You must have me confused with someone who gives a shit

I am forced to admit that I am officially now a Cranky Infertile. I know, I know, some of you are saying, "what took you so long?"

I'm not sure I can give you a succinct answer. But basically, when I first started this blog, I wasn't really as far down the infertility road as others out there (and admittedly still am not). So I felt a little bit of a fraud, like it was premature to start the real bitching and moaning. Plus, I thought somehow I could be above all that. I vowed I would not let myself become one of those women who frothed at the mouth every time somebody said something crass, or when I saw pregnant bellies flaunted in front of me. I would be calm, poised, gracious about the good fortune of others, or about the insensitivities of lesser mortals.

Now I realise how terribly naive that was. The pain of infertility is something fashioned over time, made realer and stronger with each set back, with each failed cycle, with each loss. And you can't always predict in advance how you are going to cope with it. For me, time is the killer- the longer I have to wait, the more pissed off I become.

I've never been a particularly patient person, and foregoing immediate gratification always makes me extremely crabby. To carry on in that state indefinitely was bound to make me insane with irritability- I can't believe I couldn't see that before now.

Here's how I finally got in touch with my Inner Cranky:

On Friday afternoon, I bump into a former colleague, whom I shall call Wheeze, on the way home from work. Actually, correction, she sees me coming, and immediately barrelled down on me like a runaway train. She is foam-flecked, eyes a-popping.

"I have a bone to pick with you!" she snorts.

My mind races. Has she somehow found about my blog? Has she overheard me snarking on her in the pub?

"You didn't tell me mutual acquaintance was pregnant!"

Oh, didn't I? Damn. I must have forgotten myself there for a minute. Because clearly, as a designated infertile, the only way I can make myself useful to disseminate news of other people's pregnancies. Since I am not able to announce my own good news, I should get on with making sure the happiness of others is properly transmitted.

Now. This is not entirely fair, since Wheeze knows nothing of my situation. Or rather, she doesn't know the current position. But before we started trying, over a year ago, I made it very clear to her, on a number of occasions, that we were keen to get going on the family front, that I couldn't wait to be a mother.

Surely, given the passage of time, that must make her wonder a little bit? Surely, if she was even half alert to the lives of someone beyond her self-absorbed sphere she would have noticed that, despite all that anticipatory chat, I am not pregnant yet.

Mmm, guess not.

"I couldn't tell you, " I say, edging away. "It wasn't my news, and besides, I knew FB wanted to wait to tell people until she was more certain it was going to be OK."

"Ah, yes," Wheeze chortles happily, " I heard about the amnio."

Did you, now? I wonder if you heard what I heard.

You see, I took FB to out to lunch not long after the amnio, and listened as she told me about it. About how scared she had been beforehand. About how much she hated the consultant who didn't give her proper information. How she sat with her mother in the waiting room, and how her mother wouldn't stop talking, talking, talking. About how, before proceeding, the technician pointed out the baby's face on the ultrasound. How FB knew that image would haunt her for the rest of her life if it didn't go well.

I wonder if the same tears came to FB's eyes when she talked to you, Wheeze. Or if you would have even noticed. Because if you'd heard what I heard, you wouldn't be standing there, gossiping about it in the street like it was some idle piece of information, for your own amusement.

"Now," Wheeze says, wagging her finger at me," make sure you tell me if you hear anything else like that. I get very annoyed at being the last to know."

Lady, you must have me confused with someone who gives a shit about how you feel. So, let me make this as clear as possible: I don't give a flying fuck if you are the last to know.

And if I ever do by some miracle ever manage to get pregnant, I'll make sure I stay the hell away from you, you prying bitch cow, you emotional soul-sucking leech.

See, I told you. Cranky.