Remarkable downer

The Sekrit Other Blog – seeing as you all say would rather like it, and want to watch me talk drivel about writing. Just so you can see how very very rounded an individual I am. Ah ha ha ha ha.

I was thinking, vaguely, of linking the two blogs at some point. I doubt they’ll turn into one great big über-blog. I quite like having a blog which involves Thinking (time consuming, that), and one that doesn’t. And I don’t think there’s a sensibly-shaped Venn diagram of readership which would appreciate its musings on Cultcha interrupted by uteri and cervical mucous, and on the other hand would appreciate its ovarian progress reports and bouts of hysteria (used advisedly! Haha!) interrupted by vapourings on Beowulf. But we shall see. I could be Absolutely Wrong. I often am.

Meanwhile, progress on the Cute Ute or, possibly, Embryo Jungle Gym of Doom, has been violently hiccoughed by the dear old NHS in one of its ding-battier moods. I got two letters, two, in the same envelope, one to Ms May Mayperson, and one to Miss May Misspelt, one confirming an HSG at 10:40 on Friday 14th, bring a full bladder, and one confirming a trans-vaginal ultrasound at 10:30 on Friday 14th, bring an empty bladder. And I spent the tail end of the week trying to get through to radiology at Hospital Out in the Country to say, basically, WTF? and of course they never got back to me. Try again on Monday.

Note same envelope. They knew when they posted it that I was one and the same person as myself. But apparantly there are two of me, with two whole bladders between me. Gah. And I have been misspelt, I am now terrified they will try to take the HSG off me, and if they do, I will kill someone. Even if I have to book time off work (again) to do it.

Also, what TVU? Since when? Who the buggery hell booked that? I certainly didn’t.

Also also, what’s with the letter telling me my consultant has decided I should have an HSG and this is what one is etc? I had to phone them to book the bloody bastard thing with reference to my own bloody bastard cycle, so I KINDA KNEW THAT.

Bloody NHS.

Anyway.

The other craptacular development is my increasing inability to keep a sense of humour, proportion, or propriety together long enough to get through even so much as one simple discussion about the advisability of soaking the cutlery in a very grubby pan so that the cutlery becomes harder to wash rather than easier on account of being thinly coated in grease as well as original encrustations. My poor poor husband.

This is getting to be a nuisance at work, as well. My newest line manager took me aside to emphasize the importance of looking after myself and not coming into work when I feel ill. We’d already had the ‘why I went home on Thursday last week’ discussion, and I think I rather frightened her, also, if she tells me one more time how ghastly I looked on Thursday last week I shall cry. It’s nice to know she cares and takes it seriously, but honestly, what can I say? It’s only period pain. There doesn’t seem to be any real or treatable reason for it. My insides hate me. That’s all.

And I hate work at the moment. This is dream job, we’re talking about. It’s fun, I like the people, it’s pleasantly geeky and rarified, I should be happy. The trouble is, this dream job, that I got just as I found out I was also pregnant (pregnant! Pregnant! What job?) is now the Booby Prize. Ohhh, you’re not pregnant any more, awww, here’s dream job though! You can still have that! Hurrah.

Oh, oh, and even more painfully yet, I got the results of the MA at last, and, look you, I passed. Despite everything, I passed. I get to be happy and pleased about this from time to time. Me clever! Well done me! It’s fab! I did not waste the year! But this euphoria never lasts long. It’s another Booby Prize, really. The prize I really wanted, the one I had my name down for and everything, was a baby.

Shit, I’m depressed. Shit.

I really ought to talk to my GP about that counselling thingy apparantly I’m entitled to.

Shit.

Am in serious danger of mauling H for no good reason.

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11 responses to “Remarkable downer

  • MFA Mama a.k.a. "Eliza"

    Ah, shit, May. Wish there was something I could say to make you feel better, although I doubt there is. Pooh H! But Well Done May on the MA (in the midst of all of that! You still did it! Go you!), and hopefully Dream Job With Understanding Management will grow on you. And, you know, an embryo will grow IN you. That would be fantastic.

    I hope that a year from now we’ll all look back on this as the “before the happy ending!” period (ahahaa…I slay myself…could’ve said era but where’s the fun?) and be able to say things like “thank heavens May had already got the MA out of the way!” and “well who could blame her for being depressed THEN because it was BEFORE…” etc. Really hoping.

  • MFA Mama a.k.a. "Eliza"

    Er, that was supposed to be “POOR H.” Not pooh H. Could be horribly misconstrued. Poor, poor H!

