Dear Readers, thank you for your commiserations in my last post. I’m feeling almost human right now. I woke up today in a great deal of pain, and threw up my pain-killers midmorning, and then had a horrible few hours where I was too nauseous to take more, and hurting like the proverbial (what is it, by the way, with the cramps running down my thighs? They are excruciating. What the hell have my thighs got to do with my uterus? Gah). Luckily, mid-afternoon I managed to keep some co-codamol down. From then on in I felt well enough to have a little chicken soup, and then I could take the mefenamic acid. And now I am properly medicated and feel bruised, tender and crampy rather than torn-to-shreds with mind-meltingly painful spasms in the back and legs. I also feel very tired and more than a little stoned. Both drugs have side-effects of drowsiness, light-headedness and confusion. Oof. I don’t know how anyone could do anything stronger just for fun. I like being able to cohere, me.
And now I am sitting up in bed, drinking bitter lemon, hot-water-bottles clamped fore-and-aft (H bought me a second one this very afternoon, after I wailed that I could only hold the cramp-relieving heat to my lower back OR my thighs and they both huuuuuuuurt. He also bought the bitter lemon and made the chicken soup and washed out the plastic bowl after I was sick in it. I think I shall buy him a pony).
I spent an idiotically long time wondering why this period wasn’t quite so horrible as the last, you know. It was quite a surprise to me when Bitter McTwisted stopped flushing the Positive Thinking Fairy’s head down the loo long enough to remind me that last time I had been, you know, miscarrying, dumbass. I told you this stuff made me stoned.
And because I am feeling well enough to think right now, I also remembered that tomorrow would have been the best candidate for Pikaia’s birthday, as it was her due-date in 2009, and if the Universe hadn’t been a giant bucket of shit for the past three years, I’d have a two-year-old. And if I’d had said two-year-old, I don’t know which of my subsequent pregnancies would’ve happened, but it’s likely I’d also have a teeny wee baby, or be pregnant right now. Something like that.
And two-year-olds are so cute and so challenging, so small and vulnerable and darling, and so determined and frustrated and frustrating, and we wouldn’t be living in this flat, and I wouldn’t be worrying about my job, and right now I feel so unimagineably distant from the May that got to be a Mummy. She’s probably making fairy-cakes for tomorrow and bickering with H about the hoovering. She never miscarried, so she probably never really thinks about how easily, how very easily, she could still be stuck in a little flat for DINKYs, in a full-time job that despite its many excellences is just not what she wants to do with her life, buying mugs in pairs rather than half-dozens, buying bitter lemon and birds-eye chillis rather than ribena and fish-fingers.
‘All my pretty ones? Did you say all?—O hell-kite!—All? What, all my pretty chickens, at one fell swoop?’ (Macbeth. Act IV scene iii).