Meltdown

An Infertile's Rough Guide to having a Meltdown in the Workplace:

Step One: Attend a work team meeting in a crowded venue. Make sure that this meeting is held at the busiest time of day, with lots of high-up officials and other colleagues floating around. Make sure you sit yourself in a prominent location, say, at a table in the middle of the room.

Step Two: While waiting for meeting to begin, start eating muffin and drinking coffee. Try not to fret about whether too much caffeine might or might not affect your ability to get pregnant.

Step Three: Make space at table for first arrival, heavily pregnant colleague. Discuss while waiting for others what her maternity leave arrangements are going to be.

Step Four: Make space for second arrival, a colleague with two small kids. Discuss how she may have to be off work tomorrow because child is unwell.

Step Five: Make space for team leader, who finally arrives. As she sits down, team leader announces she has some news.

Step Six: Hear word "news", and suddenly find that hand holding coffee cup is shaking uncontrollably.

Step Seven: In the midst of squeals of delight from fellow colleagues at "news", find yourself bursting into raw, wet, wracking sobs, right there at the table. Bear in mind you are not a person who cries very often, and certainly not ever at work.

Step Eight: Sob hysterically for about five minutes. Gulp through tears that of course you are delighted for her, but you're finding it hard because everybody else is getting pregnant and no matter what you do, YOU CANNOT GET PREGNANT.

Step Nine: Realise you maybe vocalised that last part just a little bit louder than you had intended.

Step Ten: Despite eviscerating pain around heart, try to pull self together slightly. Crack weak joke about how "cathartic" that was. Try to paste numb smile on face as colleagues dispense further well-meaning assvice about "ovarian inhibition", and how you really just need to relax. As they remind you that really, young babies can be a real pain to look after, and maybe if you had one, you wouldn't find it was what you wanted after all.

Step Eleven: Obviously the fact that you have stopped crying means you're OK now, so colleagues can move on to discussing team leader's pregnancy. Has she had a 20 week ultrasound scan? No, they don't do those at the local hospital but you can pay to get one done privately. It costs £150, though. Gnaw upon now-shredded muffin, thinking bitterly of the £500 you spent on the HSG test. The thousands of ££ that the IUIs and IVF might end up costing you.

Step Twelve: Meeting over, stop off in ladies' room, to check damage to face. Wonder who let the panda into the ladies' room. Realise panda is you. Realise that from now on, you need to use the waterproof mascara every day.

Step Thirteen: Sit at desk and stare vacantly into space. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth is usually good. Repeat, in through nose, out through mouth.

Step Fourteen: Speak to other sympathetic colleague who notices your fugue state. Explain meltdown. Feel slightly better when she understands problem. Feel better still when she offers you chocolate. Eat chocolate and then feel hysterical all over again.

Step Fifteen: Send emergency e-mail to blog friend who sends supportive message.

Step Sixteen: Remember, and take comfort from the fact that you are not alone. You are not alone.

[**Editor's end note: Comments very welcome as always but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write harsh things about the aforementioned colleagues. They are, despite lacking certain insights into how it feels to be in my shoes, really good and kind people. And it's not even about them. ]