Me

Not

by Veronica Foale on March 26, 2010

in Life, Me

Three weeks ago when my period didn’t show up, I was certain I was pregnant. When I vomited for the first time and my breasts leaked colostrum and my nose was oh so sensitive, I was certain I was pregnant. When my blood pressure dipped and I almost passed out and I was exhausted and sick, I was certain I was pregnant.

I took a pregnancy test.

Negative.

But. Is that a hint of a line? Honey, can you see that? It looks like it’s catching at the top, just a little, is that a line? Am I imagining things? Never mind, it’s too faint to tell. Oh wait, it’s fading, it probably wasn’t a line. I’ll just test in a few days and see then.

And so, I waited a few days and took a second one.

Negative. Starkly, whitely, negative.

I counted cycle days and added things up on my fingers. I remembered the last time I lay next to my partner, our skins slick with sweat and I counted back to then.

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

days

It’s early I told myself, I’ll just wait a little longer.

I waited almost 10 days.

My breasts stopped leaking.

My nose was less sensitive.

I didn’t feel heavy anymore.

I continued to be sick however.

Still, no period.

Another test. Plenty late enough to show what needs showing. But it’s negative again and despite the sickness, I am as positive now as I was then, that I am not pregnant.

Whether I was in the first place or not is debatable. But I know my body and I know me.

In my future I see blood tests and probing ultrasound wands. I see doctors visits and questions of why is my body not working again. I see shaken heads and no answers.

And it’s funny, but I don’t remember stepping back on this rollercoaster.

***

As an aside, I am fine actually. Rather ill, but at this stage, and with 3 negative pregnancy tests behind me, my nausea would be Ehlers Danlos and progesterone related. I’m trying to get in to see my doctor but someone has forgotten to switch the phones to the other clinic and so I keep getting the answering maching. Grumble grumble. And I know, this isn’t normally what I write about here, but bleh.

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Broken

by Veronica Foale on February 21, 2010

in Life, Me

I walk into my bedroom, picking up child detritus as I go; things pulled out of the cupboards and toys scattered about. Bending down next to my closet I breathe in and it’s her.

Eight months after she died, I can smell her perfume, like walking into her bedroom, like standing behind her while we prepared dinner, like holding her hand through the endless hospital visits.

The children playing have disturbed the last remnants of her, a few articles of clothing hung in the back of my closet. Her overcoat sits now, hiding in the dark.

I lean into the closet and bury my head in the sleeve. I breathe in, just for a moment, before steeling my shoulders and walking back out into the daylight and the chaos of my small children.

I sweep them up and twirl them around, all the while seeing her inside my head and remembering that last day. Remembering how it felt to pack up a hospital room and remove jewellery from her cold hands.

We are more for knowing her and less for losing her.

I am not better.

But I am coping.

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On Sadness.

by Veronica Foale on December 12, 2009

in Me

The music plays while the baby crawls around and I vacuum. He smiles at me and I smile back, playing while I work. I shut the vacuum cleaner off and look around. Taking a deep breath, I walk outside and find the hallway runner that we brought home the other day.

Crying, I unroll it through the hallway.

Step by step, more of it is exposed as my tears fall to the floor.

The baby thinks it’s a great game, but I scoop him up and tuck him into his bouncer. He grumbles loudly while I turn the vacuum on again.

Inch by inch, I vacuum the new carpet.

Vigorously.

Sobbing.

Slowly the strands of hair stuck to the carpet come away. Silver, brown and gold, they collect in the bottom of the vacuum cleaner, to be discarded as rubbish.

I cry harder.

No one should have to vaccum their dead grandmother’s hair off a hall runner.

***

I wrote this over a month ago now. I am still finding hair stuck to the hall runner.

Sigh.

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Not Breathing

by Veronica Foale on October 28, 2009

in Me

I twist and bend and turn, trying to avoid it. My head spins and I can’t breathe; stars forming in front of my eyes. Sighing, I plop onto the ground, feet in front of me and I concentrate on my breaths. In. And. Out.

It doesn’t help, so I haul myself to the bathroom to run the hot water. I gasp great lungfuls of steam and it eases slightly. I bite my lip and call the doctor.

***

I think the best course of action is steroids, asthma puffers and a course of antibiotics.

Okay.

And obviously if you get worse, you need to head to the hospital.

I nod my head but inside I’m screaming. I’ve got a baby who won’t sleep through the night and who needs me to fall asleep. I can’t afford to be this sick.

Now, we’re going to do a tapered course of steroids. They might make you a little manic.

Oh. Okay.

I think: Manic? I can do manic. Hell, the energy might be nice.

***

It works and I am manic, but at least I can breathe again. My fingers fly over the keyboard, faster than before. I shake and my skin feels too small for me. I want to walk and talk and do things. I want to curl up in a ball and read, but my feet won’t stop tapping and I’m sure I’ve forgotten to do something important and I should really get up and work out what it was.

***

I sit and write and think about NaNoWriMo. I should join and force myself into the 50,000 word mould. I should use it as an excuse to spend my spare time writing. To call, I am working, when I’m needed elsewhere.

It could be my escape.

I sigh and look at my calendar, at the list of ever growing appointments. At all the days when I’ll barely have time to eat, let alone write.

NaNoWriMo is calling me.

But I don’t think I can commit.

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