Bad News

Couldn't decide when / how / whether to announce this, but thought it best to get it out of the way asap.

I'm just back from the hospital, where we discovered we've lost the baby. Everything was fine until this morning, but it went downhill from there.

Please don't worry about me though, I am a bouncer-backer.

Cheers
Clare
xxx

Off My Chest (hur hur)

I haven't let myself think or talk about illness, as I didn't want to tempt fate. But I'm feeling pretty confident now that it's not an issue.

Today I found something I've been trying to find for weeks. I remembered writing it, but couldn't remember what I'd done with it. Turns out it was on an old computer.

Well, anyway. I'm not sure why I feel the need to publish it, but I do. I suppose I feel like I'm drawing a line under it. Like I'm allowed to let it out now, because it's in the past.

This is the only thing I managed to write during my last pregnancy. Words made me feel ill, and I had to type it without looking at the screen, but on this particular day I felt the need to express some of what I was going through. I remember feeling dissatisfied with it afterwards. It didn't really do a good enough job of conveying how I felt. I managed to read it through once, and then I had to go lie down, throw up, all that stuff.

We'd been turned away from the hospital because they said I wasn't ill enough. But some time after this it was finally decided I WAS ill enough, and they put me on a drip. I remember this particular day, that awful yearning for someone to come and rescue me.

Oh, and another thing: My body responds very strongly to my mental state, always has done. And nausea is a symptom of anxiety, for me. And some medical professions have said that hyperemesis is a "hysterical" illness, although that view is largely discredited now. But that didn't stop me from wondering constantly whether I was somehow responsible for the predicament I was in.

Anyway, here it is:

"I,
am sick.

Of this.
Of being sick.

I take a short walk to the park.
Supposed to make me feel better.
Not a walk, though.
A shuffle.
I can’t walk any more.
I have lost the use of my legs. Practically.

When I get there, I puke on the grass.
Eyes sunken and downward-looking.
I look like a junkie.
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

I am ANGRY.
WHY?
Why do I have to go through this?
Is there any way out?
No. No way out.
But anger doesn’t help.
It ought.
A positive emotion after all.
But no, it makes me feel more sick.
Tightens my bones even more.
Tightens my throat.
That lump, in my throat, that is always there, whispering to me:
“Vomit, vomit, vomit.”
72 hours.
S e v e n t y - t w o h o u r s
of retching every hour or two.
Day and night.
No respite.
Yes, where’s the respite?
Where’s the break?
Why don’t you just GIVE IT A REST!
You?
Who?
The baby then.
But I can’t blame the baby.
Even in the depth of darkness, not that.
I can blame my body though.
Oh yes, I can blame my body.
I can blame evolution.
I can blame society, for convincing me that I want to do such an insane thing in the first place.
The propagation of the species.
For why?
For what?
Oh, it makes me sick.


I want to be put on a drip.
I want to be rescued.
I want an angel to drop down from heaven, swoop me up, take me to hospital and put me on a drip.

I’m trying to eat a dry soft roll.
That’s all.
No big deal.
But hell, it hurts to swallow.
It hurts, and it makes me retch.
Even if I manage to eat the whole thing - which will probably take me half an hour -
I’ll only throw it back up again anyway.
Why?
What’s the point?
The baby isn’t getting any nourishment.
Neither am I.
Nobody wins here.
A horrible, even malicious, reminder that there is no God.
We were not designed.
If there was a God, it would be laughing at me right now.
But no.
Not even a deity to blame.
Nobody to blame, except random chance.
The wrong molecules, doing the wrong things.
Sheer bad luck.
I am FUCKING UNLUCKY.
I have been lucky in other areas of my life.
So what.
I was LUCKY to conceive so quickly.
Ha.
Some luck.
My head is spinning.


I lie down.
I feel ill.
I want to puke.
I sit back up again.
That lump, in my throat again.
The world spins.
Nausea.
Oh, nausea.
There are no words to describe.
No words except one.
No need for any other words, for that one word says it all.
Nausea.


And maybe it’s my own stupid fault.
Not even real.
If I didn’t look so blackly upon each passing hour.
If I didn’t tense my stomach into knots with each passing pang.
If I woke up in the morning and said “Hey, it’s all going to be good today.”
If I went to bed at night and said “Tonight I’m going to sleep.”
Maybe it is only happening because I am revelling in it.
But I am not enjoying it. Oh no, I can promise that much.


Food.
I must eat food.
But each mouthful brings waves welling up and burning down my throat.
My lips have blisters from the acid of bile.
Swallowing is painful - the pH of puke that has passed there before.


