Look, first I was ill. I totally was. I had a temperature and everything. Also, the coughing. No, wait, still doing that. Then, I brokened the Main Computer by power-cut-leading-to-power-surge-and-me-not-remembering-to-unplug. We have three, no, four computers in this house. We have the Old Computer, which technically still works, but explodes on contact with the new additives they put in the Internet this decade, so lives under a desk with its hard-drive torn out and is occasionally cannibalised for spare keyboardage. We have the Main Computer, which is old and venerable and slow and yet which all my email, and all my saved passwords, are on. We have H’s Shiny Huge Computer, which is H’s. And finally we have the Laptop, which is classy and lovely and all mine all mine and to which I must transfer all my email and saved passwords, and while I’m at it transfer them also to a Swiss bank, a concrete bunker in the Highlands and to a geostationary military satellite.
Which is why I am typing this on dear old Main Computer, which H spent hours resurrecting last night.
Hello! Did you miss me? I have been reading, but being locked out of my blog meant I couldn’t comment as me, and I did think about commentating as anon, and not everyone lets you comment as anon, and while I had a good cough about it, everyone posted something else and I lost the will to live.
Oh, and I spent the weekend being tormented by my mother. So there’s that.
Let’s play catchup.
Item: On Saturday I took the provera off the top of the fridge (what? Doesn’t everyone keep all their medication on top of the fridge?) and shook it threateningly at the uncooperative and mulish Satsuma. Since when, what with the whingeing and Undercarriage Lubrication anyone would think she had been relieving her feelings by smashing eggs on my cervix. As I wandered home this afternoon, she started up with the serious, no, I mean it, ow ow ow colicky spasms. I can never quite remember what they feel like when I’m not having them, and question every twinge, and then she does do them and I dig my fist into my lower belly and think aha! Like that! Ow! You’ve made your point, you stupid melodramatic little gonad, stop it now! So I texted H the glad tidings, and when we got home we went straight to bed to play last-minute catch-up, as what with the Cough, we hadn’t been Getting Much this week (has anyone else ever noticed how near-impossible sex is if one party is coughing incessantly?).
Item: Now I have Shared with the Internet, Satsuma will scream ‘Trick or treat!’ and run away. After all, I have been Not Eating Chocolate for, oh, call it a while, now. She must be very cross.
Item, and a big long one it is too: My mother and I had Serious Talk on Sunday. I am still very very angry about it, and am finding it hard to write about without resorting to bad and unfilial language. We went to a craft show, she and me and Trouble, as we are all dedicated craftswomen in our own fields. We admired the crafts, and the demonstrations, and the show-cases, and the stalls, and we all spent money and had coffee and chatted happily and had a great time and were pleased with each-other’s company. In the car on the way home, however, she decided to up the ante from amiable bickering about map-reading to Pissing May Off.
We were passing the hospital with my ACU in, and Mum reminisced that she was living in the area when I was conceived, oh irony. So that got us onto the subject of my fertility, lack of, upcoming further procedures, and chances of insides being irredeemably screwed. And apparantly she’d heard a program on the radio about how the wide-spread use of home pregnancy tests had revealed just how common chemical pregnancies are, and that most of the affected women wouldn’t have ever known they had been pregnant and lost it if they hadn’t used a home pregnancy test. OK. I’m not sure where this is going, but OK. OK?
Not OK, because, apparantly, I can ‘take comfort’ in the fact that what happened to me is ‘common’ and ‘lots of other women go through it’ and it’s ‘normal’.
In my mother’s world, getting to five weeks pregnant, starting to bleed, being admitted to hospital as an emergency with a possibly ectopic, having to have three lots of ultrasounds, bleeding for weeks on end, finally having to have surgery under a general anaesthetic because my body simply will not let go of the little dead thing it grew, following that up with a severe infection, collapsing, being rushed to hospital by nee-naw, lying on a hospital bed for two days being pumped full of antibiotics and needing another week of work to recover (and I certainly went back to work too soon), is the same as a chemical pregnancy.
A chemical pregnancy is its own little Hell of hope and disappointment and sorrow, by the way, clearly something my mother has not stopped to consider properly either.
Anyway. I did not cry, or yell, or attempt to leap out of the moving car (go me!). In a possibly-slightly-too-loud voice, in a harsh tone, I recited the whole sorry saga. Again. The pain. The grief. The fucking horrible stupid bitch-hag heartless EPU staff. What H had to go through, leaving me to be operated on, and then, oh God, the poor man, watching me roll around on the bed groaning with pain, and having to get me an ambulance, and spending all night waiting for just some one, anyone, to work out what was happening and what to do to make it stop. Trouble, sitting in the back of the car, was shocked at what I had gone through. And she certainly ‘got’ that the staff should have shown some respect for our loss. But I have no idea if Mum ‘got’ it. You’d’ve thought she’d’ve got it at the time, she visited me several times while it was all going on. Anyway, there was a long, long silence when I finished speaking. And then we went back to bickering about map-reading.
So. There it is. When I am at my calmest, I reason that she simply can’t bear such horrid things happening to her beloved girl, and blanks them out. When I am a little less calm, I remember I am the eldest of her daughters, and the eldest is supposed to be the sensible one you never have to fret over, in our clan. And I also remember that she always made a big deal out of me being a hypochondriac as a kid, even when I was really very ill indeed. And I wonder why she has this bizarre hang-up. And when I am hurt and angry, I lie awake for nights on end, insomniac, and tense as a piano-wire.