So we went to H’s Grandfather’s funeral. It was weird and unique, because H’s family are weird and unique, and very beautiful, and we all cried. I was asked to do a couple of readings – one on my own behalf, because he and I had been close and I’d been part of the family since H first dragged me along to a family lunch and proudly announced that this was May, his girlfriend, when I was 17; and one on H’s Dad’s behalf, as he chokes when he cries and didn’t think he’d be able to speak. I am possessed of the unusual ability, probably (I joke) battered into me by seven years of boarding school, of being able to get a grip and speak clearly even when tears and snot are pouring down my face. And as I was reading the poem he chose for him, I realised I couldn’t be more part of H’s family if I’d been born to them, they love me so, and I love them so.
I am aware that I am disgustingly lucky in the matter of In-Laws. OK, so my MIL is a neat-freak and I am a slob, and OK my FIL is a fussbudget, as is his mother, and OK they didn’t really know how to talk to us about the infertility and miscarriages for a while there, but they are trying, and they love me.
[Brief interval for weeping].
My period is due, well, today. No sign of it. This is possibly not helping with the weepiness. My temperature is still really high (weird. Normally it drops a day or even two before my period begins). I am so amazingly zitty I got carded at the cinema last week in case I qualified for the student discount (I laughed. I was very nearly delighted, until I remembered the state of my chin (woeful, pustulent)). I feel sick just about all the time. I have four negative pregnancy tests lined up on the bathroom windowsill (yes, well, don’t judge me). This is so boring. And annoying. And emotionally exhausting. And did I mention boring? Yes. OK, see, I’m repeating myself just to highlight the repetitive nature of this sort of boredom.
Oh, did I mention I was sick in a bin earlier this week? I was sick in a bin earlier this week. I tried to eat a Vietnamese rice-paper prawn roll in a hurry, it sort-of got stuck on the way down, and my stomach promptly returned it, within seconds of swallowing. Several people who passed me during this unpleasantness gave me a good look, started towards me, and then visibly decided against offering any help and hurried on. It dawned on me that as I was standing rather than kneeling or slumping, trying to puke politely and tidily and rinsing my mouth out with water between retching, female, sober, and under 50, they probably all assumed I was pregnant and therefore ‘fine’.
If you want me, I’ll be in the bathroom, counting pee-sticks and wondering if I can buy a kit for doing blood-tests at home.