I am not the only show in town

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).


12 responses to “I am not the only show in town

  • H

    The chair breaking and my complete (momentary) loss of temper was mainly because it seemed so symbolic of so much else going on in my life at that moment. I’d had a day of techie things breaking that I couldn’t fix and I can’t fix May and then I can’t fix the f***ing chair!

    Despair! The universe is broken and it isn’t fair.

  • Hairy Farmer Family

    *wants very much to gather you both up in my arms, pat brows and rock The Unfair away* I ache so very, very much indeed for you both; I can’t glue your broken worlds and done-in heads with lemon meringue, and, oh, how I want to. You deserve the paradise of perfect gonads and roses – I never met anyone more deserving, damnit.

    This is all so, so hard for you both. In fact, if I had to pick one of you to be… the sufferer? or the watcher? … do you know, I’m genuinely uncertain which one I would choose? Scylla and bloody Charybdis. I’m not sure which would unstitch me first: your appalling pain, which I know enough about to be frightened of, or the witnessing of it.

    Gone away, came back, still not sure. Settled for dividing my sympathy in Solomonic halves between you.

    Well… *thoughtfully* at least you are not retrieving the chair from the street. You still have a preserved chair. (I burnt the last chair to deposit me on the carpet.) The malice and daring of inanimate bastard objects! In which category, I think, I must now include Cute Ute. She is not being kind.

    I reserve the right to buy you those three cats, btw, as soon as ever it becomes appropriate to.

    And Valentine’s Day should be scrapped, instanter. Bloody awful day. I can never go out for a birthday meal because of it.

  • a

    Talking just doesn’t have the same release value as bottling it up and then exploding. 😉

    I think it is really tough on the men, who don’t get the physical symptoms, but get to enjoy some of the mental pain. No one (other than their wives) thinks to give them sympathy in most cases.

  • BigP's Heather

    BigP never wanted to talk about things either. I would have given anything ANYTHING for him to blog. H, what do I need to do to convince you to blog? I will send you my last box of Girl Scout Cookies if you I have to, just email me your address. If that doesn’t convince you, I”m not sure what will.

  • wombattwo

    I think you hit the nail on the head, probably. H loves you above all, and each month he has to watch you writhing and puking in agony, along with the heartbreak and utter shittiness of miscarriages, which he feels too, if not on a physical experience level. And there is nothing he can do about it, he can’t fix you, and that is probably driving him mad, and (to hazard a guess) feels he is failing in his role as man, husband, because he cannot fix it. Poor, lovely man.
    I just don’t get why all this crap seems to happen to people who least deserve it. It makes so angry, and sad.
    Hugs to you both, and can I buy you a cat now?

  • Womb For Improvement

    So the moral of the story is never buy chairs from Ikea.

    I am so sorry that things are utterly, utterly rubbish. But you two clearly have such a strong relationship you are lucky that you can explode at one another without long term consequences.

  • twangy

    It’s so very hard on both of you. Awful bloody awful times you’ve living through. If your forties (and onward) are not a Living Paradise, I will be give up on the Universe. I’ll resign! And, oh, men. I can see the JB’s moods a mile off coming up the track, and he is always blindsided and flummoxed by them and I have to bite my lip to prevent myself pointing out The Flaming Obvious, not always successfully. (Gawd, it must be a pain to live with me).

    You’re going to have a LOT of cats at this rate. I’d get you a really sweet magic one, that talked.

  • Illanare

    A is just the same. If he can’t fix it, he smoulders at it or ignores it, but whenever possible he Does Not Talk About It.

    Sorry it is all so pooey.

  • Everydaystranger

    I too echo the sentiment that it’s good you can at least blow up at each other and it doesn’t cause lasting damage.

    I was once told that men, they hear/see/observe something that is not going according to plan/wrong/broken/etc and they are fixers. Men need to fix. Fixing is what men (generalising here, but stay with me) do best. There is a problem, they can fix. The Fixing Vibe, it is strong with H. And because he does love you so much (he does, I’m not cupid or anything but man, even Gorby can twig the luuuuuuuv there) then of course he wants to fix, and the frustration is not only in not being able to, but maybe in not knowing what lies ahead either.

    I want to squish you both and provide light-hearted entertainment to help ease your current mindset and get you ready for the next leg of the roller coaster.

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