This week’s gone a bit… pear-shaped. I was going to have a jolly old bitchathon about 6 dpo, already nauseous and heart-burny, also, achey itchy breasts. 6dpo! 6! My progesterone levels have no sense of proportion.
But then my Father-in-Law fell at work and ended up with a compound fracture requiring surgery.
Oy fucking vey.
No idea what this does to any plans. No idea if we’ll be spending our holidays in a nice hotel or in the In-Laws’ spare room. No idea how MIL will cope, or how MIL will cope with her in-laws coping with their son being all borked, or how H will cope with his family’s coping skills either. Ridiculous thing to fret about, but I have no idea if MIL and FIL will visit us next month as planned or not, and if they’ll need our bed if they do (the spare is a fold-out futon right down on the floor. Oh, fuck it, if they come they’ll be in our room, that’s certain. Where oh where to hide the Japanese erotica? (kidding. Or am I? Of course I am. I wouldn’t dream of hiding the erotica).
No idea if the In-Laws will be OK or will need our financial support – FIL is self-employed, and already took weeks and weeks off to recuperate from open-heart surgery last February. Self-employed people don’t get sick leave. H and I do have some savings, so we can help. Especially as it looks like we probably won’t need the money for IVF after all, given my lively young ovary and my current penchant for getting pregnant every few months.
We’re spending the evening staring at the telephone, waiting for news.