Oh, look at that. A letter from the hospital, inviting me to a surgery follow-up appointment with Miss Consultant in a week’s time. Well now, isn’t that nice.
So, what shall we fret about now?
Seriously, though, we have far too much to fret about at the moment. Lemme ‘splain:
- H’s grandfather is, I think I mentioned, dying very slowly of something horrible and untreatable. The family is taking it in shifts to visit and help out and try and keep his grandmother calm (she is not calm. Why the hell should she be?). So H is feeling anxious and depressed and I think, a tad left out of it all, stranded over 100 miles away as he is. Fuck and alas. Also, we must arrange another visit.
- H’s job went through a Phase of Anxst and Uncertainty (another one? Why, yes, another one!), which helped. Also, I could kick his bosses in the shins sometimes, really I could.
- I ovulated really late this cycle (indeed, have I even ovulated? Or this complicated feint nine million and six?), and had an extra migraine for shit and giggles. Woe is me.
- And my relationship with my own job has got to the point where, while I was lying face-down in bed with a pillow over my head, shivering and twitching at every infinitesimal noise (I nearly had a fit when a police-car screamed past outside), with what felt like an ice-pick in my right eye-socket and someone debriding the inside of my skull with a sharpened melon-baller, I thought ‘well, at least I’m having the day off work. Hurrah!’ And then I fell asleep. Which was brilliant.
- If I did ovulate when I now think I did, I will get my period the weekend H and I have theatre tickets for. Satsuma’s sense of humour is getting increasingly warped.
- The less said about our sex life at present the better. I think Kakapos do it more often with more enthusiasm.
- And then there’s the rows – oh holy hell, but I’ve been irritable, and H has been irritating. With an added heaping helping of ‘do you have to be irritating right now because I had a migraine already?’ Which, as you can imagine, really helped with the sex-life.
In stuff-I’m-not-actually-fretting-about news, I have not allowed a morsel of wheat (or rye, or barley, or oats) to pass my lips for two months. I’ve missed it a lot less than I thought I would. And to think I saw myself by January 1st being wrestled to the ground outside Pizza Express by concerned onlookers as I tried to fling myself through the plate glass to steal pizzas straight off the tables. That’s not to say I don’t have moments of Weltschmerz when a colleague brings chocolate chip muffins to work, because I so do. On the plus side, that doesn’t mean I then eat the muffin and despise myself. On the minus side, I then do go and eat ricepotatoessugar for lunch and then can’t be arsed to despise myself. I’ve put on two pounds since I last weighed myself and all I could think was ‘huh. Figures.’
This is an improvement on beating myself to slurry with the Guilt Stick.
Look, I even put it in the ticker, so you could all see I’ve put on two pounds. These past two weeks have been so miserable and tetchy and depressing I frankly feel relieved I haven’t put on half-a-stone.
I’m currently wondering whether it would make me feel better to write a good long snivel about Infertility and RPL, Oh My God They Suck, or whether the stiff upper lip and the graceful gliding past such unfortunate displays of anxst would be preferable. Well, you might find it preferable, at least. I shall go and have a bath and mull it over.