I mustn’t do this to myself.


Spring rain.
Blue skies.
Flowers swaying in the breeze.
Babies…. cute…. gurgling happily…
Nah, that doesn’t work.
All right, water then.
A babbling brook chuckling to itself in the background.
Birdsong.
Love and hugs.
No, physical touch makes me feel sick.
My body and I are retreating.
Music then.
Oh, sometimes I suppose.
But so hard to get it right.
Oh, fuck it.
Nothing is good.
Everything is bad.
I CAN’T FUCKING DO THIS.
I AM NOT A MARTYR.


How does anyone ever cope?
How will I cope?
Because I have no choice.


If these were the symptoms of some fatal illness, I would want to die right now.
I wouldn’t want to live my life out like this.
God, I hope I never get cancer.
Radiotherapy does this to you too.
No brave stoic heroism in the face of insurmountable odds from this girl.
Oh no.
I am no hero.
I give in.
I don’t want to play any more.
I want to go home now.
Please?"

Big Tummy Calling

Hello!

I know some of you worry about me, bless your little hearts, so I've come to let you know how I am. And I'm fine.

I was off sick for a while, but I'm going back to work tomorrow and am miraculously well. So well I feel slightly guilty about it. And my tummy is ENORMOUS, which means I get to astound people by turning sideways and going, "Look! I'm only ten weeks pregnant and I'm showing already!" and then everybody congratulates me on having such a massive belly, and there is much talk of twins.

I don't think it is twins, by the way. Twins generally make people ill, and given my propensity for sickness... well, I can't believe I'd be feeling this well at ten weeks if there were two of them in there.

I am terribly proud of My Big Tum though. When I got broody, it's always the bump I coveted. I imagined myself stroking it - which I do, all the time. It's a very comforting thing, a bump. So if I tell you a secret, you must keep it to yourself. The thing is... I suspect it's not exactly a pregnancy-related thing. I mean I definitely am pregnant, but...

Clue number one:
When I saw the doctor a few weeks ago, I was already showing. But she had a good old prod about and said she couldn't feel my womb yet. Meaning that it was still in its normal pre-pregnancy position, tucked away out of sight and nice and small (after all, even now the foetus is only two centimetres long). And although I'm hardly a healthcare professional, I've had a good old poke and I definitely can't feel anything except a load of wobbly fat. And when I lie on my back, it redistributes itself and disappears.

Clue number two:
Ever since I had my first child, my stomach has been like an already-inflated balloon, or a T-shirt borrowed by a two-bra-sizes-bigger friend. It remembers what shape it was when I was pregnant, and will return to that shape at the slightest provocation. So that for the past four and a half years, whenever I've put weight on it's made me look pregnant. And despite having been a bit ill, I've been eating like a pig ever since I found out I was pregnant.

OK, so I'm eating for two, and just as with the last time, I'm permanently hungry (except last time I couldn't eat for weeks on end) (TORTURE). But I don't think developing foetuses actually need their mothers to eat two cakes and several pieces of chocolate every single day... if I ate that much before I was pregnant, I would definitely look very pregnant indeed.

But I don't care! I'm pregnant, I'm allowed to be fat. And I love having a bump, and want to have the Bump Benefit for as many months as possible, as I doubt I'll ever be pregnant again. Although come to think of it... all I have to do is eat lots of cake for the rest of my life and I'll have a permanent bump! Hurrah!

So anyway, yes. Last time I got to experience true starvation. I don't know whether I was technically actually really starving (there is an official medical definition for it), but I certainly wasn't far off. I discovered what it feels like to be Very Hungry Indeed, to have eaten nothing at all for two weeks, but be unable to eat.

Before I had a child, I was a fussy eater. A slow eater. A pick-at-your-food eater. An unable-to-eat-if-even-slightly-anxious eater. Not any more. Since I had Felix I've become a voracious and enthusiastic eater. Since I discovered true hunger, I've made the most of all food opportunities. And funnily enough, I'm currently reading The Life of Hunger by Amelie Nothomb, which has made me think even more about the subject.

Haha, this was a wonderfully female-colleagues-gossiping-around-the-kettley sort of a post. This blog is going to be a bit girly, isn't it? Maybe I shouldn't have let it be pink after all.

So anyway, pregnancy makes me hungry. It makes me have-to-eat-now-or-I'll-faint-or-throw-up hungry. Constantly. Hmmm, I'll just make myself a ham and spinach sandwich...

