Oh, look, it’s me! Hello, me!

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.

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15 responses to “Oh, look, it’s me! Hello, me!

  • Xbox4NappyRash

    Yikes.

    I think these are battles you can never really win, it really is a case of some people will never ‘get it’ unless they experience it.

    But, indeed, maybe she was trying. Not so hot, but trying.

  • fourstar

    That would seem to be the default setting for ‘parent’ and while I love mine dearly, they could represent Great Britain at ‘Missing The Point’. Always remember that you are right; they are the support team. End of.

  • ritac2008

    sorry darling – and yes I did miss you – actually in my little world, my father recounts how his mother lost the baby before noon and was cooking later in the day for dinner, implying of course that I need to suck it up and get on with things….but truthfully when he’s hurt, he hurts the most out of all of us because suckin’ it up can only go for so long before you explode.
    Rita

  • Korechronicles

    Would like to see Human Genome project try to find gene fragment for this so we could work on getting rid of it. Think it is connected to Stiff Uper Lip DNA at some point on the helix. Might be limited to Great Britain but given the success of that entity’s 18/19th century Empire Building Program has managed to infiltrate to other distant societies as well. Only an anecdotal example, I know, but my mother…she was affected. And , as of today, there is no remedy. For them or for you.

    I’m sorry it hurts so much. Take the wonderful comfort that H offers and remember that they know not what they are doing. And, I know you know this, it doesn’t mean they don’t love and care about what happens to you. Sending you a virtual hug. And how about that hand made book? Would that help?

  • Korechronicles

    PS. Glad you’re back. I’ve got enough mobile broadband to comment but broken router has cut me off from long internet sessions and cannot post photos. So I hear your “Give me back my unlimited access” cry of anguish from 12,000 miles away.

  • geohde

    *waves hello*

    Sorry on item cough.

    Congrats on item s.ex despite item cough.

    Especially if satsuma co-operates.

    As for item mother….well.

    xx

    J

  • Artblog

    You must not brokened electrical things, can be very dangerous and yes, I did miss you 🙂

    x

  • womb for improvement

    Parents, can be so well meaning, but so clueless. I’m impressed you managed to talk it through rather than the yelling / car evacuation options. I find I revert to a teenager on occassions like that – which doesn’t help my case.

    Thank you so much for your comment about provera on my blog. It was the most useful bit of advice I received for months, and made me feel much happier about my doctors reasoning (which she had not bothered to share).

  • Hairy Farmer Family

    I spy Fourstar’s fabulous ringlets! Hello! I didn’t realise you lived anywhere except Whoopee!

    I generally walk away from a new Nuts post with a beautifully-turned phrase to brighten my day. This time, I am chortling over both ‘stupid melodramatic little gonad’, and ‘Satsuma will scream ‘Trick or treat!’ and run away’.

    I am also grimacing about The Mother. If it was anyone else making those type of remarks, there would be absolutely no emotional struggle over how to categorise them and their flapping mouth. You could mentally consign them to the dung-heap labelled Fuckwits. You could cast curses in the shape of genital warts in their direction. You could ring me, and order a trailer brim-full of proverbial for their front doorstep. Easy! But family… family are different. You expect more from them. Making excuses for them, and having to put the best interpretation on their comments, sucks.

    Your Mum does seem to keep stabbing you in this particular place. I know this is rather radical and frightfully Not British… but maybe tell her that she’s wounding you deeper? If you tell her what you want from her in terms of support, she may just astound you and provide it.

    Then again, she may not… and then tell you that if you’d only adopt a more positive, upbeat attitude, then everything would immediately be magically fixed. And if she does, it’s PERFECTLY OK to knife her just a little bit somewhere non-vital but very painful.

  • Sassy

    I’m so sorry your mother isn’t understanding what you’ve been through. It’s so hard when they just don’t get it. Take care.

  • Admin

    My mother was similarly insensitive about my losses as well. I did the same – kept quiet. But over time I told her more of my story and she started to understand better. Problem is, most of our mothers are… well… Fertile. My mother never had any trouble with pregnancy, so she has very little understanding of the pain, physical or mental, associated with IF or loss.

    I hope she comes around. Or just stays out of it.

  • Jane G

    I have steam coming out my ears on your behalf after reading the mother item! I get the same kind of insensitivity from my MIL, which is why we have nearly given up on sharing any of this kind of information at this stage. We didn’t tell her about our last loss this time last year, because she was so patently unsympathetic about our previous losses. The downside of this is that she keeps coming back with “at least you can get pregnant”, because she thinks I have been pregnant twice and not four times. Head meet wall….

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