Written yesterday on my shiny new mini iPad..
Only I would manage burn myself in a hospital. Mr. Husband’s in for a bronchoscopy (I can’t even pronounce the word) and I decided I deserved sugar (a hot chocolate) while I wait. Only to go spill it all over myself and feed the floor. My hormones probably didn’t need the sugar anyway. My hand now looks greasy and red after my rubbish self first-aid. I apply Elizabeth Arden’s 8 hour cream to everything. It’s my magic cream! I’ll be one of those grannies who offers it out at any given opportunity.
I want to climb back into bed. Instead I’m left here with my thoughts. I am tired. The more I read about hormones, the more dysfunctional I feel. The bleeding has thrown me off. It’s heavier than my scant periods but also bright red. It doesn’t look or feel like a period.
A part of me wants to curl up and sleep .. for a week .. a month or maybe a year. A more dominant part of me just wants to pack it all in, tell infertility to f*** off and go live a rich childless life. I feel like every time I think I’m making progress, climbing up that ladder and getting to the next platform, I meet a snake and end up sliding right back down. Ladders are also hard to come by.
Yet my attitude has changed. If I was experiencing this last year, I’d be distraught and ready to put my life on pause. This time I’m pushing on. Trying my best to juggle. ‘It is what it is’ – ‘There’s a good reason this is happening’ – ‘Stay strong’ – ‘This is a passing phase, just like the moon has its phases’ (I have my poetic moments).
My mind is starting to sound like a self-help CD.
Need the weekend to arrive.. NOW!