Barren Mare

Typepad Ho!

2005-03-01T20:49:00.000Z

http://barrenmare.typepad.com

OK, campers, the decision is made. It's Typepad Ho! No, not ho like that. As in, um, Tally Ho! Westward Ho! And yes, maybe a little bit of that ho, too.

Here's the deal. I wasn't able to figure out how to scoop up all the Blogger archives and import them to Typepad. Or rather, I could, but I really wasn't sure exactly how it was going to work. I imagined myself wiping out the whole archives in one fell swoop. Or is that fool swoop? I also wasn't sure what it would do if people already had operative links on their sites to stuff with the Blogger URL.

Anyway. I have basically manually moved over almost all the old post files, with a few exceptions where I thought probably nobody would mind, including me. Yes, it was very tedious and boring, thank you for asking. God knows why I was so gabby in July, for example.

It's still in the process of being tweaked here and there. And all the furniture has not turned up yet. For example, I have not managed to get any comments shifted. I may tinker around with that just to see if I can get some of the more interesting and exciting conversations across (the one about grey pubic hairs springs to mind). In the meantime, please just comment a-go go to compensate. In fact, I expect, nay, demand that you to comment, since that was one of the overriding reasons for the big move- basically the main message I got from you was that commenting on Blogger sucks ass. And I am nothing if not obliging.

So. Everything will stay here as it is for now. But now, if I could ask those of you who link to me to take hold of your reins with one hand whilst making a big lassoo with another, and update on over to this location:

http://barrenmare.typepad.com.

I'll see you there.

At the crossroads on the Typepad trail

2005-02-26T23:09:00.000Z

I am wrestling with the thorny dilemma of whether to up stakes from my home here at Blogger, and migrate to Typepad. I know there are a couple other people who have either done this or are considering it for various reasons.

Personally, this site suits me fine for the most part, despite certain limitations. I am used to it now, and don't get dry mouth and sweaty palms whenever I mess around with the template. But I would very much like to have things like categories, a feature which appeals to my basic need to file. I do actually spend a lot of my free time doing this blogging thing, and it would be nice to have a service that works well without some of the technical hiccups I experience here on occasion.
Also, I am very conscious that there can be problems with the comment function on this site, despite the supposed improvements recently made by Messrs Blogger & Co. I gather it can be chronically, offputtingly slow. Tell me, how bad is it? Just bad, or really, really bad?

Plus it must be fun to be able to ban trolly people. To thunder from on high (or, um, from across the keyboard)- "YOU! You and your ISP are hereby banished, mwhahahahaha!" Not that I have any great need to ban anyone. But, like the Queen's prerogative, it must be a useful thing to keep in reserve.

Oh, I don't know. I have been swithering about this for weeks now, and can't make up my mind. I am very fond of what I have here in its own simple way, but also know I could probably just pack my bags and load up the covered wagon.

I do suspect part of me is looking for what my mother calls "a geographical cure"- that is, simply moving somewhere else because I can, rather than facing up to what I need to do here. That being, to keep on working on telling this story. We're coming to the part where I want to hide behind the cushions- how much easier to go tinker around with fonts and layouts and categories.

What do you think? Should I saddle up and go on to Fort Typepad, or just hunker in my bunker here?

A double bill of doctors

2005-02-24T18:24:00.000Z

My goodness, it's turned nippy noodles here. Unbelievably filthy weather- cold, wet lashing snow/rain, wind. Just the sort of day where you want to stay in bed and pull the covers over your horns.

Unfortunately, I had a double bill of doctor's appointments today- Dr Best Friend first thing in the morning, and Dr Endocrine at the hospital late in the afternoon. Whee! I figured that all this various trudging around hither and yon warranted the whole day off from work, and I was right.

Dr Best Friend, my GP, was her usual lovely helpful self. I explained about our plan to go to the OC, and she obligingly offered to prepare me a pack of all my test papers/results/certificates. An eminently sensible solution so no matter where we end up, I will have copies of everything I need. Oh sweet baby Jesus, I love this woman. It was all I could do not to fling myself at her feet, hugging her knees, sobbing in gratitude.

With lightning efficency, she also took some blood for the HIV and Hep B&C tests, gave me a scrip for a refill of my thryoid medication, and passed me a small tube and biohazard baggie for the chlamydia test.

"You'll need to provide first stream urine," she explained.

"Oh, like the first pee of the day? Yup, can do," I said confidently.

"No, I mean, you need to collect the first drops you pass. Sometimes we ask for midstream urine instead, so you have to start, then aim for the tube halfway through. But not this time. Oh, and you need to fill the tube all the way up. Ahh, it can be a little tricky," she added, as my face fell.

