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.

Drugs

I worked out (by the simple fact that I never throw anything away, and still have the packets in the medicine cabinet) that they already gave me the expensive drugs, the ones I thought I might have to fight for, last time I was ill. They didn't work.

Phew. No fight needed there then.

Gifts

Sex for procreation is different than normal sex. It’s more moving, more intimate, and (thankfully) sexier! The anticipation of him coming, really coming, inside me, turns me on. And when he does, I feel as though he’s giving me some wonderful gift. I feel so thankful, and so loved, that he would do this for me - that he would give me the most precious thing he owns. All of which is terribly cheesy of course, but that doesn’t stop it being true.

And then there’s the dark side. The knowledge of what it might bring. And when I went to the hyperemesis website today, it confirmed what I already knew but refused to acknowledge. That I don’t have any control over it. That I can’t stop it. That a lack of toxins, hypnotherapy and all the alternative medicine in the world is unlikely to make a blind bit of difference. But worse than that, I also found something I didn’t know: That hyperemesis can cause real damage to both foetus and mother. And that in order to avoid this, I really need IV vitamins and / or serious pre-emptive medication. But that IV vitamins can in themselves be dangerous, as can the medications which stand any chance of working - quite apart from the fact that both these things are expensive and unlikely to be easily - if at all - obtained from the NHS. I don’t want to have to think about these things. I don’t want a battle. I hate battles. I will always concede and capitulate and conciliate - anything to avoid a fight. And that’s when I’m well. There’s no chance of me managing any of this when I’m ill.

Hello

Hello.

I'm trying to get pregnant. I'm occasionally panicking about what will happen if I do get pregnant. I already have one child. I was very ill when I was pregnant last time, but I'm trying very hard not to think about that. Mind over matter. Self-fulfilling prophecies. That kind of thing.

I can't be bothered explaining any more. I think I'll just jump straight in and inflict the contents of my head on you all. I can get a bit longwinded at times. And whingy. You've been warned.