“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom” — Marcel Proust.
This cycle, this two-week-wait just gone, I was Not Hopeful. Unlike the previous cycle, I had no interesting or vaguely-could-be-pregnanty symptoms to mess with my head, my breasts went back to sleep a few days ago, no nausea, no sudden hatred of mayonnaise. My temperature started dropping on day 11. My main feeling was one of irritation, because, really, we’d had so much sex (oh, which was a bonus all by itself, admittedly) and it had all been so beautifully timed, but, argh. No dice. On 11dpo I took a pregnancy test (a super-sensitive 10 mIU cut-off one. It could’ve picked up the pregnancy of the last lady to pee in the water supply before it was filtered, chlorinated, and pumped back through my tap), it was negative no matter what angle I held it at, so I checked I had plenty of tampons and painkillers and adopted the Brace Position. Because I like being braced, and I don’t like getting my hopes up only to have them dashed into the gutter and danced-up-and-down on.
H was playing ‘it ain’t over til the fat lady screams,’ and politely ignoring my updates re: uncooperative breast-tissue and dropping temperatures. This is half touchingly sweet, and half utterly infuriating. Infuriating, because then I feel that when the Crimson Menace sweeps majestically in-shore I am dashing his hopes and dancing up-and-down on them.
Perhaps I should stop projecting quite so much.
My main concern was that the Cute Ute would be in full-blown hysterics over the weekend, and as I had Friend Plans for the weekend, I really really didn’t want to spend any of it with a 1000-yard stare, mute, in a heap, or puking. I had socialising to do, dammit. But Cute Ute was feeling benevolent, and let me have a 13-day luteal phase, bless her. I felt positively spry on Saturday, and on Sunday, I’d only just started spotting and a steady intake of the mild version of cocodamol was keeping me nice and comfortable and, what’s more, talkative and sociable.
(Today, it has taken me eight hours to write this much of this post because I keep having to stop and go foetal for an hour or two. Heigh ho).
Anyway, on Friday evening, the fabulous Ben and her adorable husband arrived from Up North, to stay the weekend, and we got out the booze and talked very very much indeed for a very long time and eventually staggered off to our various beds.
The ostensible point of the weekend was for a bunch of Internet Weirdos, who Weirdly Met on the Internet about ten (was it ten? Ten-ish?) years ago and *gasp* all turned out to be more or less who they said they were, to check we all still existed and were none of us avatars or reptilians, and, being mostly British, get pie-eyed in a suitably large hostelry. We did go round a major art gallery first, or, at least, some of us did, because we’re all terribly clever and cultured. And then we, that is, H and Ben and her adorable husband and my Friend Who Knows Who She Is (hi, Sol!), talked our collective heads off in the enormo-pub until at least two of us (oh, alright, I was one) were finding the noise and tiredness was beginning to make whole brain circuits fizzle, spark and pop.
(I adore my friends, but oy, I am so bad at loud noises and crowds)
(Also, a man on a stag-night asked Sol and me to spank the groom. Errr, no?)
Sunday was even more marvellous, because I got to keep Ben and her adorable husband and Sol and S, and we were joined by Ann, and we had brunch and we had talking-where-we-could-hear-each-other, and look! Look! My internet friends all like each other! This is cool!
Not cool, damn that unpronounceable volcano spelt Eyjafjallajokull, was the cancelling of Ben and Co’s flight back Up North, so they had to go early *sob* and catch a sodding expensive train instead *sob*.
And, I confess, by mid-afternoon my back was sore and it was beginning to rain, so I commandeered the remnants of the party and dragged them back to my place for tea and cake and more tea. This meant I could lie on the floor, which was soothing, and be immensely entertained by Sol and Ann, who are both ladies with extremely excellent conversational skills.
And Ann, who couldn’t be more fabulous, brought home-made fudge (squee!) and home-laid eggs (squee again!) and a birthday present for me (SQUEEEEEE!) which I am keeping on the kitchen table to admire because she wrapped it in the paper I remember telling her once I thought was particularly cute. I shall open it on my birthday, with immense ceremony, and spending a week looking forward to that is going to test my Dealyed Gratification circuits to their utmost. Whereas the fudge is nearly all gone, alas. I am trying to eat most of it, but H keeps interfering, on the monstrously sophistical grounds that he likes fudge even more than I do. Bah.
Anyway. My birthday is also the anniversary of my first miscarriage, and my uterus is pulling its usual nail-bomb-in-pelvis stunt, and I should be a little melting puddle of self-pity right now, but the weekend has made me so happy, so very, very happy. Thank you, you guys. I don’t deserve you, but I’m very glad none of you have cottoned on to this yet.