I saw my counsellor on Friday morning. I can’t quite recall if I began seeing her before or after my second miscarriage – my memory of those long months is unreliable – but I can remember that I only rang her for an appointment after I had spent an entire weekend sat in our bedroom, crying, utterly unable to function. Times were difficult. The Centre for Reproductive Medicine when I had my fertility treatment provided a counselling service free of charge for all patients, because the HFEA, bless their cotton socks, had made it compulsory. I had been reluctant to avail myself of the service throughout my previous rounds of treatment, because… well, you know. Therapy. A bit… self-indulgent, yes? Surely: if you can’t sort your problems out just by talking to your mates, or just bloody dealing with it, you’ve gotta be either a bit damn yampy, or disappearing up your own arse?

Yep. I was a prat. I know.

I talked for over 3 hours on my first session. And it was wonderful! I clicked with her immediately. She understood. In fact, her insightfulness amazed me. She helped me pick apart my tangle of rage, blame and guilt. She was there for me during the treatment cycles, and the miscarriages. She was there for me during the Fear that was my pregnancy, when I was scuttling into the unit to see her, swathed under ridiculously voluminous clothing to conceal my bump from the waiting room. She was there for me – and Harry – in NICU, when she brought Harry a teddy bear. (Because she is a staggeringly nice and lovely person, as well as a thorough professional, she even came to his Christening.) And she helped me come to terms with actually being a parent. The HFEA, not unreasonably, stopped shelling out for her to listen to me around then, so I happily migrated to her private practice. It’s some of the very best money I spend, and I always walk away from my time with her ready to take on the world.

In short, I cannot recommend professional help highly enough. It’s not the same as thrashing things out with your spouse or friends. You travel further.

So, I have felt much more upbeat over the weekend, despite the little chap having awful bronchiolitis – and generously handing it over to the mater and pater. We are all over-endowed with green mucus at present. Harry has been eating a little better, so I intend to be brave enough to actually get him weighed tomorrow, and see what the last month of short commons has done to his tiny 20lb frame.

I am also cheered up by my proud possession of a working laptop, wireless router problems all resolved; I can now sit in the nice warm lounge as opposed to the freezing cold office. The idea is that bringing Hubby and I into the same room of an evening will actually facilitate us, you know, talking to each other. So far, it hasn’t seemed to work out that way, as Hubby – who is thermally self-sufficient in anything short of polar conditions – is now sat in the office, surfing, whilst I am in the lounge.


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