Quick Update

I'm off sick at the moment, because I'm ill enough to find writing computer software pretty impossible.

BUT I'm not as ill as I was last time, not by a long chalk. So please don't worry about me. I'm very optimistic that this phase will be over soon, and I'll be fit as a fiddle again. Certainly not planning on needing any drips.

So there.

A Quickie

So far, so very good indeed.

Today marks the beginning of Week Seven, and that means I came through Week Six without incident.

Tired a lot, occasionally nauseous, but really nothing to complain about - pretty much a model pregnancy. And God, but I am Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes, like you wouldn't believe. I'm even getting up at 6am every day to do yoga and meditation.

I had to leave this place because I was revelling in the drama of it all in a very unhealthy fashion, and that's why I'm still not hanging around.

But I'm fine. I really am. So much so that I'm alternating between guilt that I'm having a better time of it than all the other pregnant ladies I know, and panic that I must be about to have a miscarriage through lack of sick-making HCG. But those, too, are STUPID THOUGHTS and not to be encouraged.

Right. Time to get back to doing Very Little Indeed. Ah, the life of leisure. I'm making the most of it while it lasts.

Pause

I might leave this blog alone for a bit. It's not really helping - it's just encouraging me to dwell on things, which is not good. See you in a few weeks.

Reactions

People just don't know how to react.

It's very confusing, to be told that someone has gained a much-wanted pregnancy (yay!) and then simultaneously learn that it might nearly kill them (oh!).

The standard response is for people to gloss over the illness part. There are several possible reasons for this:

(1) They hear "sickness," they think "morning sickness, oh yes, I know about that, all pregnant women get that. She's making a big fuss about nothing. We all know what a drama queen she is," and they refuse to let me get away with it.

(2) They hear "terrible illness" and they think, "What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? I'll just pretend I didn't hear it."

(3) They hear "debilitation" and they think, "How awful, poor thing. But, well, she's pregnant, this is good. We'll focus on that, not the bad stuff."

Argh, this post is beginning to sound petulant. It's not. I understand. All the above reasons are valid, apart from (a). Hyperemesis is NOT morning sickness. It's much worse; it's potentially life threatening.

But I won't die from it, because modern medicine has a very simple cure (IV drip). And yes, I am a drama queen. They don't put you on a drip until you have been ill for weeks and you are genuinely in danger of death, but hey. They save your life.

God, but I loved that drip. Sometimes, when they added potassium, it hurt. But I didn't care. It made me better. And the nurses, oh those ministering angels. For so long the doctors had failed to make me better or even appear to care very much, and Ally was desperate with worry, and they were reluctant to do home visits, and I just wanted somebody, some super-hero, to swoop down out of the skies, scoop me up in their arms and make it all right, and that's what the nurses and their drips and their smiles and their lovely clean sheets did for me.

I loved being in hospital.

And now here I am, in this weird limbo, and you're all pleased for me, and I'm pleased for me, in fact I'm floating about in a bubble of happiness, and...

You want to know something really really awful?

I'll be disappointed if I don't get ill. Part of me will. The drama queen part. And the part that likes the idea of an entire pregnancy spent at home, like last time. The part that refuses to remember how absolutely sheerly flippin' awful it was. And the part that'll be embarrassed if I turn out to be absolutely fine, after I've made such a bloody fuss about it all.

And I have to stop thinking "when," I have to stop thinking "if," and I have to start thinking "not." No. I won't. It won't. I'm different this time. My body is different. Nothing will be the same. I'll keep going to work and it will be much better than being ill, and I will do all that stuff - the acupuncture, the hypnotherapy, the shiatsu, the massage, the yoga, the toxin-free household, the lack of stress, the vitamins, the organic food, the resting, the relaxation, the positive thinking, the positive thinking, the positive thinking, the positive thinking...

Extremes

It's a strange position I'm in at the moment. Although part of me is repeating the mantra I'll be fine, I'll be fine, don't worry, another part is aware that this may be my last week of comfort for a long time.

I'm five weeks pregnant. The sickness kicked in at six weeks last time.

Next week. Next week, it could all start happening.

But how odd, to be sitting around and waiting maybe for extreme debilitation. Particularly when it was a conscious choice. Easily the most severe illness I have ever experienced, and here I am deliberately setting out to (maybe) go through it all again.

And let's face it, it's hard to feel sympathy for someone who has not only purposely walked into such a situation, but who is facing an outcome so happy... how could it possibly be a bad thing?

