So I keep having flashes of inappropriate black humor and it’s sort of starting to wig me out. I mean if my closest friend tried to turn what I’m going through into an opportunity for a giggle, I’d probably never speak to her again. This attitude must be apparent, since the boy – who, though I love him dearly, is not known for his tact or willingness to leave any subject un-laughed about – hasn’t even attempted to find a spark of funny in anything that’s been happening to me lately. Which is good. Which is why he’s not walking around with a frying-pan shaped dent in his head, or looking around for another girlfriend, or both. I mean, humor is not appropriate. Not right now, & come to that, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to yuk it up regarding this period in my life. Ever. Nothing funny about it.
So why is it that my brain won’t stop already with the colorful commentary?
Point in fact – After getting a phone call from the woman at the clinic where I’m scheduled to have a D&C tomorrow, who called, in fact, to work out payment details since she figured I really would be in no shape to deal with them tomorrow, she signed off by saying, “I hope you have a great day.”
Well, no, actually. I’d say chances are good that this will not be a great day, by any measure. How could it, you stupid fucking bitch? And, come to that, do they give you lessons in what not to say? I mean, I know sympathy tends to make me break down, but is an angry patient really that much easier to deal with than one who’s leaking from her eyes as well as her girl-goods? (See? More and complete inappropriateness going on here.)
After I hung up, (and thankfully my self-control lasted long enough to hit the ‘end’ button on my cell-phone,) I spent the next fifteen minutes explaining in great graphic detail to the empty room exactly why this couldn’t possibly be a great day, and why. Some of the lines I came up with were rather funny, if I do say so myself. I should reserve a spot on the midnight miscarriage amateurs’ hour at the local humor club. I’d be a hit. “Take my uterine lining. No really–” Badda-bing.
And when the first real knock-me-over cramps of the day started just after I’d bought, (but before I’d enjoyed) my first cafe latte in over a week – because, hey! what can it hurt except my sleep patterns, & due to said outrageously painful cramping last night, I’m not enjoying much in the way of sleep anyway – my first spoken words (again to the empty room) once I could gasp past the pain were: “Damn, they TOLD me caffeine wasn’t good for a pregnancy in the first trimester, but do I listen? No…” This, while I’m clutching the toilet with both hands, wondering if vomiting or screaming is a better response to this level of pain & helplessness. I’m pretty sure trying for a laugh is not a good response on any level. Even when it’s just myself I’m trying to amuse. (And yes, I usually do speak out loud to myself when I’m alone. Holdover from many happy years surrounded by many pets.)
So what gives with the running commentary. The running inappropriate commentary? Am I trying to distract myself? Am I trying to confuse everyone around me? I know I’ve freaked out a friend at work with a blackly funny comment that slipped out, and I’m pretty sure that the boy has given up trying to track my mood swings (from bitterly amused to despondent in less than half an hour. Hear me roar, I am Hormonally Imbalanced Woman!) But seriously, am I thinking it’s going to make for an amusing story later on to regale the ladies at the book club meeting with? I mean, I know I regularly give out too much info on my girl-goods here: it is, after all, a blog about dealing (hah) with infertility. But by the same token, I’m certainly not expecting to get a giggle from my loyal readers out in cyberland: women who, for the most part, found this blog because of their own struggles to carry a baby to term. I think they’d all mostly agree with me – nothing funny here. So, really -who am I trying to impress here with my quick wit?
I don’t know the answer to that, but I’m ready for the mood swings to dissipate almost as much as I’m ready to finish passing the physical remains of this failed pregnancy. Waiting for a call-back from my doctor, where I’ll likely get to detail the exact amount, severity, and texture of the bleeding over the phone so he can decide if it’s worth showing up to the surgery tomorrow, or not. I wish I could leave the house long enough to go buy another coffee without risking a re-enactment of The Death of Marat. Or that a bottle of merlot would magically appear to refill my now-empty latte cup. Stupid Brooklyn. A baby-store on every block – two within shouting distance of home – hawking fancy strollers and bottles and cute little onesies, but I have to hobble a quarter of a mile to buy a latte or a bottle of wine? Somethin’ just aint right here.
And I’m not talking about my innards, for a change.