Very occasionally, when someone enquires casually after my wellbeing, I want to reply “Not pregnant thanks, and how are you?”
It would mean I’ve pretty much summed things up in a few short words, they’d know the score and we can move on. It would explain why, at the age of 38 and having been married for well over a year, I’m still drinking alcohol and eating soft cheese, I often avoid social arrangements, I frequently look sad, I get grumpy on a regular basis (every 22-25 days if we’re going to be pedantic) and I look like I’m about to self-implode when asked if I’m going to have children soon.
But I’m one of life’s private people – it’s why I could never reveal my identity on here and why, conversely, I relish the freedom the anonymity brings me in being able to release some of the deeper, harder-to-reach thoughts, feelings and emotions that come with this journey.
So there are very few people who know with certainty I’m having trouble getting pregnant (I’m sure there are quite a few who have started to suspect by now). And there are times I wish even they didn’t know, that I could go somewhere far, far away with The Husband (preferably Bali), and stay there until we’re pregnant.
But I can’t. This is my life. I have to face it, go with it and believe not only there’s a reason for it but that I’ll be a stronger, happier, better person for it in the long run.
So tomorrow I’ll call Scan Man and tell him I got my period on Friday. And he’ll add that piece of information to my notes. And then I’ll make an appointment to see Fertility Doctor. And I’ll go through all my options with him and decide on a plan of action that’s going to get me a baby.
Until next time.