yeah, that was so very very not erotic) I told H he’d need to give the RM clinic blood and semen samples. He flailed his arms wildly and staggered across the pavement clutching his brow, wailing ‘It’s so intrusive! It’s so invasive! I don’t how I could possibly cope! It’s just too much to endure!’ and I leant against the wall and nearly peed myself laughing.

‘We didn’t have time to think of a cute nick-name for this one,’ I said. ‘Flash-in-the-pan,’ said H.

After it was all over, and H and I were having a sorrowful embrace, I tenderly said: ‘The thing about Pikaia was, we were given the time to fall in love with her, or, at least, with the idea of her. [Pause] Of course, this one was a pain in the arse from the moment of conception.’

As I lay on the hospital bed, H took my hand and said ‘Life really is a sexually transmitted, fatal disease, isn’t it?’

Shortly after that, the sweet doctor came in to tell us that my Beta levels had dropped below 5, and I wasn’t in the least bit pregnant any more. I distinctly heard H mutter, ‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time.’ I cracked up.

Whatever shall we do? November 6, 2009

To book an appointment with a specialist clinic, one has to tell one’s GP (or, possibly, one’s GP tells one instead) that one wishes to do so. The GP writes out a slip of paper, and one takes that to the receptionist, who takes it to the secretary, who allegedly will come right out and book you an appointment there and then, or (as has happened every time I’ve used the system) will not come out, and the receptionist will return and tell one to go home and wait for a phone-call, as the secretary is ‘a little busy right now.’

It took four days for the secretary to get back to my this time, one weekend short of my ‘this is the fucking limit‘ rule and subsequent seige of the GP’s offices until results, em, result. And, bless her heart, having established that I was me, said ‘I’m so sorry you need this clinic.’ Me too, sugar.

Anyway, I have an appointment to see the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic at Mothership Hospital on the 7th of December.

Now I was all, whoo! It’s only a month wait! Whoooo! H was more, wtf? A whole month? Bloody NHS. I insist on being pleased. The NHS is perfectly prepared to let people wait for ninety million weeks to have an actually painful and disruptive condition checked. Technically, I’m fine hanging about for a month unless (wahey) I get pregnant this cycle, which brings me to the next big freak-out:

Should I even be trying to get pregnant this cycle? Keeping in mind I always know exactly when I ovulate, so the whole ‘but then we won’t know the dates!’ is bull-pucky. At least, it is for me. And I didn’t have surgery, so I don’t have to worry my pretty head about healing. And I was less than five weeks pregnant, so I doubt my uterus was feeling much strain. I can’t think of a physical reason why I should carefully lay a naked blade down the length of the bed between us.

Emotional reasons? Well. Should I be risking another bleedathon right after this one? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to know what is wrong and why and what can be done about it before offering up more hostages to fortune? And will I snap like a dry twig if it happens again?

Also, I am 34 and beginning to feel the breeze from the onrushing juggernaut of Advanced Maternal Age. Also, I go completely nutzoid at Christmahanukwanzaa (what? Don’t all infertile people?).

Also also, despite the recent sudden realisation that I am quite good at getting pregnant as long as I actually ovulate, I still can’t help but feel that the chances of getting pregnant in any given cycle are somewhere between ‘ah hah hah hah hah hah’ and ’snowball in hell’.

I never said I was rational about any of this.

I win. Damn. November 5, 2009

Item – Since the momentous day I decided not to renew my Pill prescription, four years ago now (four! Four years! For fuck’s sake!), and start a determined assault on Castle Baby, I have had twelve ovulatory cycles. Twelve in four years. Pfft. However, of those twelve cycles, two (with an option on possibly three) ended in pregnancy – I use the word ended with all possible irony. Even I have to admit two (three) out of twelve is really not bad. It’s ’statistically normal’, or possibly even slightly better than ’statistically normal’. I win.

Item – I was so worried about the state of the One And Only Fallopian Tube. I have had two HSGs, and both times the radiologist mentioned it looked, well, borked, and both times Miss Consultant thought it looked OK, and I would wind myself into a frenzy about it. I think, now, with two intrauterine pregnancies (or, fuck-ups, as I prefer to call them when I’m in this mood), we can be sure the damn thing is not blocked. It may be leaking unspeakable fluids of toxic death into my uterus from the possible mild hydrosalpinx the radiologist kept seeing, but it’s not blocked or so damaged it stops eggs wafting along it in a timely fashion. So, I win.

