Sleepless Nights

Blog

  • I’d like to say that I’m going on a holiday, but I’d be lying

    Instead, I will be schlepping off to an examination room tomorrow afternoon, to have an ultrasound wand jabbed in my most intimate places, while a woman reminds me to please breathe and can you just twist this way while I search for the right ovary?

    My right ovary has opinions, especially surrounding being photographed. It’s a shy ovary, preferring to hide somewhere underneath my other internal organs and occasionally sending stabbing pains my way, so that I know it’s still kicking around in there.

    It also has opinions about things like ovulating and not producing tens of cysts at a time, but who I am to tell it not to be argumentative, when it’s me it’s attached to.

    This is, of course, the first ultrasound for this pregnancy. Hopefully this is also the one in which they confirm that a) there is a real embryo b) that said embryo is where it ought to be and not holidaying with my right ovary and c) that a heartbeat exists, somewhere that isn’t actually my heart – my heart being well behaved, if a teensy bit leaky.

    I’m not concerned about my heart stopping suddenly, but an embryo seems rather more … fragile somehow.

    I was reminded to drink three large glasses of water at least 30 minutes beforehand and to wear loose clothing. I resisted the urge to laugh maniacally at the receptionist on the other end of the phone line, while shouting “Lady, my uterus is wonky, there is no way you’re seeing anything from the outside.”   I didn’t think she would appreciate hearing my insane cackle that bubbles up when my body is expected to behave in a normal fashion.

    Really, the whole point of the ultrasound seems moot. Either I will have another baby, or I will not. Poking me with a dildo wand that silently shakes my uterus merely seems like a modern form of torture that we’re taught we need, in order to KNOW.

    Being a big fan of KNOWING things however, I’ve insisted upon this myself and I am just hoping that it all looks sunny, down there in Uterusville.

    Something a little brighter than death and destruction, please. I’ve put my order in now.

  • Wind: An utterly ridiculous invention and something ought to be done.

    Sitting in the small town doctors surgery, waiting to get my pregnancy confirmed and an ultrasound referral done, Nathan and I overheard a conversation.

    Old Man: “What about this bloody weather? All this wind. I ask you, what is wind even for? All it does is make people angry…”

    Woman: “YES! And it’s RUINED my roses.”

    Old Man: “No good for anything. I don’t even know why we have it.”

    They made noises of agreement and moved on to other topics.

    Nathan and I didn’t look at each other, but we laughed the whole way home.

    Wind; it’s a TERRIBLE invention and something ought to be done.

  • It’s really quite a vicious circle

    So, picture this:

    You start a blog. You write stories, you read stories, you comment on stories. Slowly, people drift towards you and read your stories. Three, six, twelve months in, you’ve got a popular platform, full of stories and the traffic, while not spectacular, is decent enough.

    First, one PR company notices you. Then another and another and another.

    And you’re flattered, you really are. You write stories on the INTERNET and suddenly, these real companies want to send you real things, to write about. You accept something here, a little thing there. You amaze yourself with what you can do, with what people want to give you.

    The stuff accumulates in a box under your desk, or maybe it’s under your bed. There is stuff everywhere and a feeling, hanging over your head, like you’re forgetting something.

    You’re trying so hard to keep up with the stuff, that you don’t realise you haven’t written any stories lately.

    The emails flood in, but not the comments. Traffic doesn’t drop – much – but it doesn’t grow either.

    Companies love you, but new readers don’t stay long. Giveaways coax in the traffic, but it drifts away again.

    You notice that you aren’t telling stories when you find yourself clenching your teeth at night, trying to work out when to write about the stuff sitting under your desk, gathering dust. When nothing fits into your schedule anymore, when you’re trying to keep everyone happy and failing.

    So maybe you say no to the stuff. Or maybe you add a disclaimer that you’ll accept the stuff, but not always write about it. Maybe you quit, because it’s all too much pressure and like hard work.

    Or maybe, you’ll just start telling stories again. They’ll bubble over and out and you’ll try and find your balance – that knife edge where you’re only writing about the things you want to write about, without being guilt tripped into anything else.

    But you’ll backslide, because guilt trips are everywhere. Children are starving to death and look at this great cause and omg someone should raise awareness.

    Maybe you’ll notice. Maybe you won’t.

    It won’t matter terribly much, but here’s the thing:

    People love stories.

    PR companies love people.

    People do not love PR stories.

    It’s a messy cycle and it’s easy to get caught up and spit out. The sludge of stats and subscribers and traffic and stuff and money and events and needtowriteaboutthis and pitch this and promote that and help the cause and and and…

    It’s all just a bit much.

    I want the stories back.

  • Obviously, I have kinky elves living in my house

    I appear to have lost my bra.

    Now, this is not a big deal, considering I slept in my own house, in my own bed and it’s not like I’m racing around the house trying to find where I kicked my jeans/bra/shirt/shoes. It’s also not like I’m in any huge rush to get properly dressed.

    It’s just that now, my bra is missing from where I left it last night.

    And somehow, I’ve gone from tens of pairs of cotton undies, to owning only three pairs of underwear that do not have lace. How does this happen? Do I have kinky elves, that instead of being helpful and cleaning my house, are merely stealing my undergarments? And why are they not stealing the good stuff, instead preferring my 10 packs of Big W knickers?

    I can’t help but think this is a little weird.

  • Sometimes, connections are spooky

    In March, 1991, when I was two years old, my father was in a near fatal motorcycle accident. By sheer luck, an expensive helmet, a guardian angel and some pretty amazing medical care, he survived with just scars to show for it.

    During his time in ICU, a drain was inserted in his side, just underneath his right armpit. Shortly afterwards, I developed a birth mark of an identical shape and size, in the identical position to Dad’s scars.

    We’ve used this mark to show people before, how we’re linked. Connection within family is strong and sometimes, it’s stronger than others. I also have Dad’s identical birth marks on my stomach – my brother has the mirror image marks, which are identical to our grandfather.

    When I was pregnant with Amy, every time I complained to my father about how sick I was, he was sick too. It was a rough pregnancy and I was glad to finally give birth and stop throwing up. I had joked during it that Dad had my morning sickness, but we didn’t think much of it.

    Pregnant with Isaac, two years later, Dad was sick again.

    I am now gestating what will hopefully be our third baby and yes, you guessed it, my father appears to be sick alongside me.

    I can’t say that I’m surprised, really.

    You can see the mark, just underneath my hand, holding my jumper up.

    Side note: I was going to crop out all of the bits that are less than flattering on this photo, but you know, I didn’t. I am six weeks pregnant now, after a miscarriage at six weeks and my uterus appears to be overachieving, size wise.