Eating for one and a half

Can we talk about the size of my arse please?

Can we talk about the size of my arse please?

I’m 5’11, and have been a “curvy size 10”, as an elderly Italian gent once euphemistically called my size 12 frame, since I was 15 years old.

But lately, an increasing emphasis is going on the “curvy”. Probably because, for the past nine months, my emotions have yo-yoed between “pretty sure I’m eating for two” and “depressed. Need cake”.

There’s probably a week at the beginning of the cycle (currently 45 days long) where my giant appetite isn’t a problem. But other than that? Cake.

Has anyone else had this…? I just don’t really care what I eat any more.

Moving away from confectionary for a minute, I won GP bingo last week. No one has “a doctor” at my local surgery – they just hand out appointments based on whoever’s free when you need them. I got a new lady this time. I was ready with my sob story: “I know we haven’t waited a full year but my husband has translocation and conception is just the first step and…”

She looked at me like I was mad, then proceeded to refer me for every test there is. “You had an ultrasound on your ovaries last year? Better get them checked again. Let’s try and get you in with the consultant.”

Recent experiences have suggested the NHS can be a mixed bag if you’re not actually at death’s door. But when you win, you win big. If this level of gusto persists, I’ll be pregnant by next Wednesday.

Think I might have a slice of cake to celebrate…

Tired

What I didn’t expect – despite the forums and acronyms and vast, vast quantities of chatter out there – was the loneliness of all this.

Hope. Whoever came up with all those cliches about its importance should be shot. Or at least passively aggressively glared at until they feel super-bad about what they’ve done.

We should not spend our time hoping and praying for things to happen. In fact, as children, we should have our hopes raised and then dashed again on regular, government-appointed occasions, as a mandatory part of our education.

Then, as adults, we will be able to calmly and cooly assess the chances of something coming to pass – instead of hoping like mad something will happen, no matter how slim the chances, only to lose it when it doesn’t.

So here’s where I’m at: into month nine, now, of trying for a baby. I have learned all the Mumsnet acronyms. I can recite, off by heart, the lengths of my past five cycles (erratic, thanks for asking). I can bore you for hours with information about how to create the right conditions for conception. Hell, I can even talk to you about cervical mucous, if that’s what you’d like to discuss (no, me neither).

My husband has balanced Robertsonian translocation, a genetic disorder which means his chromosomes are… skew-whiff. So I knew to expect some difficulties. But I can’t seem to get past the first hurdle – the actual conception. And it’s more tiring than I ever thought possible.

What I didn’t expect – despite the forums and acronyms and vast, vast quantities of chatter out there – was the loneliness of all this.

That’s not because my husband isn’t involved. It’s not because I don’t have any friends – because I do, and they’re fabulous. And my mum and sister and even, occasionally and incredibly awkwardly, my dad, are all desperate to say encouraging things.

What’s the point of talk, though, really? It can’t do anything. I have tests booked – and besides, spending time with people gives me the chance to be outside my head.

But here I am again, at home on my own, and feeling sad. And it would be nice to know there are others going through this.

So hi there, I’m Emma. I can’t seem to get pregnant. Nice to meet you…