Good Lord, I thought as I trundled off to the loo, peeing into a tube has suddenly become very complicated. How do I know when first stream ends and midstream begins? What if I miss the tube altogether when I start? What I can't fill the tube all the way? Is my bladder actually full enough? Fuck, I knew I should have a second cup of coffee this morning. Surely there must be a more girl friendly method for this sort of thing, like a funnel device? Maybe I should invent one. And anyway, why the fuck didn't E. have to do this test, never mind that this whole 'first stream pee thing' is probably ten times easier for boys.

I sat there for a minute or two, thinking all these things and wondering if I should go home and do it later. But then I pulled myself together, thinking IT'S JUST PEE, WOMAN! Just do it!

So I did. It was, as she said, a little tricky.

Then, for maximum entertainment, as I went back to the reception desk to hand in the pee tube in the baggie emblazoned with CHLAMYDIA TEST: BIOHAZARD in bright red letters, I bumped squarely into one of my work colleagues.

"Oh, HIIIIIII," I said way too loudly.

"Hi," he said. There was an awkward pause as his eyes flicked to the package in my hand.

"Just....just...passing through," I yelped, before practically throwing the bag over the counter at the poor receptionist, and sprinting for the door.

Only to realise as I reached the corner that I had forgotten my favourite hat in the waiting room. Yes, of course he was still there when I came back for it.

Later in the afternoon, up to the hospital to see yet another endocrinoloist. Turns out I flunked my last blood test, and my TSH levels have risen again slightly despite the medication. For the purposes of conception, it should be lower, and so my dosage is to be increased.

"Look," said Dr Third, getting out a scrap of paper and a pen, "this is your thyroid. And this is your pituitary gland. And these lines here are the hormones from one to the other, that's called your TSH. What this means is..."

I let him ramble on, despite the fact that I have seem the same crappy diagram drawn at least six or seven times by four different doctors in the last year. They sure seem to like drawing it though, so who am I to spoil their fun?

Supplementary prescription...take back to GP...test it again in three months...another appointment in six months...blah, blah, blah, blah. I left in a bad mood. I am a thyroid failure. Why the fuck can't I get this TSH level down?

Blasting cold wind. Wet snow in my face. Drunken yobs in the back of the bus. Having come to the conclusion that spontaneously combusting was not a viable option at that particular moment, I decided instead that the only thing to be done was to head immediately to buy that pair of chocolate brown suede knee high boots I had seen earlier.

They were on sale, I promise. A most delicious bargain.

Mouth versus head

2005-02-23T20:02:00.000Z

Some time ago, I realized that if the world could see into my head and read my thoughts, I would be:

a. unemployed
b. institutionalised
c. burnt at the stake.

But today I became even more aware of the yawning chasm between what I am thinking and what comes out of my mouth. I'll give you a few examples:

Team Leader: Don't forget we have a group lunch today, to say farewell to Jane who is going off on maternity leave for the second time in eighteen months!

Mouth: Yes, of course, I marked it in my calendar! I'll definitely be there!
Head: Oh blech. I'd rather gut a pig and eat its raw liver with my bare hands than go to that lunch.

At group lunch, whispered gossip at the other end of the table.

Mouth: What's everybody talking about?
Head: Don't ask! Don't ask! I know why they are whispering. Whispering means the bad thing! The baaaaad thing!

Colleague: Oh, Whatshername is also pregnant again.
Mouth: How nice for her.
Head: I knew I shouldn't have asked. I now wish to stick a fork in my eye.

Later that day, the phone rings. It's my friendly former boss, now on maternity leave.

FB: Hi, I am at the front of the building. I had to stop by to pick up some stuff. And I have the baby with me! Do you want to see him?
Mouth: How lovely, I'll be right there.
Head: AIEEEEE! Drop the phone, move quietly toward the fire exit, and run, run, run for your life! Or do you think she would notice if I just went and hid in the bathroom until she goes away?

At front, FB is gently rolling the baby carriage back and forthwith the bundle of joy inside.

Mouth: Hi, how are you, you look great!
Head: AIEEEEEE!

FB: I feel OK. Look, here he is.
Mouth: Oh, how sweet.
Head: AIEEEEEE!

FB reaches in to the carriage to adjust his tiny little furry hat. She says: Do you want to hold him?
Mouth: Ooh, yes, please.
Head: Right. As soon as she hands you the kid, break for the revolving door. She's probably too milk-logged to keep up with you.

