I was actually talking to my sister Trouble on the phone earlier. There’s a family dinner thing tomorrow, and these things need organising, which actually forces us siblings to talk to each other. Otherwise… we don’t, much. Because we’re lazy.
Anyway, we were talking, and Trouble had kind sweet things to say about my latest miscarriage, bless her (she is improving with age). I brought her up to date about how many I had had, and when, and being sent for tests, and I told her about the karyotyping, which segued into a running gag about David Icke (What can I say? we are funny, funny ladies). When Trouble had caught her breath after laughing her arse off, she said, admiringly, that I seemed to be in quite good spirits.
‘Ehhh,’ said I. ‘I’m dealing with it by sarcasm abuse.’
Cue Trouble collapsing into giggles again. (I rock).
Then Trouble told me about a friend of hers, who recently had a miscarriage, her first (and please Universe only) one, and dealt with it pretty much by declaring her life had been destroyed and locking herself in her room for a couple of months.
Oh God, I thought, the poor woman.The poor poor woman.
Meanwhile Trouble was remarking that perhaps this friend should be told about me, and maybe learn a few lessons in getting over herself from it, because, hey, I’d had several and I wasn’t locked in my room yelling ‘my life is in ruins‘ through the keyhole.
[No, Trouble doesn’t know this blog exists.]
Anyway, I nobly went to bat for this unknown sister-in-distress. I pointed out that everyone reacts differently, that her support system may not be as good as mine, that she may have had other issues hurting her (oh, hey, like a fucking miscarriage isn’t enough). I reminded Trouble that the hormonal crash-and-burn can bring on a good old-fashioned chemical depression. Trouble admitted she hadn’t thought of that.
We went back to discussing plans for tomorrow.
Bitter McTwisted is now emitting a persistent high-pitched squeal of resentment, and it’s making it hard to think.
Funnily enough (keeping in mind she is Bitter and Twisted), the person she is resenting at the moment is not Trouble, but the unknown sister-in-distress. She got to lock herself in her room for months. She got to wail and weep and tell everyone her life was in tatters. I want to do that! I want to!
But I am soft enough to be flattered and happy that Trouble admires my insouciant bravado.
I like being the brave, calm, sensible one. I like being Ace Rimmer, dashingly making light of my own injuries while giving the last swig in my hip-flask to the person on the next stretcher and then stitching my own arm up before swanning off to do something amazingly cool in the next universe.
But it would be nice to feel that I could have a weeping, yelling, plate-hurling, refusing-to-get-out-of-bed, several-month-long meltdown and have everyone understand and admire that, too.