I am an emotional wreck.
The annual post-Christmas blues have arrived; brought on in combination by:
1- Indulging oneself to near-diabetic coma for the past month or so, and consequently seeing the Michelin Man reflected in the bathroom mirror whilst en-route to the shower
2- The subsequent efforts to shed the “winter coat” by signing up to WeightWatchers = feeling so hungry that my stomach feels like its begun to digest itself
3- The dark, cold, wet Great British January mornings that make me want to curl back up under my duvet
4- A miserable, man-flued-up husband with cabin fever, which is a bit like having Eeyore, the depressed donkey, in the house
5- My exam for speciality training in my desired medical career looming on the horizon this Thursday (no pass = no job from August)
6- And finally…. our first appointment with the Fertility Specialist, also on the dreaded Thursday.
Needless to say, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with life. And as a friend so nicely put it,
“if that bucket’s already full, it doesn’t take too much for the contents to start tipping over the edge”
That awful feeling of uncertainty and not being in control of life is universally acknowledged as unhinging the most stable of us, but it’s fair to say I’ve gone to some extreme lengths this past week to attempt to claw back some control. Most of this takes place in the home, and involves a disproportionate amount of cleaning, tidying and filing. The DVDs may all be stacked in alphabetical order now, but those butterflies are still keeping me awake at night.
The hospital appointment is probably the most dominant of these worries (the exam, a close second) – finally finding out what’s “wrong” with us, and what options, if any, we have. Having had to wait months and months for this day to come, it’s remained fairly dormant in my mind. Not in the sense that I don’t think about the infertility – it’s the first thing I think about when I wake up, and the last thing I think about at night – but in that, knowing it was so far off, it just got put on the back burner. Now it’s only a few days away, it’s dragged it all back up from under the carpet.
Will we ever be a Mum and Dad to anything that doesn’t have 4 legs and a tail?
As touched upon in my last post, I have struggled with Christmas this year. As the remnants of the festive period were packed up last weekend, I came across the numerous cards we’d had from friends, signed, “him + her + bump”. I also came across a card from a neighbour who I’d confided in about our problems conceiving. They had told me a year back that their 2 children were conceived naturally 10 years ago, having been investigated to the end of the earth for infertility and told that they would never have their own. She had so kindly and thoughtfully written, “We hope 2014 brings you everything you both dream of”.
I visited a friend today, who lost her 17 week pregnancy a year ago, after discovering on a routine scan that the baby had died 2 weeks prior. Since then, the desperation to become pregnant again has led to the inevitable struggle to conceive. Whilst I can say that I can empathise to an extent with what she has gone through, I cannot begin to imagine the pain of losing a baby that would have been. Today, she has confided that she is 10 weeks pregnant, and I am genuinely overjoyed for her, and massively relieved that I still have the ability to be pleased for a friend.
So, to my friend, B – I know that you are understandably apprehensive about the next 42 weeks ahead. But I have everything crossed for you.