  • Xbox4NappyRash

    What a mess, sorry.

    Aside, well done on the other blog, I see it’s been going for ages!
    I’ve tried so many times to write elsewhere, about other things, and I just can’t.

  • Hairy Farmer Family

    Only the NHS can fuck up this spectacularly. However, if the appointments had been the other way around, in the same corridor, and 20 minutes further apart, I reckon it’d be do-able. Or perhaps they have booked you a double-length standard Ultrasound appointment in order to do the HSG and that generated TWO letters… but no, because the letters are to different Mays. Perhaps different secretaries call the same appointment different things, and have sent you the standard ‘undercarriage prodding’ letters… no, no, that can’t be right, they came in the same envelope. Ummm. Yep, confused.

    Bloody NHS!

    But… they’re not 100% bad… as they do provide counselling for people TTC. I truly can’t recommend it highly enough. I was lucky enough to strike gold with my counsellor, and I wouldn’t give her up for all the tea in China. Only her retirement will unpeel my desperate clenched grip on her ear.

    Sorry that the Dream Job and the MA are not consoling you too much currently. There’s not much that can relieve the baby-space pain, I know, even temporarily. You’re entitled to be down, luv, this has all been so very, very protracted, frustrating and sad. The human fuse gets considerably titchier under stress, and you’re under massive amounts of it. Hugs are simply not enough, but I offer huge virtual bear-ones.

    Husbands…. well, yes, they are lovely. Yours is immediately discernable as a particularly fabulous specimen. Yet… they are occasionally a birrova numbskull regarding ‘FFS, keep your head down because the barometer is reading STORMY’ issues. Hubby is blind to towering stress levels. Blind. Bats, etc. He notices the raging strop that hits him between the eyes AFTER the levels peak, mind you, no problems there. H strikes me as rather more perceptive of his wife’s moods than the Hairy one, but is still, nevertheless, a bloke, and therefore officially carrying a handicap with joining the long-term emotional dots between Fertility Angst, Domestic Tension and Wifely Savagery. Bless ’em.

    TTC on Clomid is so difficult when your cycles are long. There’s so much waiting and buggering about, and it’s all just bloody horrible and adding to the train of stress you’re tugging about. And Clomid itself is the Drug Of Mood Evil. Sigh. I want to suggest that you nag the dreaded NHS to start you on IUI and skip the clomid – but I’m not sure that you’d want that yet, and I suppose they’ll want to try a couple more Clomid cycles first. This is assuming that the Cute Ute and Satsuma wave back happily at the sonographer on the 14th, which I’m sure they will.

    Enjoying the Sekrit blog!

  • geohde

    Ah May,

    If it helps any, I regularly maul my poor husband. Mind you I also feel bitterly justified, but since he fails to get why…..Things Are Tense…

    J

  • korechronicles

    Ah yes, that winning combo, sad and mad. Suffered singly and most dangerously, together. Sorry they are biting you so hard at that moment but sending you my best congratulations on your Mastership anyway…you worked hard for it, through much personal difficulty and I am admiring your cleverness and the Sekrit Blog from afar.

  • jodie38

    Mine gets mauled all the time. I think he’s accepted that since he is unable to read my emotions effectively, it’s just part of life as we know it. He says he is unable to see it coming and by then I am unable to stop it. We are on the same page with that, at least.

    Who says we don’t communicate??!! 🙂

  • womb for improvement

    Bloody, bloody NHS. How do they do that? efficient cenough to save on postage but not so efficient they read the letters in the envelopes.

    Congrats on the MA!

  • ritac2008

    Usually there has to be prompting like ,”Now is the time to hug me unless you want to be mauled” and so forth.
    As for NHS – it must be like ours here.
    R

  • deanna

    Oh, dear…….I hate to hear you call those things booby prizes—they are such wonderful testaments to your amazing dedication and hard work, and your bright intellect. I see why you think of them as lesser joys than the joy you really wanted, but as you discount them, I can’t help but feel that you’re discounting yourself (which I just can’t stand for!)

    Okay…..stump speech is over. Feel free to give me a good mauling as well.

    *hugs* to you.

  • Pamela Jeanne

    I am so very behind in my reading, but catching up in the order that I missed…congrats on the MA!!! — I hope you found some space to feel good about it and The Other Sekrit Blog — good to have a place that’s not IF/ute-centric…(can I just say that I love saying the word craptacular — it says so much and just rolls off the tongue).

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