Tuesday, 22 April 2008

When did I get so old?

I had the unnerving experience today of frightening myself when I caught my reflection in the mirror.

It had been a long, rush-around, hassly day. Also, I was annoyed: the three-year manufacturer's warranty on my car expired yesterday. Today, whilst driving back from a business meeting - at the very moment I pulled up in a very long queue for a very busy tunnel - a small, insistent orange light began blinking on the dash. Consulting the manual informed me that said light means "serious engine fault, please consult qualified mechanic". Just dandy.

Anyway, I made it home in one piece and then called the vet's to see if there was any news on my cat's tests. The receptionist confirmed that the results were in but refused to tell me anything - apparently we have to speak to the vet in the morning. Not going to be good news, really, is it?

(At this point, a small note: What in the name of Jesus and all his apostles did I do in my last life that I have been cursed with spending THIS one on the phone to medical professionals chasing various test results?)

Having reported all of this in flat tones to hubby, I decided to jump in the shower - and that's when the scary old woman in the mirror accosted me. I need my roots done - my hair used to be a nice coppery auburn shade but since fertility stuff, or maybe just bad genes, the grey's crept in and I now have it professionally tinted every six weeks - and my hair was hanging in lanky, tousled hanks with a vivid white stripe along my parting.

My face, conversely, resembles that of a pus-tastic adolescent. I have about four volcanic spots and a load of other blotches that suggest general run-downness (and possibly some crazy hormonal activity on the side).

Worse than that was my eyes. They're just - it sounds pathetic, but it's true - so sad. Hubby said the other day that he feels there is a shadow hanging over me; over us both but visibly over me.

Our appointment on 20 May seems impossibly far away. And I increasingly feel like my own self is slipping away. There's nothing in my head anymore other than wondering about fertility stuff. No matter where I am, or what I'm doing, my yearning for a baby is always there, bubbling and scratching and clawing away under the surface of the reasonably normal being I manage to project to others.

There's a picture of me that hubby likes, that sits behind where I am right now, on a shelf in the study. It's of me about six years ago, on holiday in Canada, thinner, sunkissed and grinning. Where did she go? I miss her.


The Impatient Patient said...

Hey there,
I just read your post and realized that our doctor's appointments are on the same day. I'm meeting with an RE for the first time on May 20th and, while I'd of course love for the appointment to be tomorrow, I'm optimistic that it'll be here soon enough (I say that now, but I'll probably be bitching about the date tomorrow). Anyway, we can count down together, right? In the mean time, make sure you get on the "cancellation list" so that if someone cancels their earlier appointment, they can slip you in.

Heather said...

Every time I wake up I think "I am on the fertility train, we have left the station and we are on our way, think positive", but a couple of hours later I feel like the train has broken down and we are stuck without air conditioning with no announcements telling us what is going on. How can we cheer ourselves up? No amount of wine or chocolate seems to help, and exercise only gives me a high for an hour or so. Life is officially a bitch.

Michell said...

I know what you mean about how the fertility stuff has taken over your life. I have felt that way too frequently. It's enough to really wreck your year.
As far as the light on your car, you said it's orange does it have a pic of an engine? I had one that came on in my car and it was basically a maintenance light. It was to get you to take your car to the dealer so they could do the checkup on it and charge you. Granted this was the US but hey maybe it could still be nothing.