To everyone who stopped by to say congratulations, I love you guys, group hug! Group hug! Ach, must blow my nose now.
I think I have given in for the moment and accepted that I am, at this precise moment, growing a blastocyst into an embryo. I say accepted. This is short-hand for ‘have given up coffee and camembert, am feeling wistful about the coffee, tendency to stop dead on beholding a pregnant woman in the street and gape like a beached fish getting out of hand.’
H is alternating between telling me I am precious and wonderful, and staring blankly into the middle-distance. Apparently, this is normal.
So, for all those who really do not wish to read obsessive dwelling on p-word symptoms, by all means look away now.
Definite Official Symptoms, As Mentioned In Books:
- No period. It may not be Officially Late for those overachievers who have 16-day luteal phases, but I am four days late. Hah hah!
- Boobs. Oy, but they’re uncomfortable. They feel likes bags of rocks. Bags of rocks some complete bastard is poking with a litter-stick at random intervals. And none of my bras feel quite right, and the two newest are TOO BLOODY SMALL. Considering that I am approximately 17 minutes p-word, this is ridiculous.
- On Saturday I had heart-burn. On Sunday I had heartburn and weird swilling feelings in my stomach. Monday morning I dry-retched on the loo at the scent of my own body-waste. And had heart-burn. And felt vaguely sick in the evening. I am pretending I did not, as, like I said, I am approximately 17 minutes gone and feeling sick already is wet! Wet I tell you!
- Hyper-sensitivity to the smell of urine, garbage, the fish-counter in the supermarket, and the utter freak who picked a can of deodorant up while I was standing near her, staring at body-lotion, and SPRAYED HERSELF ALL OVER WITH IT.
- Metal-mouth. I feel like I have licked the contents of my wallet clean.
Could Be Anything Symptoms:
- Since Thursday, vague uterine aches and cramps, very like the ones I usually get the day before my period starts in earnest, and cheerfully going on all day. This is allegedly normal, but is freaking me the hell out already.
- Acne. My chin looks like a relief map of the Deccan Traps.
- Tendency to leak tears at tragic news on the radio, other people’s children misbehaving, having to walk past the cribs and cradles to get to the loo in John Lewis’s yesterday, etc. etc.
- Headache. Could be the heat. It is HOT in Blighty these days. Can’t take ibuprofen. Argh. Gah.
- I have borrowed four books on the p-word from the library already. What can I say? Control-Freak seeks Information Overload.
- I peed on a stick yesterday morning. Positive, if still a little faint. And then, when I got in yesterday evening, I peed on another stick, just to check, as if the ucky tummy and rockery-boobs weren’t enough. Even more positive. So there. Managed to not pee on a stick this morning. I still have quite a few pee-sticks. I can’t see this restraint lasting.
- Have nick-named the blastocyst/embryo already. On discovering that this week was dedicated to growing a neural groove and a notochord, I commented that it was just like a Pikaia – the earliest chordate we have fossils of (which looked very much like an inch-long worm but crucially wasn’t, as worms do not have spinal chords). After a few hours I realised I was thinking of It as ‘Pikaia’. H has agreed this will do as a blog name, but also thinks I am a Colossal Geek.
The Big Thing that is oppressing H and myself is Telling Other People. Naturally, I need to tell the ACU, as they will be expecting me to have called and announced the beginning of my third Clomid cycle by now. I have not a clue as to whether they will hang on to me for a few more weeks just in case, or send me straight to the GP. I can only find out by calling them. Ergo, I have not called them yet. Silly May.
But then there’s Family and Friends. We could leave it until Week Twelve. That’s considered the ‘safe’ time. On the other hand, if this does all go belly-up and we haven’t told, do we want the family to carry cluelessly on, trampling on our raw and aching hearts? Which they will. And if we have told, will their well-meaning attempts at consolation make me commit ritual homicide? And in any case, it might not go belly-up. (Typing that last sentence made me feel very peculiar). I have taken to frantically announcing that I shan’t tell at all and just let them guess at Christmas. H pretends I am just joking.
Dear blog-pals, including the lovely delurkers who were so sweet to my pee-sticks, what do you think? Seriously? When should we tell? And how? Please? Advice, thoughts, anecdote, assvice even? H and I feel completely lost about this.
Caveat: Having just been given a nice new shiny job at work, the very same week I discovered the p-word status, I am NOT telling work until I either a) am the size of a Blue Whale and not telling has become beyond ridiculous, b) being sick every half-hour (God forbid) and therefore HAVE to explain or c) in labour, whichever comes first.