Normally when you're so ill that you can't walk for weeks on end, you expect death as a likely result, and nothing else. Debilitation is terrifying because of what it might lead to, as much as how it feels. And normally it is accompanied by the fear that it might not stop. But hyperemesis always stops. By abortion or by birth, it always stops.

I thought about abortion last time, when I was so ill I wanted to die. When it had been going for weeks and simply wouldn't end. But I couldn't do that. What a waste, apart from anything else. I'd only end up doing it all again.

It's all academic, anyway. I won't get ill. I won't. I refuse.

Fine

I am fine, by the way. Tired, but not dysfunctionally so. Occasional bouts of very faint nausea. Also bouts of energy.

And, despite nagging worries that are increasing as next week approaches, I'm very happy.

This is what I wanted, and life is very good. And could get even better very soon. Very glad, I am, that I have Important Project to distract me. That was good timing.

Weird

Oh, it is a weird limbo I'm in at the moment.

Next week. That's when it could all happen. That's when it kicked in last time. I'm simultaneously planning and plotting for what I'll do / how I'll cope if I get ill, and trying to tell myself that No, I won't get ill.

I'm a bit scared.

And trying not to be.

It's doing my head in.

No it's not. I'm fine. I'll be fine. It's fine.

So Far So Good

I'm fine, by the way.

I keep getting bouts of PMT-like hormonal imbalance - i.e. I'm a grumpy unpredictable cow. No change there then. But I seem to have some of those tranquilising hormones knocking about too, which is good. I'm also farting like a trooper, and my boobs have started exuding a very particular type of Pregnancy Sweat, which has its very own smell. I remember it clearly from last time. Most odd. Personally I don't think it smells too bad, but others may not agree...

It's a messy business, procreation.

I have a relaxed week planned. Lots of yoga, early to bed every night. Well, that's the plan. Unfortunately I haven't yet reached the point where coffee and alcohol are unpalatable. So I keep wanting beer. Bother.

I nipped out this morning to buy nice biscuits from M&S for my colleagues, as part of the traditional Good News ritual, but then realised that if anything goes wrong I don't really want all my colleagues to be doing the what-on-earth-do-we-say-to-her dance, so have decided to hang fire on a General Office Announcement until I reach 12 weeks. Which means I'll have to eat the biscuits all to myself. What a shame.

I need some fatter trousers.

Seriously. I'm blooming all over the place. Breasts, tummy, you name it. I feel ripe. I probably smell ripe, too. I look pregnant already.

Last time, I didn't have to combine pregnancy with work. I was too ill. I went off sick at 8 weeks and didn't return until a year later. But this time I'm determined not to be ill. Which means I'll have to sit around in a neat prim office being all primal and earthy and, well, pregnant.

Right. I'm off to feel smug and pat my tummy some more.

Disappointments and Pink Lines

The alarm was doing that thing it does of going off every five minutes, and I was doing that thing I do of pressing snooze and not waking up. At one point I surfaced enough to remember, this morning is the morning.

And then I woke up.

In the bathroom I dipped a little stick in a little pot, and started to count. Within seconds there was one pink line. I checked the instructions again. Two pink lines, if you're pregnant. Two.

Bugger.

And I felt frustrated, and embarrassed, and humiliated. Because I'd done it again. Told the world, told myself, that I felt pregnant, that I had all these symptoms... weight gain, indigestion, sore breasts, recurring faint nausea...

That was the worst bit. The nausea. Even though I know it and have had it proved over and over, I hate it when my brain shows me, yet again, how good it is at conjuring nausea out of absolutely fuck all.

But the instructions said wait five minutes, and absolutely on no account let anything splash above the line. Which means sitting there like a lemon for 300 bloody seconds, holding the dipstick and counting...

I glanced at it, and thought I could see a faint second line. Very very faint. Probably not even there at all.

I didn't even have my glasses on, I'd been so desperate for the loo.

Stupid bloody eyes, hallucinating pink lines all over the place.

I looked down at my knees, and counted some more. Then I allowed myself another glance.

Not quite so faint this time, but still pretty faint.

I checked the instructions again. They said that one line may be considerably fainter than the other...

Still, I didn't believe it at first.

But ten minutes later, the line had become more solid. There was no denying it. It was definitely there.

Yup.

I'M PREGNANT!

Positive Thinking?

My partner thinks my periods are going to get later and later as long as I want to get preggers.

He calls it the power of positive thinking. I call it my stupid brain making a fool of me again...

Not that it's started. My period, I mean. Still no sign. But I was grumpy today. Then again, I had plenty of reasons to be grumpy.

