…because I’ve had nothing to say really.

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve spent the last month at hen parties, weddings, birthday parties and trips away utterly unencumbered by thoughts of pregnancy. OK, that’s a total lie, I’m still not drinking so almost every time I’ve gone out it’s been on my mind in some way or other, but actually, you know what, it’s been fine. Suspiciously fine.

If you recall, last time I felt this fine, I did something totally fucking dumbass and realised I wasn’t as fine as I thought I was. (And big thanks to the reader who wrote to me after reading about my emotional fuckwittery and told me that it was so universal that her and her friends had coined the term King Lear Syndrome for it; “that feeling of invincibility when you have had some nice, nominally no strings fun with someone, just before you crash and burn” — King Lear Syndrome sounds SO much more erudite than Emotional Fuckwittery.)

But yes, I am simultaneously both feeling fine and worrying that the fact that I’m feeling fine must surely presage some huge emotional landslide.

And I can’t quite work out why I’m feeling fine. Because we’re six months into the year and I’ve only tried to get pregnant once. And it didn’t work. And I’m an impatient person, and I wanted to be pregnant by now.

Maybe it’s because I’m not in the throes of it all at this very minute, and maybe when I start on the clinic visits and the drugs, I’ll change my mind. But right now, there seems to have been something of a mental shift, something of a resignation to the fact that this is a process, and it’s going to take as long as it’s going to take and there’s nothing I can do about that (apart from what I’m doing — no booze, acupuncture, a few dietary tweaks, a few supplements, but none of it to the obsessive extent that I become so hung up on it that not a drop of alcohol can pass my lips and I’d rather make a scene than have a sip of caffeinated tea, I’ve not become THAT person. Not yet anyway.)

And I have been accentuating the positive (as someone once said) — and making a conscious effort to think things like “thank fuck I didn’t go on a beach holiday not knowing whether I was preg or not and having to use progesterone pessaries twice a day because, apart from that being really pretty shit, I’d never have tried wakeboarding for the first time and I bloody loved it” — so maybe that’s it.

Or maybe the fact that, as well as life-affirming partying, I’ve also had life-threatening illness and death dance their macabre dance across my horizons, in various ways, which has made me feel very seize the dayish about stuff. And also made me think that this is a small episode in my life but who knows how long that life will be so I should try to make it as enjoyable as possible (which is part of the reason I’m kind of thinking I might start dating again) (although that’s a whole other post) (and possibly the route to King Lear Syndrome and emotional fuckwittery).

But I suppose I thought I ought to post because sometimes there are times when not a lot happens (from a fertility point of view) and stuff is just fine. And it’s not very interesting, but it’s a part of the story, and maybe it’s just the calm before the storm, but you know what? I’ll take that right now.