Good luck for Thurs, Bean. And wishing you a menstrual cascade for your birthday, Banana. Thinking of you on test day tomorrow, Tiger.
I'm all right, 20 w scan not for weeks yet. Have umpteen antenatal appts before then, though, which so far have all begun with some midwife or consultant or sonographer I've never seen before & will likely never see again asking 'is this your first baby?' Despite the fact that they've all got my notes right in front of them with a massive fuck-off SANDS sticker on the front that's meant to alert people to the fact I've had a baby who died. And hence, no, this is not my first baby. Never mind.
It's alarming how nobody ever actually looks at your maternity notes. They insist you bring them with you to every appointment, but nobody wants to see them, they just give you more & more sheaves of frustratingly un-hole-punched papers to put in them, which always fall out and get lost because, oddly enough, I don't carry a fucking hole punch with me at all times. But it doesn't matter - lose them, burn them, make them into origami, nobody cares. The sonographer doesn't care about my blood pressure, the midwife doesn't care about my levels of amniotic fluid, nobody knows where my blood & urine results will be sent (the GP nurse took those, so it's apparently nowt to do with the maternity team & therefore not their job to care whether I've got pernicious anaemia or syphilis). Everyone pays attention to the task they're assigned for your 10-minute appointment, but there seems to be nobody whose job it is to take clinical responsibility for the whole picture, except me, with my un-hole-punched pack of papers, and Dr Google. This is apparently called 'being an active partner in your care'.
It's the 2nd anniversary of my daughter's birth & death on Tuesday, so I've got that shaky feeling of imminent threat. There's also, of course, sadness, and guilt at being pregnant when I go to her grave on her birthday.
We unwisely tried to introduce our most skittish cat to the garden today & she immediately slunk underneath the decking and hid there until dark. We are both in such a paranoid frame of mind at this time of year that we became convinced that she'd come out at night and be killed by a fox / get stuck in a drain / drown in a water butt / etc. We couldn't stand the thought of losing another family member, so we did what seemed sensible & flushed her out from under the decking with a garden hose. Furious wet cat came shooting out, snarling. Now she hates our guts and has gone back to hiding in the chest of drawers, probably forever. And will probably shit all over my jumpers. Ah well.