I was going to do a test tomorrow. But now that he's said that...

The thing is, I really hate it when I do a test and it comes out negative. Hence wanting to put it off as long as possible, to ensure it's positive. It's not just the disappointment, it's the not believing. Because they're not 100% accurate, and what if it's wrong, and

The only thing that'll convince me I'm not up the duff is red and runny. And the only thing that'll convince I am is blue and linear. In the meantime, I vacillate, as usual between "I'm sure I am" and "Nah, I'm definitely not" - sometimes swapping between the two several times per hour.

It's all very tiresome.

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

I just checked my diary, and it turns out my period was THREE DAYS LATE last month.

I keep insisting to myself that I'm never late, and at first I just kept telling myself I must have made a mistake.

But no, I didn't.

Bother.

Preset Emotion

I can't be the first person to have thought of this, but I kind of like the idea... no, I don't. I hate it. It's a rubbish idea. But it tickles me, for some reason...

Evolutionarily speaking, our main purpose as animals is to procreate, which makes it the job of women to have babies and not do much else, so maybe evolution just kind of assumed that all women would always want babies at all times, and rather than let us come up with our own emotional response, it just stuck a pre-set in: When woman has period, therefore woman shall get all grumpy and depressed.

Whether we think we want babies or not, evolution has decreed that not being pregnant shall royally piss us off. Every single fucking time.

My back is aching now, too. Period due some time in the next 12 hours, I'd say.

Grug

A sudden explosion of anger, frustration and depression, all in one go. Apparently triggered by things not going well at work, but accompanied by a lingering fizzing-in-the-head which generally signifies a bout of PMT.

Of course, it could be pregnancy hormones making me narky... or it could be just that I am naturally narky...

My partner believes that the hoping and the wishing make your periods late.

How fucking infuriating would that be, if one's body and mind were somehow able to conspire amongst themselves to tease you and then throw you against a wall, just when you need it least?

I hate my body sometimes. And I think it hates me, too.

About GInger

I think we might need to have a word about ginger.

This is a pre-emptive thing, and please nobody feel bad, and you probably have tons of experience of ginger working for nausea / sickness...

But it doesn't work on me. Never has. Been tried several times. Doesn't touch it.

So let's just get that out of the way now. Don't recommend ginger. Because I might get annoyed with you, and that wouldn't really be fair, because you would only be giving me well-meaning advice, and I am taking zinc pills, even though zinc is the thing that ginger has in it and therefore probably won't work...

But please don't recommend ginger. I already know about ginger. I've been told about ginger several times. But it doesn't work on me. Sorry.

Anyway, now that we've got that out of the way, I can give you the news....

...which is that there isn't any. I was due on today. Nothing happened. I don't think I've had PMT at all in the last two weeks (I normally get two distinct bouts). I threw up, a tiny bit, in the middle of last week. Nothing since then.

And yes, this means that you wouldn't even have any reason to give me The Ginger Advice, seeing as I'm not actually nauseous or vomiting. But. You know. Sometimes it pays to be pre-emptive.

So, anyway. No period, a teeny-tiny throwing-up event, no PMT, slightly sore boobs.

This could mean anything.

But I won't do a test until Friday. Sorry, but I just won't. Well, I probably won't. And anyway, owing to an unplanned coincidence of events, I am also on tenterhooks this week for other news, concerning Important Project. And that's mostly distracting me from thinking about The Baby Thing.

But I do like the idea of both arriving at once. That would be cool.

Whirligig

This blog is so very specific to me and my concerns that nobody much reads it at all. It's a proper little secret corner of the internet. And now I have this mad urge to go wild and run all over the blog, whirling and shouting and taking my clothes off, shouting out obscenities and chucking custard at the walls. Just cos nobody would notice if I did.

This morning, still feeling nauseous and worried about how it would affect Important Project, I played loud music and danced around the kitchen. I remembered something me and the hypnotist discovered: That nausea has a buzziness about it that, if you concentrate really hard, you can just about convince yourself represents some kind of druggy high - instead of sheer fork-in-brain hell.

That's why I danced. To pretend to myself that, far from being nauseous, I was just off my head. And it worked! The faster I whirled, the better I felt. I spun round in circles, I jumped up and down, I wheeled back and forth between kitchen and hallway, my eyes closed, my hips swaying, and remembering a memory of a disco I went to when I was fifteen years old.

It was great. Can the cure for nausea really be that simple? Am I going to spend nine months spinning madly about the kitchen?

Doesn't sound so bad really, does it?

