I went straight back to work on the 3rd of January. A great many colleagues were still on holiday, but damnit the students weren’t. So I have just spent a week being run off my feet. See, my job has two parts to it – the actual, this-is-my-job part, which is very geeky and technical and is, frankly, the part that I enjoy; and the well-everyone-has-to part, which I am only supposed to do for 10 hours a week because I am senior. I did the everyone-has-to part for 20 hours this week, because there was no one else to do it. Was there anyone else to do the this-is-my-job part? Well, no, because it is technical and skilled and takes training. So what do you suppose has happened to my in-tray? Exactly. ARSE.
It’s not just that I keep being made to do more hours at the boring part, that bugs me (I think it falls under ‘and any other duties as instructed by the line-manager’ in my contract, so I can’t make an almighty you’re-screwing-with-my-contract fuss). It’s that certain of the colleagues I end up doing the boring stuff with, are, eh – how to say this diplomatically? – competence-disadvantaged. Also, un-diplomatically, lazy. Sitting on arse watching May redo the task they just said they’d finished (hah!) and talking to said May about, ohhh, how much they love Strictly Come Dancing lazy. So there.
Anyhoodle. Explains blog-and-commenting-and-email silence this week. TOO EFFING TIRED. Thank you.
What was I actually going to talk about?
Oh yes. Well. My uterus has pretty much gone public, these days.
H and I had been sharing bits and pieces of information with various family members in an as-and-when please-stop-asking-me-questions I-am-NOT-going-into-details OK-thank-you-we’re-all-half-dead-with-embarrassment-now sort of a way.
It wasn’t satisfactory.
And, it would get fed back to us garbled. I mean, Lord, I very recently had a friend recommend that I get a stitch put in my cervix next time. Which is a brilliant technique and a fabulous invention for babies that are over 12 weeks gestation and still alive.
And then there was the whole will-be-indisposed-for-Christmas thing.
H, said I, let us give over this on-a-need-to-know-basis strategy. OK, so most people don’t need to know anything, but being people, they gossip and speculate and given that Cute Ute The Despoiler (her new offical title, you know) is making a normal, discreet sort of life-style pretty bloody impossible (hah! You said ‘bloody’! Funny! Hahaha!), it’d be simpler to just say ‘May has endometriosis. It hurts like being actively mauled by a bear. She/we will not be joining you camping/in the sauna/for dinner/ever. Don’t know what we mean? Google it. Hell, google it with the safety search off and look for images. Dare you.’
In short order, this lead to:
- H, having been cornered by a particularly nosy aunt of mine who wanted to know how I was, actually telling her. Aunt’s response: ‘Have you joined a prayer-circle?’, which was a tad WTF even for my family, but a vast vast improvement over justrelaxpropyourhipsupafterwardseatpineappleitwasn’tarealbabyanyway, so I’ll take it with thanks.
- Me bawling like a very small child with a burst balloon because my mother was nice to me, and then spending two days in bed at her house rather than my house and it was fine. Except for the bit where I was retching so loudly they could hear me downstairs. Umm. Yes. Well.
- H’s parents were told that we were not coming down on the 27th for the family lunch thing because I had got my period, and, err, no. Which was also fine (I think I have mentioned before that since we let my FiL know I take tramadol for it, he awards me massive kudos. He took tramadol once, post-surgery, and hallucinated extravagantly. If I need a drug that unpleasant every month, in his eyes I am Rambo).
- When we did go down, my MiL and I ended up having a quiet ladies-only chat about the state of the innards and the progress (what progress?) of Project Grandbabies For MiL. And I was very blunt and open about it, for once, rather than dissembling wildly and trying to turn the topic to something less anxsty, like, oh, gardens! Weather! Books! Trees! Soup! So MiL now has a good understanding of the fact that a) H and I have been trying to have a child together since shortly after we got married nearly seven years ago (seven years? Jesus). b) The endo/adeno thing is horrible and might get worse. c) It may well lead to IVF. d) Yes, I am too old and too fat for NHS IVF unless my GP and Miss Consultant between them are feeling very persuasive as technically the money for my one round of NHS IVF was put aside years ago but there’s no guarantee it’s still there as the NHS is cutting services all over Britain. e) We can afford to go private. g) But it’s still jolly expensive (I don’t swear infront of my MiL (hence lack of ‘f’)). h) Losing all those pregnancies made me very sad and cross. My MiL, bless her, responded by saying it was all very unfair and hard on us, and then, double-bless her, started looking up homeopathic remedies to help me. I let her. I have as much faith in homeopathy these days as I do in Jeffrey Archer’s probity, but MiL is a fervent believer and it is pretty important to be able to feel you’re doing something half-way helpful when your family is being repeatedly kicked in the nuts.
- Any day now, someone at work with an IQ above room-temperature and the ability to count to 30 without taking their socks off and borrowing a neighbour’s hands, will realise that I go off sick for a couple of days every month. At monthly intervals. See? I mean, my boss knows and her boss knows and her second-in-command knows and the HR liaison knows, but they’re all discreet and well-behaved. I’m just waiting for one of the Gossipy McYourBusiness clan to work it out. And then I shall, well, I shall tell them to google it. Images. With safe-search off. While eating.
In other news, H’s grandfather has been sent home at last, so clearly he’s feeling better, and is well enough to, we all hope, get some peaceful and pleasant time in with his friends and relations.
And (because it’s all about meeee, or, at least, this blog is), I do have the satisfaction of knowing I haven’t deprived him of great-grand-children. One of H’s cousins has got that covered. I’d’ve preferred it to be us, because we’ve been together since The End of History, we aren’t using contraception deliberately, and we’re a good ten years older than said cousin, but Mother Nature can be such a pill like that.