FB: He might be a little grumpy. I couldn't find a quiet place to feed him.
Mouth: Yes, that must be tricky around this office.
Head: AIEEEE. I am holding a small squishy baby boy. Baby flesh! I smell baby flesh! I see baby flesh!

Baby starts to cry. I joggle him up and down, trying not cry myself and/or gobble him whole.

FB: We'd better go, I think he's going to start to scream the place down in a minute. Guess he needs his nap.
Mouth: OK. Here, you can take him back now.
Head: Yes, take him, along with my left ventricle.

FB: Don't worry, I'll visit again soon.
Mouth: Oh yes, please do. It's nice to see you. Give me a call so I know when you are coming.
Head: Even though I will not be here. For the foreseeable future, I will be at home, in my pyjamas, cramming large slices of cake into my mouth.

FB: Bye now!
Mouth: Bye! Bye baby boy!

The head goes dangerously quiet. The only sound is a wet splash as my body suddenly disintegrates into a puddle on the floor.

For whom the bell tolls

2005-02-21T19:39:00.000Z

I feel...how shall I put it? Sullen. Sullen intermixed with a pinch of numb and sad. Sometimes, for a bit of variation, I add a bit of pissy/bitchy/cranky into the equation. The mood combinations usually go something like this: Sullen/sad. Sullen/numb/sad. Sad/bitchy/cranky.

Sometimes I am deep into a good sullen groove, and then suddenly somebody will say or do something to catapult me abruptly into full-on cranky mode. I'll be staring out the window, thinking vague depressing thoughts. The gray skies, the trees bending awkwardly in bleak wind, the smallest flakes of snow melting on the salted sidewalk. And then..that guy with the extremely wet hacking irritating cough? COUGH COUGH COUGH. Yeah you, asshole. Go get a bottle of cough syrup, or go home or something, you are bugging the LIVING SHIT out of me with your constant phlegm-globbers over there. OK. Where was I? Oh, yes, the bleak February skies, the cold ducks shivering on the frozen pond.

And so forth.

Actually, I am three quarters through reading a most enjoyable book which has a recurring theme that sums up the feeling rather nicely. The book attracts comparisions to a certain series about a Mr H. Potter, a lazy and not entirely accurate sort of conjoining of genres, indicative of careless critical pigeonholing. I mean, really, is every novel with the word "magic" in the text ever published for the rest of time going to be compared in this way? Let us hope not.

Anyway, the book, which has a leisurely pace, is about eight babillion pages long, with incredibly detailed footnotes. (The footnotes alone could actually be an entire book- I happen to like that kind of thing very much). I won't try to explain the plot, which is both straightforward and convoluted at the same time, except to say that it is set in England, in the early nineteenth century. And certain characters keep getting drawn/kidnapped/lost in a very eerie and otherworldly faerie land.

This is not a pretty faerie land of daisies, tinkerbells and small talking toadstools. No, this is something else entirely- bleak, ancient, discordant, spectacularly grand but at the same time dark, dark, dark. The transfer into this world is usually accompanied by the mournful tolling of a peculiar, far-away bell. Throughout the book, the sound of this bell signals that a shift is taking place, and with it a sense of uneasy dislocation.

I hear a bell of my own lately. One moment I'll be trundling along, engaged in some task, or conversation. And then, usually without warning, a distant melancholy ringing. When I look up, I realise I have lost my place. Instead I find myself trapped in some strange gray landscape, with the faint taste of salt and tears in my mouth. Some days, it's so very hard to bring myself back again.

It can be difficult to properly explain this fugue state, particularly people who have never been there. Sometimes lately, when I speak of it to people outside of blog land- I see a certain look in their eyes. A look which says, "Oh dear, is she still going on about that? I thought they had decided to fix it, so why don't they just get on with it already? How long has it been now? Really, one of these days she is simply going to have to accept that this is the way things are. Pull herself together and stop talking about all this emotional stuff. Like strange bells. There is no bell. I don't hear a bell."

Of course by that point, the sad ringing is usually overwhelmingly loud. It drowns out their voices, and their quizzical eyes.
By that point, I am already far, far away. Wishing someone would cough, or slurp their coffee, or chew their potato chips with their mouth open- if only to jerk me back to this world, and anchor me with anger.

Testing, testing one two three

2005-02-19T11:50:00.000Z

Right, where were we? Oh, yes- next!

When I said in an earlier post that we would be able to move on to doing our first IUI as of my "next cycle", I should clarify that what I meant was the next cycle after we both get all these other tests done. Specifically, HIV, Hep B & C and for me, chlamydia. And then see the consultant. And then see the nurse. And do the hokey-pokey, turn ourselves around, that's what it's all about!