Early Morning Present

I just threw up. Out of the blue, not long after getting up.

I don't want it to mean I'm pregnant.

Not because I don't want to be pregnant - I do. But last time, the sickness didn't start until I was six weeks pregnant. This would be only three*. It wouldn't bode well.

My Important Project will be finished in three days. I'm so nearly there. But it's something I can't do when I'm nauseous. I'm physically incapable.

I'm hoping it was the zinc tablet I took at an unusual time of day, because I forgot to take it last night. It's ironic, really. The zinc is to prevent sickness. Ginger is full of it. But I noticed once before that I got nauseous an hour or so after taking one...

I have all these plans to use hypnosis, relaxation, CBT to combat nausea and try and break the connection between nausea and vomiting. Nausea is such hell you see, and chucking up alleviates it, so in the past I've encouraged myself to do it, if only to relieve the incessant buzzing stick-a-fork-in-your-brain that is nausea. But then I ended up dehydrated. Nearly dead. On a drip.

So anyway, this morning was only mild nausea. Very mild. But I had no control over the barfing bit. I may be living in cloud cuckoo land.

I'm not going to get ill again. I'm not. I'm not, I'm not, I refuse.


*Confusingly, the length of a pregnancy is measured from the first day of your last period - despite the fact that you almost certainly conceived two weeks later than that.

Exhausted

I'm so incredibly tired. I've had a really busy week, so it's not surprising. But...

And I keep getting indigestion.

Just thought I'd mention.

Dates

A week on Monday.

That's when I might know.

But I'm going to wait until that Friday before doing any tests.

That's a whole fortnight from now!

[expires from impatience]

Signs and Portents and OH FUCKING HELL

And... we're off again.

The official fertile period has passed, and we're into The Waiting Bit. Or rather, The Watching Bit.

Ooh! I just shouted at someone for being an idiot! Maybe I'm pregnant?
No, they're just an idiot.

Ooh! I smell a bit funny! Am I...?
No, I just need a bath.

Ooh! My skin is all glowy and lovely! Could it be...?
No. I'm just healthy.

Ooh! My breasts are sore! Maybe...
No. My glands are swollen.

Ooh! I keep farting!

Ooh! I'm constipated!

Ooh! My toes hurt!

My body is having a laugh. It lies awake nights thinking of new and bizarre potentially-pregnant symptoms to goad me with.

And it's not even as though I've been trying very hard. I completely missed the Magical Four-Day Fertility Window, because... well... there's this thing called life. It's relentless. It happens every day, whether you like it or not. It makes you tired, and busy, and grumpy, and distracted, and has no interest whatsoever in monthly bloody cycles.

And anyway. My aunt says that the more you try, the less likely you are to conceive. That fertility kits and all that rubbish just get in the way. Spontaneity. That's what you need.

But what the fuck is that all about? Are people seriously suggesting that eeny-tiny little smelly swimmy things and itchy-titchy little eggs can tell how much you want them to meet and make friends? That the sperm are all tapping each other on the shoulder and whispering in each other's ears, "Nah, she wants it too much. Let's play bouncy castle in this giant womb instead."?

Well, I decided that The Rest Of My Life was a bit too pressing this month and that really I'd be quite happy to wait until next month, and it didn't really matter... and all I achieved was to miss The Little Opportunity Window whilst simultaneously believing that maybe if I pretended not to care I could catch the little buggers unaware. And all this means is that I'm even less likely to be pregnant than normal, but no less likely to be watching myself like a hawk.

I had a funny taste in my mouth the other day. I'm sure it was a sign...

On Being Anonymous

Once I'd set this anonymous blog up and posted (retrospectively) a few posts, it started to lose its appeal.

It was cathartic, to be able to splurge on a whole load of stuff I hadn't been able to write about previously. But once I'd got it out of my system I didn't feel so bad about it any more, and therefore didn't feel the need to blog it.

Or maybe it's just that old menstrual cycle again...

There are pros and cons to both anonymous and non-anonymous. When you're anonymous you have to censor yourself constantly to make sure you're not giving your identity away. When you're non-anonymous, you have to monitor to guard against writing anything you'd rather certain people didn't read...

The only way to have total free rein seems to be not give a fuck about anybody or anyone, in which case you'd probably not be angstridden enough to want to blog in the first place.

I reckon fiction is the way forward. If I wrote fiction I could bare my soul in great detail, and as long as I bared a few other people's souls along the way, nobody could ever know what was real or what wasn’t. "I have a good imagination" is the perfect get-out clause.

