Item – Pain a lot better, but still bleeding merrily scarlet. Not heavily, just merrily. It’s the only merry thing about me.
Item – Given that Cute Ute is being merely content (for the moment, touch wood) with working her way through all my leftover sanitary towels, I have time and attention to devote to my feet and calves. Which went into huge almighty cramp on Wednesday (no, no idea why, really. Too much lying down glaring miserably at things? Not enough grotesque nonsense in my life?), and which I am still crippled by. I can’t really walk very well, and one ankle is downright bruised. The hell, the fuck, the what the crikey? And why both feet? And why? *looks disconsolate, rubs foot again*.
Item – I finally cried today. I had been limiting myself to having my eyes fill with tears when a nurse tells me she’s so very sorry for our loss. Poor H burst into tears and wept in my arms as soon as we got back from the clinic. I just gaze glumly, or angrily, at the middle distance, depending, and occasionally shout at particularly obtuse people on the radio or telly. But today I lay flat on my back on the bed, with tears running into my ears, sobbing because I come from a long line of revoltingly fertile women on both sides, all popping out babies by the half-dozen with not a single bloody loss between them, and yet here I am.
Item – I feel I have merely skimmed an inch or so of tears off the top of the pan to stop it boiling over. Heigh ho.
Item – Things to do this week: Go to the GP and sort out sick leave and letter to work. Sort out prescription for weaning self off Prednisolone. Phone maternity services and cancel all scans and booking appointments. Call Riverside’s counselling service for a chat – this at H’s insistence, because he can’t exactly share his own counsellor with me, and I am clearly freaked out and havering about the whole trying-again/not-trying-EVER-again/FET/fresh IVF mind-chess, coupled with the ‘You can’t seriously expect me to hang about menstruating for months for no reason’ PTSD horseshitaria (and apparently no, I can’t go on the Pill back to back while we sort it out. 38, fat, migraines with aura in presence of oestrogen). Buy shoes.
Item – My darling Gentle Readers and Lovely Twitterers, what on earth would I be doing without you?
Item – Some of my friends and family are busily ignoring me, of course, and because they are, I can’t tell if they are just extremely busy and preoccupied themselves, or, having sent me a card already a few times this past decade, are thinking: ‘To lose one baby, Ms May, can be regarded as a misfortune; to lose ten looks like carelessness.’ This last item is very whiny, I know. But this is part of loss and disaster – the friends who run out of patience, the family who are too self-conscious and awkward to want to deal with it, the huge unspoken cloud of ‘Again? Seriously? But I sympathised with all this shit already! You want more sympathy? Well, I’m sorry, but I have school uniforms to buy and the gerbil just died and don’t you know the triplets are teething and I haven’t been on a date night since 2012 and my spouse is job-hunting? Only the first three miscarriages count! After that, I’m sorry, but it’s all too fucking weird and anyway you must be used to it by now so why are you crying, FREAK?’ Or at least, that’s what Bitter McTwisted tells me. The Positive Thinking Fairy reminds me they’re very very very busy and no doubt thinking of me very warmly indeed and/or too busy to check my blog or emails or talk to other family members or ask after me or wonder why I am so sad and silent these days…