I have a very bad headache today. I am almost convinced that my headaches/migraines occur so that my mind has time to process my many activities and thoughts. I am also hoping that this particular one is calling my bleeding to stop. It has been nineteen days since I started my period. I have been to the doctor. I have had blood taken (to check for anaemia – the irony that if I am suffering I really cannot afford to sacrifice more blood hehe). I will book in my internal ultrasound and another pap smear after I stop bleeding. I have taken the prescribed drugs to inhibit the blood flow and the headache; they aren’t working too well. Meh. And I keep receiving signs that maybe I should try conceiving again.
I went to a specific surgery because I trust the doctors there. I only go to this surgery if I am worried about whatever is happening to my body. They don’t subscribe to the five-second-consultation-here-are-your-antibiotics craze that most other doctors I have ever seen subscribe to. As I have aged I also don’t mind seeing male doctors for female problems; I really have matured. Anyway. I had to have a pregnancy test. Yep. I assured him I wasn’t pregnant and with such kindness and sympathy he said, “I know but we have to cover everything.” But he cared. And he apologised twice. That’s what you need in a doctor. He was also Irish and greeted me with a handshake, smile and introduction. So respectful.
And then I had my blood test. The nurse asked if I was okay with needles. I think she was a little worried. I don’t blame her; I didn’t look great. My migraine had set in by that stage. Plus I had been dizzy in the doctor’s office and almost fell off the step to get onto the bed. I laughed. It probably wasn’t very funny though. He didn’t laugh. He did say though, when he was taking my blood pressure that Audrey was the finest detailed Audrey tattoo he had ever seen. I wonder how many he has seen? So I gave the nurse my very broadest smile when she expressed concern and revealed how psychotically much I loved needles. She does too. We were bonded. My cardigan came off, she saw the arms full of tattoos and said it was obvious I liked needles.
There were ominous clouds in the sky when I left the surgery an hour after arriving. You know how the sky develops a yellow tinge when a storm threatens, contrasting against the very dark, full sky; it was like that. I thought it was appropriate.
I’ve always looked for signs. They have guided me through my life. I tend to follow them and for the most part I have been happy as a result. I am resilient too. Mostly. So in the past couple of weeks I have experienced signs that maybe I should try again: third time lucky etcetera. Fear is a culpable emotion though. And I find that I am not trusting them for the first time in my life. And the longer I take to make a decision, the less likely success is. I am old. And even if I don’t feel it, my eggs do, and I think they are traumatised from the sexual abuse I endured as a child. So do I use donor eggs this time? Do I just try with mine again? Is it time to just let go? Meh.
I was directed towards a Facebook post today by a very good friend. Monique Brumby wrote last night that she has decided to share her “honest feelings and thoughts” because people are mostly afraid to do so. And she is right. We hide behind fear of judgement, fear of persecution, fear of isolation, and as a result, we find ourselves alone anyway. Not lonely. There is a difference. For Monique, it was to share with those that are interested, voyeurs but most importantly, friends she didn’t get to see often. We keep our truths concealed; we really shouldn’t have to. We should function as a community. Our society doesn’t desire that though. Technology provides communication networks but not connection. Real connection. Or does it?
I have been processing her post all day. Through sleep. Through headache. Through nausea.
She also talks about the expectations on women and their appearance and how even the most beautiful looking are often consumed by the same things the rest of us are. We are all vulnerable and all under relentless scrutiny. It is hard to be oneself and hard to put voice to our personal truths. Personal truths that I believe are universal human truths. And she talks about the pressure of approaching forty and worrying about her chances of becoming a biological mother.
And this post has made me think. I have been debating contacting her. Sharing the relevant parts of my experience. The experience I have only shared with those in my life in small refrains. Irony. Again.