Eh? I Can't Hear You

I know, that last post was probably a bit graphic for some tastes. There’s not much point in me apologising, as I’m bound to keep doing it, but - well, sorry.

I suspect the pattern of this blog will be total silence for the first two weeks of every month, followed by manic wittering as I try and get preggers and start obsessing about whether I am or not.

People keep telling me that it works much better if you don’t consciously try. To which I say, HAHAHAHA! I am a rampant control freak. It ain’t gonna happen. Sorry. Even if I close my eyes and turn the other way and pretend not to be noticing what time of month it is, or caring whether my boobs happen to be ever-so-slightly more tender than they were ten minutes ago, it ain’t going to fool anyone, least of all my reproductive organs.

According to my aunt, human beings are reflexive ovulators - i.e. we ovulate on demand (after sex. Did you know you need to have sex BEFORE you ovulate? Well you do. It takes a while for the little buggers to get where they need to be).

Anyway, I’m still going to pretend I’m not trying to fill my belly with baby, and see if I can fool myself into getting up the duff to spite me.

Hey, you never know. It might work.

In the meantime I’m gonna get me some gratuitous not-even-fertile free bonus sex. Just cos I’m developing a taste for it. [and because I’m worried Him Indoors is feeling a little used, but shhhh]

So anyway, I just might start being fertile again next Thursday. Not that I’m counting or anything. Oh no. I haven’t a clue in fact. Babies? What? Dunno what you’re talking about.

Nope II

On Friday morning I was there again, in the loo, inspecting the bogroll for Signs.

And there it was. A sign.

My period was a day late, you see. And this is rare, these days. Ever since Child No. 1 was born, I've been regular.

This is a good thing. With Child No. 1, I waited a fortnight to do a test because lateness was normal, and I couldn't bear the disappointment of a negative result.

But now, one day late... that means something.

And then I went to the loo. And there was A Sign. A tiny smidgeon of an almost-not-there sign, but a sign nevertheless. And I took it to mean that I wasn't pregnant. And I cried. And that evening, with friends, I was grumpy and morose. Couldn't talk about anything else. Not pregnant.

But then there was no period. And then it was Saturday, and there was still no period. And I wondered. Maybe...

So I took the test out of its wrapper, and counted to sixty... and the bloody fucking thing didn't work. Avoid excessive splashing, it said. No longer than five seconds in the stream. The line in the oval control window didn't appear. Discard and try again, it said. Oh, fuck.

So I had to go to the shop and buy another one, and I convinced myself that Him Indoors didn't want me to be pregnant anyway, and I got myself in a right old state, trailing around the supermarket wondering, am I, what if I am, what if I am...

Home. Did the test. Waited five minutes. The phone rang while I was waiting. Questions being called down the stairs, inconsequential questions about dates and visits, and I didn't fucking care, I just wanted to know if I was pregnant...

And the test said no.

And I didn't believe it.

Because I might be in that fraction of a percent with inaccurate results. Because my stupid fucking period still didn't start. And then I remembered, why I waited a fortnight, that last time, when Child I was conceived. Because the month before I went through this exact same thing. Got impatient. Did a test. Negative. Didn't believe it. Period still didn't arrive. Wishing it would just fucking come so I could know it and accept it and get on with the rest of my life.

And what if my hormone levels were all fucked up because it was ectopic? Or what if I was pregnant, but with really weak hormone levels, putting me at risk of miscarriage?

And I had to spend time with my sister, who's pregnant, and it's lovely, and I'm really pleased for her, but it's just... well. You know.

But I didn't. Didn't know. Couldn't know, not until the bleeding started.

It started today, and it was a relief. Now I can look forward again. Get out of the limbo. Escape the grip of extended PMT.

And I looked in my diary and found out my period was due a day later than I thought. When I thought I was a day late, I wasn't.

It's all right. It's only been two months. Now I can get on with all that stuff I'm supposed to have finished by now. Now I can really clear the decks and set myself up for a clear straight path next month.

Next month, I'll get pregnant.

Hope

You'd better hope I get pregnant quickly. Otherwise you're going to find yourself, every month, watching me drone on about my obsession with whether or not I'm pregnant.

It's such a weird thing, knowing that something momentous might be happening in your own body but not being able to tell whether it is. Watching yourself like a hawk for the tiniest sign that something might have changed. All of that is disconcerting enough, but then you throw hormones into the mix and you have a recipe for Mood Swing Central. Am I pregnant, or is it just PMT? Waaah, I'm pregnant! Waaaah, I have PMT!

