Uneasy Lies The Head

I was also thinking about calling this one ‘Mucus: Wherefore Art Thou?’ Or ‘I can has frequent blog posting prize?!’

I have the twinging pain. In the lazy ovary, too. The one attached to the good* uterus!

I have the LH surge**:


I have the spots:

(Photo taken but too featuring far too many un-plucked, un-waxed and un-bleached hairs to publish)

But I do not have the mucus. At least, I have none of the right type of mucus.

And this month, I was half-considering having a proper go at things. At 15 stone, (that’s right! a whole stone heavier than the previous ‘I am too fat to get pregnant post!’ AND I went to the gym 3 times last week and 3 times this week ALREADY and it’s only Thursday! AND I sweated properly! AND I have put on another pound! GAH!) this is not a particularly clever move. I have no better reasons to field than A) I lose the best part of a stone in the 1st trimester coz I can’t actually eat, and B) I am surrounded with legions of pregnant women. Simply can’t move for the buggers. Announcements have been coming at me from all sides, which I suppose is inevitable when a high proportion of your girly chums have 18-month old kids.

I don’t dissolve into a sad little puddle of hate the way I used to when ‘the news’ is given. I can produce a smile without having to ratchet it there forcibly from an achingly sore combination of personal obligation, social conscience and pride. I don’t inwardly convulse with a toxic mixture of jealousy, naked distress, and panic. But the memories of when I did are etched so deep that I still get a stab of something unpleasant. My baby isn’t a baby anymore – and fuck knows how and when that happened – and all these other women are leaving me behind with their relentless output; their production line of infants. Again.

My pregnancy seems like a distant dream. Not even the fact that I can still – still! – produce milk convinces me that I’m in the club now. I tell myself that I am, happily, no longer one of the distraught dispossessed. I have the baby magazines, the stairgates, the cute little clothes, the lego, the carseat and everything. Whilst Harry lives, I can never be desolate again. And I still can’t accept the new normal, or take any of it for granted. 

Even if we have another child… after so spending so long in such deep distress and mourning for my failure to conceive, followed by losing my babies, I’m sure I will spend my remaining life stood on the outside of motherhood, looking in. Harry – despite being the light of my existence, without whom I would curl up and try to die – can never return me to the person I was in 2003.

On a visceral level I am truly maimed by his long-delayed arrival and premature birth, but I consciously try to view the traumas of infertility and miscarriage as a catalyst for some seriously stern character development. With varying degrees of success.

** When I requested John to take this shot with his super-duper new close-up lens, he squinted suspiciously at the peestick, went to pick it up, had second thoughts, and withdrew his hand. He then enquired in repulsed tones ‘Which end have you peed on?’

Hairy hubby is such a girl.

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