Roll up, roll up

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the GFAM Theatre. Tonight, the part of the Greek chorus will be played by Italics, fresh from her barnstorming run in the off-Broadway, Boy George hit Comma Chameleon. Now, please turn off your mobile phones and enjoy the show.

CURTAIN

Hi everyone, my name is Bec.

Hi Bec.

It’s been three long days since my last blog post.

Yes?
(Pause)

Galileo.

Galileo.

Galileo, Figaro.

Magnificent. I just wanted to try that, given I have a whole conversation going on with my very own chorus...my conscience, if you like.

This is like having a chat with my inner psyche.

Weird.

I know!

Anyway, as I was saying, it’s been three long days since my last blog post.

Why is that?

I was getting to that, if you’d just give me a minute.

The reason for that quite marked delay between much-dreamt-about drinks is because this blog forces me to focus on a very specific part of my life at a very specific moment in time that is happening right now.

The dreaded two-week wait, so fearful it has earnt its own acronym.

This FET I have tried to shield myself from thinking about it too much – and already I think I am doing better at that, this second time around. Thoughts and imaginings of what in god’s name is going on inside my womb right now do consume my every waking and sleeping moment...but they are much less frenetic and lurch less toward extremes than last time.

And?

And I guess I didn’t want to have to focus so harshly on how I was doing at the moment, by writing about it as honestly as I can, in this format. I wanted to let as much of it go as I can. Blogging kind of does not allow that to happen (although it has other advantages).

How are you doing?

It honestly depends on the hour. I can be either desperately searching for symptoms, longing to feel sore breasts (please, punch me if you like), a twinge in my lower abdomen (fancy a kick?), nausea (got any tripe?) or overwhelming tiredness (um, I already have that - have had since 1987). Or I can be preparing myself for another negative test next Tuesday morning. I go through those motions, alright not as often as I think about the thrill that will ripple through my body when the test is positive, but I imagine myself searching for those two lines.

And then I imagine myself not seeing them – even after shaking the stick, blowing on it, squinting my eyes really tight and praying to every higher power I can think of. I feel sick when I think about that moment...

I imagine myself getting into the shower that will surely follow whatever test result appears and crying tears hotter than the hot water spewing at me from above. If it is negative.

Hence the reason you don’t allow yourself to go there as often.

Right. I was just going to say that. I was even going to use the word 'hence', which is not so common in common parlance. Neither is the word 'parlance', if you think about it. I mean, it sounds French, why should it pop up in English? Exactly. Does that make the term 'common parlance' an oxymoron then? But 'hence', I was totally going to use that word too. Wow, are you psychic?

Think of a number between 1 and 10. I will think of one too. Now, what is that number?

Seven.

My god, that’s right! How did you do that?

Do you really need me to answer that?

Alright no. Look! A shiny kitten.

You know what thought I cling to each time my flights of fancy take particularly doom-worthy turns? That most women in the world do not realise they are pregnant until they miss a period. Or they miss two.

Most? What does most mean?

It is a non-specific term to denote a shitload, ok? Certainly most women I speak to, most of the stuff I’ve read and most of the anecdotal accounts I have heard point towards a general unknowingness in the first two weeks of a pregnancy. Plus when the nurse coordinator from the clinic rang to check on me this afternoon, I asked her if I should be feeling anything. She said there were no definitive signs - which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Thanks Margy, I think I love you.

We are in the mixed blessing boat – the one filled with people who know the exact moment of “conception”, with that term actually defined in this case as the transfer of an embryo into the uterus. Not the implantation, but the transfer.

How do you ensure that embryo goes from transfer to implantation?

Honey, if I knew that, I would be sainted, knighted, BRW Rich Listed and Nobel Peace Prized out the window.

(Thanks for reading my 50th blog post. Woo hoo. Wait, does that mean menopause? Nooooooooo!)