Chummy, you choke me up


When I was trying to fall pregnant I saw  a few alternative therapists and one of them kept telling me I was “emotionally blocked”.

This is frustrating to hear with all the pressure and fear involved in desperately trying to conceive. It’s just another way of saying “Relax”, which is like waving a red rag in front of a bull for IFers.

Where the therapist’s healing hands-Reiki inspired treatment failed, pregnancy hormones have succeeded. I am now well and truly unblocked. Emotionally, at least. My intestines are a different matter.

I cry about everything. I think a lot about the beauty and miraculousness of a baby forming. And I am opening up more to family, because I know this something I have to share, even if it is hard slackening my fiercely independent attitude of old.

But I am not convinced that being emotionally unblocked is entirely a good thing. How can a person function with tides of feelings threatening to rise up to flood levels at a moment’s notice? If I was in business, this would be a disaster. How to make a deal? How to have a hard-nosed conversation?

Two things guaranteed to make me blubber at the moment are the BBC series Call the Midwife, and Channel Four’s One Born Every Minute. Call the Midwife makes me bawl my eyes out, every time. And One Born Every Minute has me alternating between horror – Amityville Horror-style horror – and hopeless sentimentality.

Call the Midwife tells the true stories of a midwife who worked alongside the Anglican Nonnatus midwife nuns in the East end of London in the 50s. I sobbed last night as the lead character overcame her revulsion at the living standards of her terribly poor patients to become a true friend to a lonely old man, and a white father who was unexpectedly presented with a black baby decided to love that baby and forgive the mother from the very first moment. And then there’s Chummy, a great oaf of a nurse born into wealth who decided to go and work as a nurse amongst the poorest people in her nation at the time. She can’t ride a bike, fit into a standard issue uniform, or carry on a conversation with the local policeman without getting tongue-tied. She is clumsy and awkward and cheerful and brave and totally adorable. Last episode she single-handedly and heart-stoppingly delivered a baby in breech position, and this time around she was asked on what I am pretty sure was her first date. It choked me up. And Chummy is based on a real person. I so desperately want to know what became of her.

I am so in awe of her, and her fellow nurses and those nuns and the work they did. It’s so wonderful to see a show that applauds that kind of self-sacrifice, courage and concern for others in this age of horrible, vapid Kardashians. Seriously, who gives a shit about that family? Give me chummy any day.

On the practical front I am also learning new things every day. The latest lesson for a newly pregnant: Raging. Yeast. Infection.

I had blithely hoped I would not fall victim to this, even though the hormones do make you more susceptible. It has been a very itchy, hurty, uncomfortable weekend. I spent a lot of time fending off Rufus’s amorous advances and sitting on ice packs. It wasn’t pretty, but it was kind of funny.

I read up on home remedies and was this close to lathering my nether-regions with probiotic yoghurt or stuffing a clove of garlic wrapped in muslin up my hoo-ha when Doctor E called and prescribed Cluvax morning, which is clotrimazol.

Now adding pessaries to the list of things I no longer blink an eye at after IF, IVF and pregnancy so far. If I was once naive in matters of fertility, my inner workings and the emotional journey these things entail, I am no longer.

 

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