Monday, 16 August 2010

The stiff upper lip wobbles

I haven't had the big, ugly, gulping tears yet - and if I can avoid it, I won't.

DH and I met for lunch on Friday just after I got the call from the clinic. My eyes were leaking as soon as I saw him, and he wrapped me in a huge hug and said, "Go on, let it out, my love."

I pushed him away, angrily swiped at my eyes and said, "Not in public."

And then we had our lunch, in a place which is frequented by a lot of patients from XXXX clinic, and from time to time as we ate in almost complete silence, an extra bit of salted water would drop onto my salmon, but I managed to keep it mostly in check.

On the way home, I called my parents and just said, "The answer is no." They asked if I would call back when I got home, and I said, "No. Tomorrow." And swiped away a few more tears.

Once home, I got onto Google and started thinking about what to do next, and planning and researching helped to keep the tears at bay. By the time DH got home, I was able to stay on a reasonably even keel as long as we didn't probe into our feelings too deeply.

It was the little things that got to me.

My father, desperate to help and make things all right for his daughter, offering whatever help he could give, "including financial", but knowing that in reality there's absolutely nothing he can do to make this situation any better.

The text from my sister, who knows exactly the right thing to say even though this situation is so far removed from her own experience. "Very very sorry. We love you."

The person at the clinic, when I phoned for a follow-up appointment and gave my name, saying softly, "Oh, you just heard today, didn't you? I'm so sorry."

Getting in the bath on Saturday and looking down at the purple, yellow and brown landscape of my stomach, still bruised from all the pointless Clexane injections.

Seeing the woman who sits a couple of rows in front of us in church, caressing her growing bump as she sat serenely surrounded by her seven other children.

The hymn we sang at the end of Mass yesterday, with the third verse asking for comfort for those who mourn.

And each time, I've bitten my lip, swiped away the tears, and forced my mind onto some other track, and disaster has been averted - if by disaster we mean total loss of control and helpless collapse into a soggy, sobbing heap.

I did let myself wallow a bit over the weekend - for the first time since long before we got married, I never even got dressed on Saturday. I felt antisocial, I didn't want to talk to anyone, and when we went to the supermarket on the way home from church yesterday, I felt irritated and affronted by the very existence of other people's children. I barely spoke all weekend, and had to make an effort that was almost too much for me just to be civil to poor DH.

But now that little period of limbo is over. The gestone is finally working its way out of my system, and AF showed up this morning. DH is back at work, and I have a list of jobs to do.

Life goes on, and it's time to pick up the reins again.


  1. I'm still staggered at the unfairness of it . It's just wrong.

    And I'm afraid I think having 8 children is wrong too. Give someone else a chance, church lady. Grrr.


  2. BIG, MASSIVE, WARM HUGS coming your way!

  3. This still just sucks, and I'm still so sorry xo

  4. xxx to you. I always find this first week when people are being so nice and offering condolences very hard. But to be honest I think you should lap it up and let them love you because it is even harder when the weeks go by and they've forgotten or moved on from your pain and you are still there living it. I hope you don't find this really miserable of me to say this but I just know that the time that is hardest for me is when other people stop acknowldeging it and revert back to their own happy lives.

    Let those that love you share your pain, let it all out now while they are able to support you. You'll feel so much better for it.

    xxx Thinking of you.