Bit desultory on the blogging front round here, isn’t it? Sorry about that. I think. Perhaps the radio silence is a good thing. I mean, who the hell wants to watch someone moping and weeping and sulking anyway? I don’t. I’m utterly sick of it. I’m utterly sick of me.
H and I had a godawful row on Wednesday. I was exhausted, still aching and crampy, and work was just being twatweaselly. H had had a long stressful day too. We’d had a misunderstanding (admittedly mostly my fault) about Valentine’s Day, we’d had a misunderstanding about whether or not we were going to the cinema (I refuse to admit this one was mostly my fault. Refuse, d’you hear me? Refuse!), I was sniping, and suddenly H’s chair came apart under him. Again (bloody Ikea). I snapped ‘well why didn’t you fix it properly in the first place?’ and H completely lost his temper, which is very, very unusual for him. Very. There was shouting and yelling and storming off in opposite directions to cool off and everything.
Anyway, once we’d regrouped, mopped each-other’s fevered brows, got the rest of the random snide remarks and irrelevant sarcasms out of our systems, and actually talked instead of trying to score points, it became woefully obvious that the whole miscarriage/periods from hell thing was, for want of a better phrase, doing H’s head in.
The bloody annoying thing is that I’ve been concerned about H since before Christmas. Every now and then I’d say to him: ‘Darling, you seem stressed. You are not your chirpy self. You haven’t made a stupid pun for weeks. Are you OK?’ and H would look mildly startled and assure me he was fine. I’d then explain (earnestly) that bottling stress and misery up just resulted in indigestion, sulking and volcanic explosions, and in any case, given that he wants to be a supportive husband, it is not actually possible to be emotionally supportive while in a gloweringly sullen heap of apathy. And H would insist he was just fine, of course he was, occasionally even going so far as to explain that he didn’t feel about these things as intensely or as constantly as I did.
Yes, well. Quite. And I probably thought exactly that. And that. And I may have said that to H’s face.
Two issues to disentangle here. 1) I am still (still) really quite pissed off with H, for dismissing my concerns for bloody months, and for pretty much lying to himself, and to me, about his emotional state for said bloody months, and letting it all get to a point where he’s angry and shouty and impatient and difficult and also developing his least-clever coping behaviour of Ignoring May, If Possible From Another Room. And 2) I am worried about him, and I feel bad that I (and my appalling rust-raddled defective piece-of-shit uterus and decaying eggs of scrambled crap) am causing him so much sorrow and stress.
I mean think of it. Think of it. The man loves me above all things. I know how much I love him, and if I had to watch him collapse every five weeks, puking up his guts, almost screaming in pain, unable to function for days on end, I’d, well, I’d rather go blind than see it. I’d give anything to take the pain away from him, even go through it myself. And, oops, that’s the way round it is! And it’s H who has to watch, helplessly. And he goes off to work, trying to put it out of his mind, and it’s stressful, and then comes back, stressed, to find me on hands and knees on the living-room carpet, and for all he knows I’ve been there all day. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. And that’s not even beginning to address the recurrent miscarriage thing, and the fact that he wants kids too, and he gets considerably less grief-support than I do.
I wish H had someone to talk to. Someone more useful than his parents, that is, who demand to know what’s going on and then go all quiet and unhelpful when they’re told (seriously, peeps, if you don’t want to know, you really don’t have to ask. What do you want us to do, invent an alternative paradise of roses in which we have perfect gonads, two kids, a four-bedroom house, three cats and a Skoda Yeti?). I wish H had what I have, namely, you, oh Gentle Readers. I wish H would just bloody talk instead of bottling things up.
I wish infertility wasn’t seen as being just a woman thing just women go through (even when the ‘problem’ is with the male partner. FFS). And I wish, I so wish, that ‘menstrual problems’ were really not seen as just ‘a woman thing’. If I can’t cope, H picks up the pieces at home, doing my share of the cooking, laundry, food-shopping. If I had kids right now, they simply wouldn’t have a mother for two or three days, and not much of one for the rest of the week. My colleagues have to do my shifts at work. I can’t visit family and friends, I can’t help them out or support them, I can’t be a good wife or a good daughter or a good friend or a good colleague. The state of my uterus tears a hole in more lives than just mine. Damn it.
(On which note, you’ll all be relieved to hear that this cycle, the aching and cramps are actually going away and I feel pretty much OK now. Unlike last cycle, where I had cramps every single goddamn day until I ovulated. Damn and blast and screw last cycle, anyway).