Item – My mother came over for dinner last night. It was good. She seems to get it now. She did bring up the whole ’so excited you can get pregnant!’ thing, but she followed it up by saying ‘because, after last time, I was so worried you wouldn’t be able to again.’ And looked sad. And my heart melted. I won that one, in the end, but sheesh, be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. (And apparantly, when Mum told Diva about the miscarriage, Diva cried. Oh God).

Item – I thought of another possible diagnosis that would explain both the miscarriages and the fact I bleed like stink during periods and bled so very, very ludicrously much for a less-than-five-weeks-gone loss. Von Willebrand’s disease, or a similar clotting factor deficiency. About one in a hundred women have it. It is hereditable, from one or both parents, and the mild version is sometimes not even noticed at all in men (though my Dad has a tendency to turn a small kitchen accident into a flailing blood-spraying-up-the-walls melodrama. Maybe he’s not actually being melodramatic? For once?). In women, it causes really, really heavy periods and pain on ovulation (from internal bleeding). And possibly an increased risk of early miscarriage. Of course, the GP ordered the blood tests for a clotting disorder, not a bleeding one. I was thinking about this, nodding along with the GP’s thinking, and I announced firmly to H that it’s not like I bruise easily or get nosebleeds much, and he looked at me as if I had suddenly declared I was a turquoise stoat and pointed out I do bruise easily and I get a damn nose-bleed every time I get a damn cold (only, they tend to come on at night and end up in my throat rather than down my face. Umm. That was disgusting, wasn’t it?). So I thought, indeed, why a clotting disorder? I am positively lavish with my blood. I catch a hang-nail and it bleeds for fifteen fucking minutes. Should we perhaps be looking in the opposite direction? What do you people think? Is this a win for self-diagnosis and Dr Google, or a fail for vapouring?

Item – At this very moment I am only being tested for the clotting disorders mentioned before. I’ve had my thyroid tested (twice) in the past, and both times it came back normal. My mother, however, who does have real official thyroid problems, got a little hacked off about this and pointed out there were several different things that needed to be tested to determine thyroid function, and they only found her issue by testing all of them, as the standard test comes back normal for her and frankly, her thyroid is visible across the sodding room. So I think I need a proper thyroid screen, clotting tests, bleeding tests, karyotyping for the both of us, FSH and LH tests, testosterone and SHBG tests, progesterone, estrogen, anything I’ve missed out? I shall have to print out a list and take it with me to the clinic. And this is a win, you know, because thanks to the wonders of blogging, I have internet friends who can tell me I need these tests. I have advocates.

Item – I’ve lost a few more pounds this week. I am thinner than I was when we married. I am thinner than I have been for seven or eight years. I am within a few pounds of BMI 29, and the green light to go ahead with IVF (this being a whole ‘nother post, you understand). It’s a fucker of a way to lose weight, though. Bit of a pyrrhic victory.

Item – I am watching movies and eating chocolate in my pyjamas, on a Thursday afternoon. This is totally a win.

Up. Down. November 2, 2009

Item – well, we went to the sushi and movie extravaganza. It was fun-fun-fun.

Item – Minx and her bestest friend had a running squabble and had to be forcibly separated on multiple occasions. This was tiresome. This made me think uncharitable thoughts about Trouble’s parenting skills.

Item – My sister had told bestest friend’s mother I was a super-special snow-flake on the basis that said woman is a midwife and might have some advice. I’ve never needed a sodding midwife. What the hey, Trouble? As it was, said woman was embarrassed as I was and we politely Spoke Not Of That.

Item – At one point I lost my tiny mind and found myself carrying a sleepy Minx back to the car-park. Now Minx may be a small, slender, fine-boned six-year-old but she is still a six-year-old and after a few steps the Voice of Reason tapped me urgently on the shoulder and spake thusly: ‘May, you’re going to pass out. Put the kid down before you both crack your skulls open on the pavement.’ So I offloaded Minx onto H and staggered around a bit until what was left of my blood got back to my brain. And was very subdued for the rest of the evening.

Item – Up was, well. It was good. It was enjoyable. It was funny, and scary, and moving. The famous opening sequence was much briefer and more subtle than I’d expected (I was almost disappointed by this), but it was well-observed and felt sadly familiar. The house and balloons turned into the most beautiful and elegant metaphor for the burden of grief I have seen in a movie. It wasn’t one of Pixar’s best, and seemed to consist of two plot-lines violently bashed together until they stuck, which did the two main themes something of a disservice. It was very, very beautiful to look at. So, you know. Why not go? Unless large dogs scare you anyway (at one point of maximum tension, I heard Minx, several seats away, bellowing: ‘Bad doggies! Bad!’).

