We can’t put it off any more. We can’t get out of it. H and I are going to have to leave our (safe, geeky, quiet, with cake) nest and go to the Bunker of the Family for New Year.
Keeping in mind, the Family actually don’t know I spent Advent miscarrying (because, you know, a holiday is not a holiday unless I am bleeding and weeping ).
At some point, my Mum will get me alone in a corner and ask how all the treatment with The Professor is going (this is fine, by the way. Mum’s even paying for some of said treatment, so she has a stake in it all. Quite apart from the giving-a-toss how her daughter is stake). And I will have to tell her. And I am not looking forward to it. Not because I am expecting a Massively Unsupportive Reaction of Crap – Mum has really rather grown out of that over the past couple of years – but because Mum will be sad, and I will be sad because I have made my Mum sad, again. And then we’ll all be sad. Happy New Year, eh?
And Mum said to me this afternoon, on the phone, that my sisters were driving her nuts and she was looking forward to spending time with me, ie, the non-fucked-up, non-money-leeching, functional daughter. Oops.
This is going to be so much fun.
Meanwhile I have told H that I would prefer him to tell his lot what happened before Christmas. And I’d like him, if he feels able, to let them know how sad and bitter we are about it all. Partly, I don’t want them to feel we avoided them just because we couldn’t be arsed to trek down there through the snow, and partly, well, they’re family, and partly, because after their – God, I don’t know what exactly, tactFAIL? Memory loss? Attempt to be sympathetic but being too paralysed with social embarrassment to say the word ‘loss’ or ‘miscarriage’ or anything else appropriate or kind? – at Easter, I feel that they don’t really need to be shielded from The Sad. I mean, they took Zombryo’s loss in their stride, after all. All they ever said to me about it was a lament about the fact H and I had to go back home early and miss spending New Year 2010 with them. Oh yes. Nothing to do with the fact that we actually went to get decent medical attention from the hospital that had all my medical history in case I had an ectopic and, ohh, I don’t know, bled to death on their hideously uncomfortable sofa-bed while they all danced about being too embarrassed to talk to me. (Why, yes, I am still pissed off with them for the way they handled that. To be honest, I am still pissed off with me, for the way I handled that. I wish now I’d said, well, you can’t possibly be as sorry as I am, as I lost a good deal more than a nice tea and chat with the rellies).
I just want to be absolutely, bone-deep sure, that if anyone acts like a thoughtless, tactless, oik, about my infertility and losses, it’s because they’re an arse, and I can get on with curling my lip at them and then treating them ever after with perfect, terrifyingly elegant politeness. I absolutely do not want to
spend waste hours of my life worrying that they didn’t know, or couldn’t know, or perhaps so-and-so told them and they did know, but think I didn’t want them to know so daren’t say, or do know and don’t think it’s a big deal, or think it’s such a big deal they don’t know what to say.
And now I must gird my loins, pack the rest of the Christmas gifts, and imitate the action of the tiger, disguise hard-favoured rage with fair Nature, that sort of thing. Especially when my tiresome sisters are being tiresome (I let Diva off, a bit, because she’s really barely out of adolescence and having her first go at being a University student. Trouble, however, is only a year younger than me, and lives at our mother’s rent-free, getting not only an allowance, her laundry done, and a home for her child, but endless free baby-sitting and any amount of taxi-service and being allowed to throw fits of artistic temperament in her private sitting room. I’m not bitter, except maybe for an hour or so, every other day, usually when, you know, at work, earning money to pay my own damn bills with).
It’ll only be for a few days. H is looking forward to it, as he gets on splendidly with my mother, and splendidly with my niece.
I think I shall have to have a lot of l-o-n-g country walks in the rain.
See you in 2011. May every single one of you reading this have a wonderful, beautiful year.