Right. Well. Easter. Spent in Arse End of Nowhere, sans broadband. Avec two enormous dogs. (I am not a doggy person. Even the nicest, sweetest, best-behaved, cleverest doggy in the Universe is still a dog, still smells of dog when wet, and still gets covered in deer-ticks when romping on the moors). But my father, whose dogs, and indeed, Arse End of Nowhere it was, reacted very well to the news of my Womb of Doom. Sympathetic, concerned, no assvice or thoughtless remarks, and an extra hug or two. He did point out, in a bewildered sort of way, that absolutely no one in our family has fertility trouble (this is true. He is one of eleven. My mother is one of seven. I have approximately nine million and eight cousins). But he turned it into a joke about there never having been anything wrong with his womb… Well, it was funny at the time.
(Oh, all right, you had to be there).
And my step-mother, who is the kindest woman in Europe, was kind, and my step-sister was thoughtful and concerned.
So, gold stars all round for the Paternal Contingent.
So bally there with brass nobs on to the Matriarchy.
Then, of course, we went to H’s grandfather’s funeral. It was sweet and simple, and I’m glad we went. I am a little frazzled and sad, partly because I’m still so bally feeble I’m about as much use as a lettuce-leaf, and I usually cope with this sort of thing by, oh, I don’t know, polishing cutlery or making sandwiches for 87 or correcting everyone’s spelling. Also, am inclined to lose my temper and cry at the least little thing, so am best kept out of the way of anything too frustrating, like sellotape, talkative uncles, or tea urns.
We got home yesterday, to discover that the Spherical Infertility Specialist who can’t speak English has finally sent my GP a letter, and has utterly neglected to mention any recommendations at all as to what type of contraceptive pill I should be put on to spare me a) the bleeding thing and b) the vastly increased chance of miscarrying what with the Ute being quite so fucked up at present.
So I cried. Again.
My provera runs out on Sunday. The pain and bleeding last time were vile. I am scared.
Back to the GP on Monday. Please God, let someone, somewhere, take three minutes of their precious paid-for-by-my-taxes time and give a shit.
(Bitter? Me? Good Lord, what gave you that idea?)