Item – Because of how the seats were booked in advance, H ended up taking the lone seat a little way away from the rest of us. I still can’t work out if he did this out of politeness or out of a strong desire to actually not sit next to any restless children or infuriating in-laws.

Item – My brother-in-law is a Fucktard. As is my younger sister’s boyfriend. Oh, they said nothing to me. They just are boring, self-centred wimps who find it perfectly acceptable to leach off their partners and their partners’ family. Am I the only one of the whole damn clan with any taste at all in men?

Item – This naturally leads to the extremely bitter thought ‘why can they have children while I can’t…’ and we shall stop that right there, as it gives me indigestion and makes me unreasonable towards inanimate objects.

Item – I think it was because there were children present (and acting like cocaine-fiends) and we were in public places and I was very quiet anyway, as I felt very tired, but Trouble did absolutely no hand-holding or bawling at all. But did do an infuriating ‘I know something special about you that the others don’t know’ act, asking me if I was really really OK, after, you know… in front of the others right after I had answered their questions with, ‘I’m fine, really.’

Item – OK, it was probably dumb-arse to say that, as I was, according to H, both ashen and waxen. Don’t panic, I look better today.

Item – Pffft. Bit of an anti-climax all round.

Does this sound lunatic to you? October 31, 2009

So, a few days before I knew I was pregnant (hah! Pregnant, indeed), I called my sister Trouble about my niece Minx’s upcoming 6th birthday. Was there a party? Was there a plan? And Trouble thought it would be nice for us all (i.e. Minx, her daddy Formerly-Known-As-Fucktard-With-An-Option-On-The-Nickname-Being-Reinstated-If-He-Doesn’t-Grow-A-Pair-Sharpish, Trouble, Diva, my brother-who-doesn’t-have-a-stupid-nickname-because-he’s-too-nice, my Mum, my step-father, Minx’s bestest friend, bestest friend’s parent, H and I) to all go to a sushi bar and then to see ‘Up‘.

(Yes, I did say Minx was turning six, but seriously, the little eccentric adores sushi with the same fervent passion her mother and aunts do).

I thought it was a lovely idea. H and I both wanted to see the film, family outings with raw fish emporia in them are good (we always behave better in public. Like most toddlers, really). And, secretly, I was hoping that the famous opening sequence, which is about infertility (infertility! Dealt with sensitively and In a kids’ cartoon! I know! I was so pleased!) would perhaps assist some of the more relentlessly clueless family members to, umm, get a clue. Or possibly not, but it’s harder for them to argue I am making a fuss if the almighty Pixar thinks I most certainly am not.

And then… And then. Yes. Arse.

I was all prepared to pull out, because a) I am tired and sore and still a little feverish, b) there is a good chance I will bawl hysterically during the movie, c) the six-year-old’s birthday treat is, um, not a good place for bawling aunties and d), well. Family. Duh.

Anyway, I did some pre-emptive ground-laying by calling my mother and just right-out telling her what had happened (novel tactics!). To her credit, or, possibly, to my credit, I did not feel the violent urge to reach down the phone and rip her a new one. We’ve both learned. She has learned not to be such a colossally insensitive runaway juggernaut of Stupid Things To Say. I have learned that I won’t get much support and understanding from her. Love, concern, generosity, gifts, hugs, and mothering, yes. But she had three easy, easily-come-by pregnancies, three full-term easy labours. She does not get it. And, I suppose, never will. (My MIL, on the other hand, burst into tears when H told her the news. But then, she lost a baby between H and his younger brother, so. Poor MIL).

Mum’s one stupid remark of the conversation, just to prove she hadn’t completely lost the knack: ‘I know it’s hard for you, but it’s actually quite exciting that you can get pregnant!’

Err. No. Not if they keep dying.

But at least she acknowledged it was hard for me.

Anyway, there I was, all braced to back out, when Trouble called to finalise plans. And I realised Mum had not shared the news with her at all (WTF? My family normally elevate gossip to a vocation). So I did. And, to my shock, my absolute shock, Trouble said all the right things. She said she was sorry. She said that it sucked. She said that she understood if I couldn’t face family and movie. She asked anxiously if I was OK now, and recovering. She asked how H was doing. She sympathised about all the rushing in and out of hospital. She laughed at my jokes, especially the one about having mastered getting pregnant, so, now, how did staying pregnant go? And we talked about my mother’s relentless jollity in the face of disaster, with daughterly wry amusement.

So, you know, I thought I might go after all. Especially when Trouble said we could hold hands and bawl at the first part of the movie together.

