Item – Where to start?
Item – Oh yes. H brought ice-cream (Ben & Jerry’s, something involving caramel and chocolate buttons that really, really, should not be allowed because how in God’s name do you stop yourself hunting down the carton to dig out more chocolate buttons?) home this evening It was technically medicinal, to soothe my battered throat and bored and fidgetty house-bound soul, but he later remarked that what he really wanted was another mention in my blog as an all-round, 24-carat-gold, super-star husband. Ah.
Item – Yes, I still have the Cold of Filth. The gremlins managed to divert the nasal outpouring down the back of my throat just after lunch, so I have swapped sneezing and tissue-filling for a cough like an excitable cigar-loving seal in an echo-chamber. I’ll get croup again, so I shall.
Item – H sneezed this morning. The bastard.
Item – I have decided not to take Big Heap Medicine for colds, despite all the lusciously inviting adverts for every conceivable brand of decongestant on the telly at the moment, because it is 11 days past ovulation and, well, anyway. So I am feeling considerably shitter than I need to, on the very slight off-chance that I’m not alone in here. Typing that out made me feel small and stupid.
Item – To go with tonight’s small and stupid theme, I peed on a stick this morning. On day 11. And it weren’t the first pee of the day neither. Stick, he say, ‘piss off, stupid female.’
Item – I thought I saw something on the stick a little later. But only in direct overhead lighting conditions while I glance at it out of the corner of my eye from the other side of the bathroom during an impromptu rendition of the Stick-and-Bucket Dance performed on one leg while singing ‘Knees-up Mother Brown’ in a hoarse falsetto. Any closer or less frantic inspection reveals – nothing. Stick, he say, ‘Let the Mind-Fuck commence.’
Item – Meanwhile, the NHS surges up out of left-field and hits me across the glasses with a wet carp. The doctor I spoke to about counselling in the first place, back on the 14th of November, called me, actually called me, to say he’d referred me to the only counselling service in the area that dealt with infertility and miscarriage. Hurrah! Ah ha ha ha BUT, it’s at that hospital, the one where I spent so very very many head-fuckingly awful hours when I was losing Pikaia, where the EPU staff were cretinously unpleasant and where I spent far more time than any woman should throwing up, hyperventilating, and bleeding. I have a sort of post-traumatic allergy to that hospital. The very idea of having to go back there for any reason at all makes my stomach hurt. Of course, counselling would help with that. Ah, but also, clinic hours are weekdays between 9:30 and 4:30. And I would be going once a week for twelve weeks. But… but… but I work full time. My work-place is over an hour from the hospital. Part of my general fucked-upness is the stress of how and how much all this is affecting my ability to go to work and do my work and not alarm anyone at work and now they want me to somehow blag an entire fucking morning or afternoon off a week? Why the hell don’t they do evenings or weekends? Why the hell not? I work full-time, damn it. Lots of infertile miscarriers do. Why on earth would I want anyone at all at work to know I need bloody buggering counselling just so I can bear their pointless little control-freak whining about time-keeping and coffee-breaks when my baby is not only dead but was never alive in the first place?
Item – *ahem* I seem to have freaked out a little there. Sorry about that.
Item – H said, when I told him all this, ‘well, we’d better look at alternatives then’. H thinks that hospital can go swivel too.
Item – If anyone wants me, my pee-stick and I will be hanging out in the bathroom with the last of the chocolate buttons.