And not only do I get to have massive mood swings, but I get to analyse each tiny fluctuation of mood in extreme detail to see whether it might possibly be a sign... that I'm pregnant. Or that I have PMT. Which one? WHICH ONE? And then there are the tears when it turns out to be PMT, which is bad enough at the best of times but when it acts as a giant red announcement shouting "Ner ner, YOU'RE NOT PREGNANT" it could surely be cited as reasonable mitigation against a killing spree in your local Tesco.

For the last two days I have been feeling oddly buoyant. Maybe it's cos I'm pregnant, I ask myself? And I won't go into detail, but, well, I am examining myself in areas that are really best left to the professionals, and anyway I haven't got the slightest clue what I'm looking for in the first place.

And although I'm trying to deny it to myself, if I find out I'm definitely genuinely really NOT pregnant, I shall be utterly miserable. And annoyed with myself at being miserable (we've only been trying two months, for fuck's sake). And depressed at the idea I could be so utterly slave to the whims of my own fucking body.

I'll know by tomorrow morning. In the meantime, it's driving me mad. I want to know NOW. (oh no! Is this a sign? Have I got PMT?)

Scratch

I've bought a tiny wee packet of scratch mittens, with a picture of a zebra.

One of the mittens lives in my pocket, and I can put my hand in whenever I want. If I put one finger inside it, it mimics a tiny baby's hand.

Mostly it makes me close to tears, but it's a good kind of crying I think.

It's my talisman. To remind me why. To distract me from negative thoughts. To remind me why.

I think I might show it to my mum.

Stop It

OK, this has got to stop.

My masseuse was asking me how things were, and I was telling her, yet again, how scared I am, how hard I'm trying to prepare myself for the worst, and she, bless her, reminded me about manifestation.

I suspect we disagree slightly about exactly what manifestation is, but she reminded me of what I know is true: Mind affects matter. And then I remembered how anxiety makes me nauseous, and how there's a 40% chance I won't get ill, and my life and body are different this time round, in several significant respects.

I have to start telling myself I won't get ill.

I won't get ill. I don't have to get ill. And even if I do, it doesn't matter. I can cope. I've done the hypnotherapy. I can manage the nausea in a way I couldn't before. Maybe I can stop myself from vomiting, or make myself sip water, or at the very least cope better with constant nausea.

And I have to stop telling people it's life-threatening. "I nearly died!" This is what I say to anyone who will listen, because it's dramatic, and it turns me into an Interesting Heroine.

There's this part of me that wants to get ill. Because it will make me Important, and Dramatic, and I'll get loads of time off work. This is STUPID.

I do NOT want to get ill. I did NOT nearly die. Yes, Charlotte Bronte died of it. Yes, I would have died if I hadn't been put on a drip. Yes, the only reason they put me on a drip is because my life was in danger. But I never would have actually died. I was always only five minutes away from an IV drip. And, most importantly, I won't die next time. Not now I know the signs. Not now I understand. But even more importantly than that, I probably won't get ill.

And if I do it doesn't matter.

So. From now on I am banned from talking in melodramatic terms about illness. I am banned from assuming I'll get ill. I am banned from assuming that if I do it will be awful. It won't.

We have everything in place to cope if I get ill. I don't need to plan for it any more. I need to shoo the negative thoughts from my self-defeating brain and focus on the positive.

Sex and babies.

It sounds pretty good to me.

Nope I

Not pregnant.

Miserable.

Terrified.

Ill.

Had a sudden attack of Fear. I was ill with 'flu on Thurs, and the temperature made me nauseous. And I remembered how hideous it is, to be nauseous and vomiting twenty-four hours a day for weeks on end. To keep nothing down. To become so dehydrated that you would die if it weren't for being put on a drip. To watch your vomit become peppered with blood. To be unable to talk because your throat has been doused with bile, hourly, for weeks, and it burns constantly. And you can't sit up because your stomach muscles are so sore from the retching, and you can't walk because you're so hungry and weak...

So, anyway. Yes. Scared. Scared of all that. Fucking terrified.

Angry

I’m angry.

I’m probably angry because I have PMT, which is characterised by all-consuming irrational disconcerting anger.

I’m angry because I probably have PMT, which means I’m probably not pregnant.

I’m angry because I want to drink wine to make me feel better because of the PMT, but it might not be PMT, I might be pregnant, and if I am pregnant I can’t drink wine, but I’m probably NOT pregnant, for fuck’s sake. But I might be. So I can’t drink wine. Fuck.