In which I lose all self-respect October 29, 2009

Hello, I’m back, I’m writing this in the comfort of my very own armchair, drinking flat ginger ale out of my very own glass, wearing (thank God) my very own pyjamas. Aaaaaand…. breathe.

Well, that sucked. As H said, yesterday I was sitting about at home, minding my own very gloomy miserable business, when I noticed the bleeding getting more-so. Fair enough, I am having a miscarriage. The pain is getting more-so too. Only to be expected. Only, hang on, surely, this is just a little much? This pain, this bleeding, a bit fucking much? And at the point where I collapsed on the bed sobbing and howling in a manner that makes me feel quite pink with embarrassment to recall, H decided, that is enough. And started calling in medical assistance. I have no idea who said what to whom about what and when, as by this point I was kneeling on the bathroom floor with my head in the toilet. Oh, joy. And then there was an almost-pleasant-in-comparison interval while I lay on my face, thinking ‘holy hell, when did I last mop in here? This floor is disgusting‘ while H ran about finding clothes to stuff me into and books and keys and phones and a bag and whathaveyou while waiting for the ambulance.

The gas and air in said ambulance was very nice, by the way, once they’d solved the air-lock in the feed which had the mouthpiece making a hideously funny farting noise every time I sucked on it. The pain was still going on, but it was happening to some other poor unfortunate woman just over there, so that was all right (I remember pethidine having much the same effect on me). I was aware that my undercarriage was very very wet, downright soggy, even, and possibly this was cause for concern, but hey! gas and air says relax!

When the ambulance driver was helping me roll from their trolley-bed onto the hospital trolley bed she said ‘oh! You’re actively bleeding, aren’t you!’ and I was alas too stoned to say ‘nooooo, I’m definitely passively bleeding… I’m just lying here getting you to do all the heavy lifting…’ Then the gas and air wore off (the cruel brutes were taking the cyclinder back to the ambulance with them, as if anyone else needed it more than me, HAH) and I realised that in the 30 to 40 minutes we’d been in the ambulance (they were taking us back to the hospital that released me the day before, hence long drive), I had bled through a super-duper heavy flow pad, the track-suit bottoms H had shuffled me into, the thick towelling dressing-gown ditto, the ambulance blanket, the sheet, and onto the trolley.

Yes, I know. Yuk. Exactly.

Anyway, this sort of thing gets the attention of the A&E doctors fairly sharpish, and I was being peeled out of my sodden clothes and put into a hospital gown in short order. My blood pressure had dropped, not catastrophically (or I suppose they’d've been ripping me open looking for internal bleeding), but definitely, so they got a drip in – the poor nurse had to dig for a vein, what with mine all being half-empty and pathetic, and I even noticed that it bloody hurt despite Cute Ute ramping up the hysterics. And then the on-call gynae doctor turned up, and she was very nice, and announced she was going to examine me internally, at which point H firmly announced he was going outside to find a glass of water. I think he’d had about as much gore and sobbing as he could take, poor lamb.

Cue unpleasant episode with speculum, swabs, tweezers, and so on.

Gynae doctor finally explained that she thought a piece of pregnancy tissue had got stuck in the cervix, and all the massive cramps, bleeding, vomiting and horrible horrible blood-clots where the Cute Ute’s attempts to get it out (cervixes are fussy like that). It had gone now, anyway. And finally, here was some codeine to make it all better, and a bed in a private room to feel all better on. And poor H, who had reappeared when the exam was over and had been holding my hand and carrying bags of my blood-stained clothes about, was allowed to go home.

Today started quite well. The sweet doctor who had diagnosed the not-ectopic-after-all reappeared, and there was talk of scans and second opinions. I felt… OK. Sore, but OK. I read my book. I dutifully used bed-pans so the nurses could check the amount of fluid coming out of me was matching the amount going in, and (urgh urgh urgh) keep an eye on the blood-clots to make sure I was passing pregnancy tissue, as they kept calling it. I was. Urgh.

By lunch time everything was going tits-up again. The sweet doctor and the nurses had got all at cross-purposes, and no-one knew who was doing what with me when, or, at least, certainly not bothering to explain it to me. H called the ward at midday to ask after me, but they didn’t bother to tell me that, and I was wondering where the hell he was. They told him I had had a scan (I so had not) and a second opinion was needed (actually, sweet doctor wanted a second opinion to decide if there was any need to do a scan). H called back at 2, and no one told him that I was asking for him, ohh, no, and then no one told me that H said he’d be along at some point later that afternoon, so I was getting quite stressed on the ‘where the buggery fuck is my bloody husband?’ scale. This was all compounded by the fact the pain was back, in spades, with added burningness and tenderness, and by the time I drew the nurses’ attention to this and she finally got around to finding some more codeine, I was having a ‘pain peak’ in the cute phrase of the sweet doctor and neither codeine nor diclofenac could control it.