E. went to his GP yesterday to have his tests done, and to quiz the doctor about treatment in the Other City hospital. Or, in the OC, as it shall henceforth be known. (Editor's note Thanks to Amy for that suggestion.) E.'s GP has apparently been through some of the infertility funfair himself, so we'll call him Dr BeenThereDoneThat.

Dr BeenThereDoneThat had initially been less than complimentary about the OC when E. asked him many months ago. I'd read a bad review on a message board as well, which worried us a little. But for some reason the doctor's tune has now changed. Or maybe he is just telling E. what he wants to hear.

In any event, there was nothing said to convince us that we should forego that plan and instead stick with the local Ass Con centre. I don't particularly care if the nurses are a bit brusque, or if the price is a bit higher at the OC. What I care about is getting some fertility assistance sometime this century. And so far, the OC ticks that box.

E. should get his test results by post in 7 days. Dr BeenThereDoneThat cautioned E. that if the HIV test came back positive, it was going to possibly affect his life insurance. E. replied that if he is HIV positive, it would seem we have bigger problems than just insurance. I know that doctors have to tell you this stuff before they test, but damn, it sounds stupid when it comes out of their mouths.

E. e-mailed me to tell me he'd had the test. "Ouch," he wrote. "Needles are ouchy in my arm!"

I sat there doodling, trying to work out how many times I have been stuck in the last year. Then I e-mailed him back.

"Tell it to someone else. Love, Pincushion."

Next up- my (*yawn*) visit to my (*yawn*) GP for more of the (*yawn) same.

Can I make an observation?

2005-02-17T19:37:00.000Z

In this house, it is an ill-wind that brings the words "Can I make an observation?"

I don't know why the observer never learns that in uttering that phrase, he or she might as well grab a sharp fiery stick and prod the soft underbelly of the observee.

"Can I make an observation" usually means: " I am about to say something I don't think you really want to hear, but I am going to say it anyway, although I will try to frame it in neutral tones so I sound more like an interested passer-by than an accusatory asshole, even though in this context I really am an accusatory asshole."

It doesn't help when the observer picks a particularly bad moment to start making such "observations". Take this morning, for example. There I was, standing in front of the closet doing that work-wear crisis thing, feeling especially bloated and cranky.

Actually, bloated doesn't begin to cover it. I feel like every ounce of moisture in my body has suddenly migrated to my lower belly region where it has congealed in one gigantic pooch of misery. On days like this, where comfy boy-jeans or oversized combats are out of the question, all I can do is scrabble around the wardrobe for one of my pairs of drawstring fat pants.

I have two pairs of these trousers, both of which are vile and heinous. The hems are too too long and drag on the ground. Also, I was finding that the drawstring tended to make my shirt bunch up in the front in a weird position over the pooch. So I cut the string off altogether, and now the pants just sort of hang in a limp manner below around my waist region. I say "waist region" because I am short waisted to the point that for all intents and purposes that part of my body barely exists.

Anyway, there I am, late, blemished, waterlogged and crabbit. I ask you, is this a good moment for E. to come up to me and say, "Can I make an observation?" No. No, it really is the worst possible choice of timing.

"What?" I snapped.

"This is a really messy house. I mean, there is stuff everywhere all the time. It's dusty. The counter tops are covered with stuff. It's messy."

"Well, I guess the fucking CLEANING FAIRY hasn't shown up this week then," I roared as E. beat a hasty retreat into the shower. I flipped him the bird, threw on my fat pants and stormed out of the house, wearing too much lipstick to compensate for the appalling state of my skin.

I've been stewing and mulling over about this all day. I know that there was probably nothing personal in the comment- E. was not intending to cast aspersions on my housekeeping skills, but GGGRRRRR AARRRGH, it irritated me. Especially since I can't remember the last time I saw him with a feather duster in his hand. Especially since I went into the kitchen straight after and it was all his crap all over the counter! Especially since, in all honesty, not a messy house. It's really not.

What this makes me think about is "The Deal". You know, the way couples negotiate the division of household labor, or even labour as we call it here, adorning it with an extra "u" for good measure. Everybody has to adapt to their particular circumstances, and almost everyone I know does their best to figure out what works best for them as a team, as a pair.

Our deal is fairly well set. We never sat down and agreed it- it just happened, due to our strange living situation. We both work demanding, full time jobs. E. does most of the grocery shopping (because he usually has the car) and most of the cooking because he likes it (and because despite my best intentions, I am really crap at it). He does all the chores involving the other flat. At the moment he also does almost all the commuting back and forth. And I do pretty much everything else here. The laundry. The bills. The ironing. The dishes. All the cleaning.

