I went back to work, and work was merely being it’s normal dull, reassuring, mildly irritating, busy, finicking self. Nevertheless, by Friday I was weepy with tiredness. You’d’ve thought that The Powers That Be had made me rebuild all four storeys of book-stacks from scratch while fighting off a herd of wildebeest and negotiating Israeli-Palestinian peace. Actually, They made a valiant attempt to limit my hours on the front desk (thwarted by my colleagues falling ill in relays) and let me off anything involving heavy lifting.
And my colleagues were fine too. They divided neatly into those who came over to tell me they were glad I was back, and to hope I was better now, and then delicately nipped off again, and those who literally fled from the room when I came into it in their desperate desire not to be entangled in an awkward exchange (next time we met, we’d both pretend I’d never been away at all and talk earnestly about rotas and such until it all felt natural again).
Physically, the Cute Ute is lost in the Land of Meh. I have been spotting non-stop since, well, since the first day I mentioned I was spotting (when was that, by the way? Let me check – oh, right. Since the 14th. That’s more than two weeks ago now. ARGH). The cramps and back-ache are intermittent, and not so very bad. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had any all week. See? Meh.
I don’t know what the ‘meh’ means, though, in terms of whateverthefuck is going on inside. Have I completely miscarried and is this just my hormones settling? In which case, where the fucking fuck was all the blood? Is an apple-pip-sized Zombryo still clinging on with an HCG level of stupidly-just-above-totally-dead? (Probably). We shall find out on Wednesday, as I have taken the morning off work to haul ass down to Mothership Hospital for the Seventh Beta of Hell.
And I have to somehow, some-fucking-how, find the strength and with-it-ness to call the RMC about the blood-tests in December AGAIN, and call Doc Tashless to ask about referrals to Professor Regan and her Clinic Of Excellence In These Matters, and call the ACU and point out the end of May is a craptastic date for a referral, also, what the buggery hell do they want to see me for, given that they’ve sent me off to wait for IVF (ahahahahah)? Can they do anything about this situation?
I do not really have that strength right now. All the excitement and immediate fuss and bustle is over, and life is carrying right on with its usual spectacular tactlessness, and it’s now, now, that my sense of humour has completely deserted me and all I want to do is cry and possibly take narcotics.
I can’t bear the thought that I’ve lost at least three babies. I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it.
I have to bear it.