I’m not entirely sure what happened to this week. There it was, all shiny and full of days and things, and then evening after evening I’d get home and go ‘phwumph’ in an armchair and then it’d be bedtime. The weekend, we Did Housework Big-Stylee, because we had to move furniture about so engineers could fiddle with our broadband connection. Of course, we’d hidden the plug/port/thing behind an entire flipping cupboard, so we had to treat the entire living-room like a game of Magic Square oh my God it was tiring. And having moved everything, we had to hoover under where it had been and I think H is mildly traumatised by the sheer amount of grey fludge (fluff/sludge, obviously) we shook out of the hoover’s dust container. I know I am.
So, a week ago, now, I booked myself Out-of-Office for a couple of hours and slunk off into the rain. The Occupational Health consultancy (yes, that! Take 2!) was the other side of town, you see, in an office block with a security guard on the ground floor and a secretary on the 2nd floor and gossip mags fanned out on the coffee table. Which was unexpected. But the room they showed me into was very like a large GP’s office (that is, the large office of a GP, not the office of a large GP). And the Occupational Health Officer was a nice motherly sort of lady who peered at one over the tops of her glasses a lot and said ‘mmm’ in a comforting sort of way.
We discussed how long I’d worked at Current Place of Work, how often I’d been promoted, did I get on with my colleagues? Did I enjoy my job? And then we moved on to my symptoms, and I put on my slightly Duchessy talking-to-medicos voice (it’s a nervous habit), and she practically undid me in seconds by being sympathetic and understanding and gentle. Goddamnit, she was even more gentle and sympathetic when the bit about the miscarriages came up. Well, we talked about why I wasn’t having a hysterectomy, say, or taking lupron, you see. She commented that I was facing some hard choices, and I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for Being Understood.
In her opinion, my job is protected by the Disability Discrimination Act, in that, they can’t just fire me, I’m Officially Right Poorly. But they can and may well decide to either cut my hours, so, basically, I don’t get paid for ‘off’ days, or get me to make up the hours with flexi-time. Which is fair enough. I’m almost prepared to beg for the former, as I’m bloody knackered a lot of the time, and we could afford it if I brought in a bit less.
However, we have to wait for her report (she dictated it infront of me, and promised to send me a copy) to filter through The Mills of God, also known as HR, to see What Will Be Done.
And then I slunk back to work in the rain, and tried to look insouciant.