But sometimes, when I am having a very busy week at work, stuff slips. Only human, I tell myself. Despite best superhuman efforts, still only human.

I really would like to figure out a way to balance the juggling act a little better- to take better care of myself, of E., of us, and of our home. I can't see how I can do that unless we try a radical shift, like me working part-time. I'm just not ready to do that yet, for all sorts of reasons.

I suspect a more immediate solution might involve E. picking up his own goddamn socks for a change, but in all fairness to him, I think he has a lot on his plate as well. Which means something else might have to give. But what? There is not much give left, for either of us. At the end of the day, most of my remaining energy is sucked dry by the spectre of infertility. Leaving me exhausted and indifferent to the invading hoards of dust bunnies, those wispy barbarians now laying siege to my home.

NEXT!

2005-02-16T18:22:00.000Z

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Not pregnant. So very not pregnant.

All right. ALL RIGHT.

You know what? You know all that stuff about [insert simpering internal tone of voice here] "being more likely to conceive in the three months following an HSG, since it clears out the tubes"?

You know all that earlier chat about how [insert quavering indecision here] "It'll be good to wait a few more months anyway, since I'm just not sure I'm ready to leap into ART".

Well, guess what. I am OVER IT. I am so over it, and ready to move on. Bring me some fucking fertility drugs, stat.

Oh, and while I am waiting for those fucking drugs, I must have some booze.

Yes. I demand to have some booze.

Ten Things

2005-02-14T19:10:00.000Z

Ah, Valentine's Day. Day of the Valentine. Day of Lurrrrve. I don't about you, but personally, I have spent the last 12 hours in a giddy haze. Wandering over paths strewn with rose petals, fresh delicate buds springing up beside me with every step. Bluebirds singing on the gently wafting boughs above my head. Small woodland animals, like bunnies and baby foxes, emerging from the forest to gaze up at me adoringly.

Because after all, that's what Valentine's Day is all about, right? It's not just the cheap tawdry commercialisation of overblown sentimentality commemorated by the purchase of half wilted flowers, tacky card and other heart shaped tat. Right? Right?

When I met E., he immediately cautioned me that as a rule, he is not a man who gives flowers. And with the exception of the Big Two (i.e. birthdays and Christmas), he doesn't do much random gift-buying. No spontaneous tokens of affection like Chanel lipsticks or jewelry, or anything else a girl might actually want deep down in her in most frivolous heart of hearts. He doesn't even do lingerie. Well, except for the sports bra he bought me a couple of years ago, but that was Christmas, and anyway, I am not sure that really counts.

No, E.'s idea of a good present is ten bags of groceries with enough food that I don't have to leave the house for a week at a time. And you know, who am I to argue with that?

Therefore imagine my supreme surprise to find, upon waking and stumbling into the kitchen for the first caffeine infusion of the day, a large bouquet of posies (in that nice vase we never use because nobody ever buys flowers around here). And small envelope with card next to baggy of red-foiled heart shaped chocolates. And a white kitten with a big red bow around her neck, on which was threaded a Tiffany's diamond ring on a platinum setting. No, wait, I made that last part up. Actually he'd bought me a bunch of books, none of which I want to read, but all of which can be exchanged for others I do want. Yay!

Oh joyous love-infused kitchen twirling. Truly, I am all-a flutter with delight, glazed with affection.

So with advance apologies for the sheer nauseating fluffiness of it all, and accompanied by a string-quartet, I now bring you: Ten Things I Love about E.

1. He has the best smell of any man I have ever met. Sometimes, when he is staying through the Other City during the week, I will unearth one of his t-shirts from under the bedcovers, and lie there with it pressed to my face.

2. Sometimes, when he is in a really good mood, he goes bounding around the house on the balls of his feet like a five year old, doing a little happy dance.

3. He has an appreciation for language. Sometimes, when we are speaking he will stop me and say "What did you just say? Rhapsodic? Tertiary? Parsimonious? Wow. Excellent use of word in context!" And then he will make sure he uses that word in his next business meeting.

4. He is very kind to people in need, even when there is absolutely no chance of having his generousity reciprocated.

5. In private, he rarely calls me by my name. Instead, it's always "sweetie pie, sweetie or my sweetie".

6. He has the best bottom of any man I have ever met. Honestly, it is so perfectly sculpted, an absolute work of art.

7. He phones me as he is walking home from work, opening the conversation with the same phrase "Hi sweetie. Anything fresh?" Then he gives me a running commentary about the stuff he sees on the way. Then he phones me before bedtime. 'So, still nothing fresh?"

