It has been a less than fabulous week.
It ought to have been a fabulous week. There were theatre visits, and a weekend, and my husband bought star-gazer lilies, and I saw friends, and a last birthday present turned up in the post, hurray!
But I was in a foul mood anyway, about the Clomid Doesn’t Love Me Anymore thing, so I was attracting anxst. As you do when your mood is foul.
On Wednesday, the evening of the day in which I had learnt this cycle was another Epic Fail (I am so good at those now), H and I joined my good friend E, and some friends of his, to go to the theatre (that bit was great, we saw Waiting for Godot, and it was AMAZING. A. MA. ZING). Anyway, E’s friend hasn’t seen me for a couple of years, but we always ask after each other, so, as we were walking along, she asked, ‘so, how’s the kid?’
‘The… the what?’ I stammered.
‘Your kid? You’ve got a baby, haven’t you?’
‘No,’ I said, evenly (yes, evenly! I was impressed too!).
‘Oh, I thought you had,’ she said, looking confusedly at E, who having missed the exchange, smiled back.
Arse. E was one of the first people I told when I was pregnant, mostly because I nearly puked on him. Oh, don’t be angry with E, both his friend and I know he tells the other all about each, and I know eye-watering stuff about her, so it’s only fair. Only, he seems to have missed out the vital point that I did not, in fact, have the baby.
I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t face it. No doubt she interrogated him at length later.
Then, at work, a few days later, a colleague, let’s call them P for Parent, having told me all about the lovely things they’d done with their small children over the weekend, asked me what I’d been up to. I mentioned the theatre trips (I’ve been on several). ‘Oh,’ said P, ‘That’s the problem with having kids. You don’t get to have so many evenings out. You’re so lucky. I wish I could go to the theatre as often as you.’
‘To be honest, I’d rather have the kids,’ I said, stung, and not very evenly at all.
There was a horribly awkward pause. A LONG, horribly awkward pause.
‘No, you wouldn’t. They’re such hard work, they take over your life,’ P began, and then, thank GOD, the meeting started, and P had to shut up. This being the same P, remember, whose children are the light of their life, and whose weekend was one great ocean of family cuteness, three minutes previously. As P is quite a nice person, I can only assume this was a cack-handed attempt at comfort.
Because, really, I’ll totally take the cute kids over the theatre visits and lie-ins. And I’m willing to bet P wouldn’t take the years of fertility treatment, surgery, failure, and the silent bitter weeping of their beloved partner over the loss of their child, even with all the Godot versus the Space Wizards theatrical triumphs in the world thrown in.
Yesterday I was hauling my pathetic arse out of the incommunicado funk everything had hurled me into, when I got a migraine. It was a two-stage migraine. I ran home with one eye completely blood-shot, half-blind, nauseous, dizzy, collapsed, and the actual agonizing headache failed to materialise. I had a headache, but not as bad as that headache, and despite infuriating photophobia, was quite chirpy by evening. Aha, it was merely biding its time, and I woke up at dawn feeling like a rugby prop forward was standing on my head. Most of day spent in bed with head under duvet, as blinds utterly unable to keep a sufficient quantity of that bastard light out of the room.
A fine end to a pisser of a week. I think I shall have a drinkie.
P. S. The oven just broke, blowing every fuse in the house. When I have got over my joy that the modem survived, I shall swear a great deal and have ANOTHER drinkie.