Item – At some point this morning I found myself in a decided attitude of mope and dejection. My back hurt, I felt almost catatonically tired. Everything seemed grey and tedious. What the hell, I asked myself, is the matter with you, May? Anyone would think you were depressed. And then, with a heart-stopping jolt, I remembered. I’m miscarrying. Very, very slowly. Ah, well, that explains the foul mood and could my heart stop thumping quite so fucking painfully now, please?
Item – Yesterday H and I went for a walk, to take advantage of the brief glimpse of sunshine. I felt quite well while walking, and almost happy. I have no idea therefore why I spent the evening feeling like I’d been kicked in the sacrum by a passing cart-horse. H ended up by getting out of bed after midnight to make me a hot-water-bottle. I wasn’t very gracious to him about it neither.
Item – And I had a fight with H on Saturday, magnifying one small snitty remark on his behalf into a gigantic Woe Is Me My Life Is Fail melodrama. Oh, but I dislike myself intensely at the moment.
Item – I went to see the GP, to discuss important matters such as Going Back to Work, and Where The Hell Is My Follow-Up Appointment With The ACU or Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic Because I Have Frequent Flyer Miles Here, People. I managed to bag an appointment with Doc Tashless, who was truly upset to see me again. The poor man has been treating me since I was That Girl Whose Period Wouldn’t Stop, more than three years ago. And now I’ve morphed through That Girl Who Can’t Get Pregnant into That Girl Who Can’t Stay Pregnant. It sucks. Doc Tashless thinks it sucks. Doc Tashless had a medical student sitting in with him, and explained to said student why it sucks, without me having to refresh his memory of any of it. I ❤ Doc Tashless.
Item – Doc Tashless was perfectly happy to sign me off work until February, but I gave him a wild-eyed look and said that really, I'd be happier pretending everything was normal, going stir-crazy etc., so he signed me off until next Monday, on the sole condition that I promised my work-place were understanding and wouldn't put much pressure on me and I was to flounce home on any provocation at all with his blessing.
Item – Doc Tashless was disgusted that the RCM hadn't got back to me yet. Dis. Gusted. I didn't even have my blood test results yet? Good heavens, they were taken well over a month ago. So he promised me he'd write to them in the strictest terms. And muttered something under his breath about 'simple aspirin' and 'preventable' which I chose not to listen to because all this sympathy and being taken seriously was actually giving me a panic attack and the whole subject of any of this being preventable if the RCM had been a little more organized [Warning! Train of thought heading to Bad Place! Abort! Abort! Abort]
Item – And having got through the social niceties of extracting myself from the consulting room, I ran home. I ended up sitting on the stairs, heart banging like a trip-hammer, in floods of tears and trying desperately to stop fucking crying right now this minute.
Item – Yeah, I’m so ready to go back to work.
Item – Case in point: Anyone, under any circumstance short of imminent death, complaining about pregnancy symptoms or how much they dislike being pregnant, can just fuck off and play in traffic. Especially those members of the Mummy Club that had taken over the doctor’s waiting room, complete at least one snot-smeared spawn each. The Positive Thinking Fairy knows damn well that pregnancy is a hard, uncomfortable, anxious time ending in mucho pain and drama and a bazillion more responsibilities and no sleep. The Positive Thinking Fairy has gone to the Algarve for a few weeks and is merely nagging me by post-card. Bitter McTwisted is the captain of May and she says, fuck OFF and play in traffic.
Item – Lower back still painful, with intermittent ‘hello, your period is due, ooh, tomorrow?’ cramps and occasional light spotting. It would be nice if this didn’t last all the way until my ‘period’ (were I going to have one) would be ‘due’, in a couple of weeks time.
Item – I peed on a stick this morning, to match the one I peed on the day of the last beta (oops, I forgot to mention that before. Sorry). Do I need to explain to any of you why I did this? Thought not. Anyway, both sticks, with sensitivities of, I think, 25 mIU, show identical, ghostly pink second lines. Still piddling out ridiculously small amounts of HCG then. Zombryo lurches on.