Slow-weaving music steals into my soul, soothing and calming it. The familiar hypnotic beat and bassline soothe me and allow my mind to float away in familiar patterns of disassociation. I can feel the part of me which cares getting further and further away, floating upwards from the burden of Truth and wondering idly whether the string will snap and the worry will be over. Ecouter.
This song has been one of my go-to pieces when I need carrying away. When I hear the Egyptian bells ringing and feel like I’ve been wearing my stained raincoat too long. When the hurricane blows my way and all I want is to be someone’s ‘sweet nothing’ and to miss the train and have it all not matter. Ecouter.
It’s The Week. And it’s been getting to me.
In a peripheral sense, mostly. I’ve been far too busy living (getting waylaid by floods on the way to my clinic/trying to do the weekly shop by myself in time to go out for the evening with friends to a gorgeous Greek Taverna/getting my fix of friends on Facebook/realising that in a little over a year, my Bezzie and I will have been friends for half our lives), because living is what one does, particularly when one is in avoidance mode. This one does, anyway. Ecouter.
The cracks are starting to show, and in spite of the idea that they’re meant to be there to let the light in (or out, I forget which) I’m beginning to feel like I’m held together with sticky-tape and prayer, and I’m not sure the prayer’s working.
I got notification earlier of a guest post I wrote a while ago, in response to a request. For a blog about mothering and mothers and being a mum and parenting and…well. You know me by now. The Invisible Mom. How could I resist the chance to try to give those taboos a little kick. To write the other side of motherhood. To drag the Hidden Stuff kicking and screaming into the sunlight again. To engage once more in the pain and heartbreak of a mission I never wanted, but which if one other person is helped by, is made worthwhile. Ecouter.
And The Bitter Irony, really, is that this is the week it got published. Because once again I’ve been avoiding the Truth (I know, after all I bang on about how good it is – hah! Don’t believe everything you read, kids) and so the dates and the pertinence of the week had evaded me and I’d not realised the significance. I could write my own freakin ‘Bad Luck Brian‘ memes out of this stuff. Let me try:
“Decides to start trying for a family…miscarries”
“Says “Second baby will be so prayed for it’ll come out with a halo”…miscarries again”
“Writes post titled ‘Bitter Irony‘ about wanting children…Husby gets sterilised same week*”
*In fairness, the appointment I’m dreading, on Thursday, is a world of unknowns and anxieties and fears and thoughts careening out of control. Because it is, bien sur. And it is what it is, and in spite of my desire to never say never and hang onto my hopes, they seem ever-so far away.
The Known Facts: We have an appointment with Husby’s endocrinologist, and I’ve taken time off work to attend with him and spend the rest of the day Not At Work.
The Insidious Fears: We’re going to walk out with a new set of meds designed to make him healthy, which will render him sterile in a matter of…weeks? months? Or we might walk out with nothing, and still no idea what’s going on, and whether or not we have a chance. We will find out whether the fertility treatment can be delayed and the funding held. We might find out we won’t get any treatment due to timelines clashing (they awarded us the funding for the period we were meant to be trying without assistance). I’m going to fall apart afterwards and Husby’s going to go out to his Important Club Meeting. I’ll might end up drinking and risking the phonecalls/being sat on/wrath/concern of various invested bods. I won’t care. I warn you now – if drinking is how it’s going to be, I want no input. I shall want to lay on the floor drunk and ugly-crying and let it all out, just for a bit.
The Ultimate Fear: No babies. Ever.
And meanwhile in my mind, an endless tape plays “What if we’d…what if I’d…what if I hadn’t…what if he hadn’t…what if we never…what if it isn’t…if only we could…if only I’d thought…if only he hadn’t…if only I’d never…”
Je ne regrette rien. Je regrette tout.
…and decide whether the fragile thread of ‘mind’ is worth hanging onto.