In short, gentle readers, I panicked, and cried. Again. Which sucked.

Luckily, sweet doctor had been collecting together all my blood and urine test results and had found her second opinion and came back to find me tear-stained and dishevelled (thank GOD for the private room, eh?) and in need of reassurance. So she gave it. The blood test (the Beta, you call it in the States) was under 5, and the pee-stick was negative, and there was no danger of a lingering ectopic they’d missed. The cramps were certainly caused by the passing of the ‘pregnancy tissue’ and would get better over the next few days, as should the bleeding.

As for the rather extreme nature of the pain I was in? Umm, well, it would seem I had managed to pick up a urinary tract infection on top of everything else. The burning pain? Err, that was that. Made worse by pressing on a wildly cramping uterus and all the general prostaglandin excess in the area.

The indignity of it. A feckin’ UTI. I cried like a terrified six-year-old over a UTI. I will now burst into flames of shame. *foom*

And, naturally, having discovered that the reason I was feverish, with a racing pulse, cramping and aching horribly, and feeling like I’d been run over by a small-to-medium sized tractor, was a mere UTI (oh, and some mere serious blood-loss), and not internal bleeding or a ruptured ovary or John Hurt’s Alien heading for fresh air and daylight, I cheered the fuck up and felt much much better. And then H turned up, and I felt better still. So much so that they agreed I could go home, with a big pile of antibiotics and pain-killers, and lots of warnings about coming straight back if I got worse again (or panicked myself into hysterics again. Hah hah).

Embarrassing, really, to discover just how much you can aggravate your own physical pain by being terrified and miserable. Also, my famous posh British stiff upper lip? I’ve lost it. I shall have to make do with a fake mustache.

Anyway, Gentle Readers, I love you all. Thank you a thousand times for the support and comments.

Next time, the wolf will eat me. October 25, 2009

I never got to play with my new expensive pee-sticks. I started spotting and cramping instead.

Thank you all for your kind words and support. I feel deeply peeved that we couldn’t finish the weekend off with a celebratory can-can and fire-work display. That would have been much more fun, yes? Yes, well. I know. Disappointment, after all that build-up. It’s a giant, hairy, pimply arse, isn’t it?

As for you, Cute Ute, you disgrace to the name of internal organ, you’ve spent two and a half days playing a giant game of Chicken with your poor benighted hostess, you’ve raised everybody’s hopes, you’ve been, in short, showing off in the worst possible way. You’ve let me down. You’ve let H down. You’ve let the entire bloody internet down. But worst of all, you’ve let yourself down. And now you shall have to put up with the consequences. Yes, and they’re not very nice consequences either, are they? You should’ve thought of that before embarking on your lively career as Drama Queen and Hysteric*. Now, stop snivelling, be brave, and take your pain-killers.

(Positive Thinking Fairy wishes to note, at this point, that a 14 day luteal phase is not to be sneezed at, and I should be pleased my body seems to be more healthy and regular. Shall I hold her down while you lot kick her, or do you want to hold while I kick?)

*Ooh, go me with the bilingual punning across the centuries. I’m so funny I just slay myself.

Now with added limbo October 25, 2009

This morning, my temperature was up again. H and I lay in bed for a while, holding on to each other like drowning people. H was actually trembling. I have always maintained Hope was a complete and utter bitch. I maintain it still. My H, good-natured, laid-back, phlegmatic dear old H, trembling.

Eventually my bladder announced that it would pop, seriously, if I didn’t get up and pee, so I got up and peed. On a stick. The last pee-stick in the house, in fact. With a sensitivity of 25 mIU/L. (Yesterday’s was an internet cheapie with no mention of mIU/L on the packaging anywhere, so had a sensitivity of whateverthehell).

Negative.

And even H was staring at the arsing thing at seventeen different angles and in all varieties of lighting. Hot damn, I’ve turned my husband into a pee-stick compulsive too. Isn’t that against the rules?

And then I spent some time googling the best, most reliable brand of pregnancy tests available in the UK, and we shall go shopping when the shops finally open (11 am on a Sunday, which is normally fair enough, but today? Today I need a chemist right now this minute).

No sign of Red Menace either.

Of course, buying expensive pee-sticks is a good way of getting said Menace to turn up, isn’t it? Just after I’ve used at least one of them?