21 Nov 2012 2 Comments
It’s been a while since my last
confession post. This is because I have just moved country and been unable to do more than wade through piles of admin, work like a maniac, keep up with my family and dribble onto my keyboard.
I wish I had blogged the move. There were moments when I genuinely believed that my head was going to explode. Like Scanners. (Am relieved it didn’t.)
Seriously, I had no idea how hard it was going to be. Last time I moved I bought a ticket, packed a suitcase and fucked off.
While moving country I re-established a relationship with the word Fuck. Sometimes there is nothing quite as satisfying as saying it repeatedly until your blood pressure has dropped and you’ve put the knife back into the kitchen drawer.
This happened frequently while moving house, but not as passionately or as emotionally as when I realised that my desire/need/desperation for more children was not going to be as easy as “Whip yer pants off honey, I’m coming in!”
Instead it has been a miscarriage in the dark of winter – early days, very quick, hardly distinguishable from a period. A miscarriage in the sun of summer – horrible, vivid, emotionally raw. And month after month of no line on that stick.
To every other woman out there who has spent years with No Fucking Line, I salute you. I hug you. I hope you got (or get) that line.
One month I was late, really late. I was tentatively excited and casually bought a test. I waited for another two days so that I was absolutely sure that I was at least a week late, and I peed on the stick. As I waited for the line to appear, at that very fucking minute, my period started.
Then there is that sense of, “Why did I wait so long?”
This is the second F – FFS.
FOR FUCK’S SAKE you say to your Sharpei-style wrinkles in the mirror as yet another period arrives with a flourish and a fanfare and then sort of walks off dejectedly, looking over its shoulder at you with sad eyes in the vain hope you will dance about with joy as you did when you were 29 and had an accident and a period was cause for celebration, but you don’t, so it digs in and gives you backache as revenge. And sore nipples. And the desire to hack someone to death with a machete.
The clock isn’t turning back. It isn’t slowing down and any woman who is sitting on the wrong side of 40 will know that each day sees a percentage drop or a percentage grow. Shit percentages, by the way. Not good ones.
So, yesterday I sent myself to a gynae. It wasn’t an easy task and it was definitely an expensive one. R1000 to have a strangers hand up my wibbly bits. Doesn’t seem fair.
Anyway, I was excited. I had this hope you see, this hope that the professional would be able to give me some advice, possibly some kind of test or tablet or guidance to help me fall pregnant. Instead the man spent an hour shredding my hope to pieces. The short version is….
“You are old. Your miscarriages are because you are old and probably mean you won’t be able to have more children. Even if you do fall pregnant you’ll have to have an amnio as your child will probably have Down Syndrome and the test will cause a miscarriage. You’re too fat. There is nothing anyone can do. Resign yourself to your fate.”
And to that man, that gynae, the man who made me sob for 24 hours straight, I have this to say to you.
Fuck you for making me feel 100. Fuck you for making me feel like my eggs were these wrinkled, mutated THINGS that could not perform. And FUCK YOU for having a dick and the empathy of a toenail.
I’m seeing a specialist on 09 December, a specialist who, when he heard my story, told me that he would squeeze me in, that I would not have to wait until March. I’ll update you then…
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