So, I'm feeling a bit Lady Macbeth today. For a number of reasons, not least the fact that she's the Queen of the crazy Infertile bitches.
I'm feeling that physical action might resolve my psychological torment, so, rather than murder the Scottish king and a bunch of inter-related thanes, I've decided to take the slightly more sane approach and start working again.
It's kind of working (ha ha). Keeps the mind off the continuing grief saga for a bit, reminds me that I am a righteous teacher whom the teens love, gives me back a sense of perspective and all that feel-good crud.
Because, dear friends, in this post-Dr Phil world, I refuse to be a victim. A victim of unfortunate circumstance I may be, but a victim of grief, NEVER! I am stronger than this, and like Colin Firth in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, I will beat this....
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Ok, now for the real update.
I still feel shitty that it took this long to test me for all the immune/genetic issues related to recurrent miscarriage. I requested these tests twice in the past 2 years. Have we been wasting valuable fertile years and A-grade blasts, when all it'll take is a dose of your friendly, neighbourhood steroids to stop my body rejecting our spawn? Is this it? Is this the answer to the 50 gazillion dollar question? I can scarcely dare to hope, yet I gain some relieved finality from being Unexplained no longer. A weight bigger than my fat, ever-expanding, comfort-eating arse has indeed been lifted. A modicum of hope dares to quiver in my battered heart.
I hope I don't force that next little spot out.
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1 comment:
I hope it's the answer too Mez!
And I loved your reference to Colin (sigh).
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