8. He like to read, and talk about the book afterwards. He always has two or three books on the go at one time. He is fond of non-fiction tomes about history, wars and battles, aircraft and tall ships. He enjoys a constant infusion of true-life tales of seafarers, inventors, and polar explorers.

9. I mentioned the grocery-buying already. Big, big gold stars for that.

10. We have a similar sense of humour, and find the same things hugely funny. Like the way he refers to his work pass as his "morgue tag". Or when we were looking for a cottage to rent for a week in Scotland, and we found a place that boasted of a nearby cafe offering something mysteriously known as "Heat-away Pies."

"Heat-away pies," he gasped, clasping his hands together. "We must book immediately!!" Ever since then, every time we go anywhere, before we make a reservation, one of us will turn to the other, and mumur, "heat-away pies?"

Setting aside the goofy sentiment, I admit that of course there are many more than just ten things. Some of which are hard to put into words or a list, and are well beyond the bounds of a Hallmark card on Valentine's Day. But believe me when I say, there are other things. Things which in looking back over the last frustrating, infuriating, disappointing year have made me pause.

Pause and reflect, that if even nothing else comes out of all this, I have the privilege of experiencing an enduring love.

Jumping the hoops

2005-02-13T11:23:00.000Z

I am happy to report that, after all the strum und drang of the decision-making, we are resuming our regularly scheduled program. That is to say, the interminable waiting around for further appointments. There is, however, one small change to the plan to tell you about.

My appointment letter from the Ass Con centre finally arrived after seven weeks, for a date at the end of March. However, long before that happened, E. and I decided our patience with the good old Ass Centre was pretty much exhausted. So we started looking into alternatives.

This being a country limited in available licensed fertility treatment, our choices are not abundant. But there is one option worth exploring. That is the possibility of a private hospital (i.e. feepaying, not NHS) in the Other City, where E. works and where we keep a flat for him to stay at during the week. While not hugely convenient for me, this is a much simpler solution as far as he is concerned. And let's face it, anything to make E. happier about the prospect of missing work at short notice in order to go wank into a sample jar is worth considering.

The reason we had not gone there in the first place is because E.'s GP had previously gave it the two thumbs down. Apparently this doctor had had some personal experiences of his own there which were not entirely positive, in all senses of the word.

However, a preliminary telephone call to this other clinic revealed a much more optimistic timetable. We can have a consultation within a week from making an appointment. A week! Seven little calendar days, as opposed to sixty! Then, for reasons I cannot quite fathom, we have to see a nurse, the purpose of that appointment being somewhat unclear. For further reasons which are also shrouded in mystery, this will entail the longest delay, since it will take about three weeks to see him/her. Go figure. I cannot.

But before anything else can be done, we are both required to undergo several more tests, in particular a screen for HIV and Hepatitis B&C. This is a new regulation as of December 2004, and it irritates me immensely that nobody mentioned it to us before now. We would have had to have had it no matter where we went. I do wish, in the midst of all the rambling and stuttering about random nothingness, Dr Ticktock had actually remembered to advise that we would need to have this done. I could have had the tests done in January when I was at the GP having my arm stabbed for the thyroid check.

Well. Never mind. I have an appointment in two weeks' time for the further blood tests, whereas E. can get an appointment in three days. Lastly, for further entertainment value, I also have to have another Pap test. It's known here only as a "smear test", an unpleasantly graphic term which always sort of makes me shudder. And, while they are rootling around up my fanoir, I will also have a required chlamdyia screening for good measure.

Then, then, then, FINALLY- assuming these tests do not reveal anything disastrous- we will then immediately be cleared for takeoff for our first IUI at the private hospital, at the start of the next cycle.

It does perturb me a little that after a YEAR of preliminary testing, they have somehow managed to pull another bag of needles out of the magician's hat at the eleventh hour, another set of hoops to jump through. But it must be done, and so jump we will. Jump on cue, unwavering, right through the center. Hoping that one day, we will make it out of the never-ending ring, and at last, onto the next stage.

Teething trouble

2005-02-11T18:17:00.000Z

In the last couple months, I have become more and more resigned to the idea that this conception thing is just not going to happen on its own. So while I made a half hearted attempt in the month following the HSG to chart my temps and so forth, since then I have been more or less treating the whole thing with an indifferent shug of the shoulders.

Not for me the monitoring of every twinge, or the scrutinising of every craving. Instead of scanning the night sky for the shooting stars of pregnancy symptoms, I have been shuffling along with my eyes on the cracks in the pavement. I figure if the comet is big enough, a piece of it will plummet through the atmosphere and hit me on the head anyway.

