Carry on

Item: Period has stopped messing about with the watery spotting and settled into its usual full-on clotty down-pour. I’m quite pleased. Well, I’m not pleased, as I’m tired and in pain and my collection of super-plus-extra tampons is shrinking rapidly, but I am satisfied. I was tormenting myself with all sorts of cheery worries about the ERPC/D&C and endometritis screwing my lining and/or ability to grow a nice plump one ever again. Of course I was. I am a Silver-Medal Olympic worrier. I twitch if someone hangs my bras on the wrong laundry rack to dry. But it’s all acting normal, well, normal for me, so I can go back to worrying about, variously, my dissertation, the fact I owe about seventeen people emails, work, the dissertation, eating enough fruit and vegetables, caffeine intake, the dissertation, and failing to respond to the clomid this time just because.

Item: Speaking of eating fruit and vegetables, I had a good look at my *ahem* waistline (we shall call it that. It’s where the waist is supposed to be, after all) in the mirror at work the other day, and I said to myself, hmmm, someone has been spending the past two months comfort-eating, hasn’t she? And oddly enough, I did not then go and find a coat-hanger so I could flagellate myself from the comfort of my desk while scarfing pastry. No, I sighed, metaphorically patted myself on the hand, and had a banana instead of a flap-jack with my coffee.

Item: Took first clomid last night. So. Citius, altius, fortius. Or so I am telling H. Heh heh heh.

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