However. There have been two stange occurrences perhaps worth mentioning. The first happened the other day as I was sitting at my desk, looking at the healthy apple in front of me, wishing it would magically turn into a bar of chocolate. All of a sudden there was this...seismic rumbling in my nether regions. It only happened once, briefly, and felt very peculiar. I'm about halfway into the two week wait,and have never experienced anything quite like it before. Or at least not since I started paying attention. But it's probably nothing.

The other thing is more of an ongoing phenemenon, and is also rather odd. My teeth have become extremely sensitive to hot and cold. I bit into my sandwich yesterday, and suddenly my whole mouth was filled with raw nerve endings screaming for mercy.

Again, more than it being a sign of pregnancy, I attribute this to the fact that I am well overdue for a visit to the dentist. I blame this unfortunate lapse in dental care on my father.

You see, for the past couple years, I have been going to the family dentist in Florida at least once annually whenever I came home for a visit. I like this dentist- she's a bouncy, jolly woman about my age with the most brilliantly white pearly gnashers you could ever hope to see. It seemed as if she liked me too, apart from the initial blip in our relationship when I opened my mouth during the first exam.

"Agggghh!" she screamed so loudly that staff came running into the room to see if she was being assaulted.

"Problem?" I drooled into my bib.

"What is THAT?" she cried, "That enormous silver filling on your left back tooth. It's the size of SIBERIA."

"Ah, yes" I dribbled. "Welcome to the world of Scottish dentistry. They did that to me last year. Pretty unsightly, huh?"

"We'll fix that," she muttered grimly, marking my chart.

From then on, every time I went back, I was subjected to a relentless barrage of treatments to restore my teeth to pristine white fillings. I put up with this, even though it was becoming a bit wearisome and unnecessarily expensive, because although a bit on the Heavy Metal side, the Scottish fillings are basically OK. And I come to Florida to see the parents and hang out on the boat dock, not lie in the dental chair.

Anyway, during my last visit n November, I broached the subject of making an appointment to see the dentist. My mother winced.

"We can't go back there," she moaned.

"Whyever not?" I asked with some surprise.

Turns out that during the hurricanes, my parents ended up in close evacuation quarters with another local couple. To while away the time between gusts, the talk inevitably turned gossip about various mutual acquaintances, including the dentist, who happened to live in the same condo development as this couple. And this couple knew lots and lots of very interesting things about my dentist, which they happily imparted to my parents.

So. The next time my dad went to the dentist's office, what does he do? What, indeed. He blurts out all this salacious hurricane-gossip, to the complete and utter mortification of the dentist. Apparently my dad's foot was so far inside his mouth by the end of his indiscrete comments that it had to be surgically removed so the dentist could resume work on his teeth.

To this day, I will never know what possessed him. My dad is possibly one of the most shy, taciturn people I have ever met. Having a conversation with him can be like...well...pulling teeth. It was wholly uncharacteristic of him to be so...chatty.

The only explanation I can think of is down to my father having worked with this dentist for some months now, undergoing months of long term dental restoration, some of which had become rather harrowing. Like the time he accidentally swallowed the expensive custom made filling the dentist was trying to fit. I guess after you've been sent home by your dentist with a pair of rubber gloves and an order to "recover the goods", you reach the point where it seems like a little friendly banter between pals can do no harm.

Anyway, my parents are too embarrassed to go back to that dentist, and frankly after all that, I'd prefer to steer clear myself. Maybe it's time to think again about finding a Scottish dentist, even if they are a little heavy handed with the mercury.

In the meantime, I shall try not to take the strange feeling in my mouth as portending anything signficant. I will simply grin and bear it.

Previously on...

2005-02-10T08:18:00.000Z

Lest anyone remain in any doubt following my ramblings and gibberings in the last two posts, a decision has been made as to what to do next. That decision was actually made a little while ago. We're going to try treatment.

That was always the original plan, so we're not really veering off our chosen course. I was simply trying to explain why I felt there was rather a lot riding on getting it right, whichever way we went.

If you're wondering why on earth I didn't just spit it out earlier- well, if nothing else, blogging allows you to be the editor in the telling of your own story. And I confess to taking a small amount of satisfaction in drawing out the tale in true serial soap opera fashion. Just wait until we get to the next chapter- there might be a cliffhanger every month! Oh, what fun for you and for me.

Also, it took me over a month of teeth gnashing and nail biting, plus gut wrenching talks with E. to reach this conclusion. It only seems fair that you should be kept wondering for two posts or so. I might have written it all a bit quicker, but somehow having to go to work every day can knock the stuffing out a decent writing schedule, you know?

I was thinking this morning that sometimes it must be tricky if you are new to someone's blog. How do you to pick up the thread? I mean, in some cases, there can be months of complicated backstory to wade through. Imagine if you missed a key detail, like the shot of the sled in Citizen Kane.

We're all so used to handy recaps at the start of a new episode in a TV series, with Voice-Over Man intoning, "Previously on...." We get brief clips to help us fill in the blanks, just in case the TiVo failed, or we were in the bathroom or making a cup of tea duing the crucial moments in the last show.

Maybe I'll start doing that at the beginning of every month. It might be really boring at first, though.

"Previously on Barren Mare... the intrepid couple tried to get pregnant. Yet again, they could not. There were tears. There was some comfort food. There were attempts to grapple the heart's emotions into a headlock. There were hackneyed metaphors employed at every turn. TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR...oh, more of the same."

Zzzz. No wonder the Neilsen ratings are in the dumper. Maybe we could go one step further, and hire Movie Trailer Guy. Do you know who I mean? Every time you go to the movies, it's always the same voice booming out during the trailers before the main feature begins. And it always starts with some cheesy synopsis of the film, accompanied by stirring music. For example:

"In a world... where every day is fight to the death....where giant racoons roam the earth...where hard men are driven to harder choices.... a new kind of hero will rise to LEAD THEM ALL OUT OF THE DARKNESS..."

E. and I are obsessed with Movie Trailer Guy. Sometimes, when we're driving, or engaged in some really banal task, one of us will suddenly turn to the other and intone deeply,

"IN A WORLD...where every bend in the road uncovers another pothole...where making a left turn at the junction is a fight to the death...a lone driver will beat the odds, survive the traffic and arrive at the destination... ON TIME."

Try it sometime, it's very amusing and entertaining.

You have questions, I (sort of) have answers

2005-02-08T08:33:00.000Z

Gather round, adorable muffins, gather round- it's time for Question & Answer Time with Mare. No pushing now, you are all guaranteed a good seat.

At this juncture, it may be worth explaining how we have come to our current conclusions on adoption in this country. The easiest way seems to be to try to answer some of the very interesting and relevant questions raised in the last post, or those questions you may be thinking to yourself in your pointy little heads at home, wondering to yourself, "But why don't they try X solution"?

As a general health warning, please remember at all times I am talking about us, in our particular set of circumstances and in terms our particular "goals" for family building. Me and E. If you are a prospective adopter in this country, in any doubt whatsoever about the policy in your area, or how it might work for you, then I beg you not to take this as a definitive guide as to how the system works. Talk to the agency or the local authority before you run screaming out of the room.

Ready? OK. Let's go.

If the agency you want to work with has a certain policy about age, could you find one with more flexibility?

The first thing you have to understand is that in Scotland, there are no "private" adoption agencies in quite the same way that you would have in America. Every local authority (i.e. Argyll & Bute Council) is an adoption agency, and depending on where you live, there are also some volunteer charity organisations, such as Barnado's or Scottish Adoption Association.

That's it. That's all there is. So in our area, there is limited choice. It gets even more limited when you realise that some of the charity organisations have some initial criteria for acceptance, i.e. that you are Christian, married for two years or more. Strike one, strike two. Some local authorities/agencies require you to wait an additional six months to a year after completing treatment (to give yourself time to "mourn". Ha. As if you can put a timescale on that.)

Yes, you can do international adoption with a local authority in some areas, if they have the necessary approval, but some appeared to be more, um, geared up than others.

So if it's the local authority that has this dumbass policy, could you maybe just move to a different area, one with an agency with a more reasonable mindset?

The thing to bear in mind is that the age limit thing is a policy, no more. In reality, it might be that we would have no problem at all. For example, we are both in very good health. And it might be that in our circumstances, being slightly older would not be an issue. I am simply going on the information I received from the agency and did the math on timescales. For us, and our desired route and choices, it just doesn't look like a sure thing. The point is, once we get past a certain point, we personally may be setting ourselves up for another difficult hurdle in a process with enough fucking hurdles already, thank you very much. I just wanted to be absolutely clear about that before we started tripping blithely down the ART path, thinking we can come back to adoption later.

The yardstick of age 43 upwards seems to apply quite broadly in most areas of Scotland. So there is no guarantee that if we moved elsewhere we would be any better off.

Plus, you know, apart from the adoption problem, we kind of like it where we are. We both have good jobs in a country where good jobs are relatively scarce. For me to work in England (or America for that matter) would require a further round of professional requalifications. Right now, I'd frankly rather stick my head in a blender.

Could you perhaps undergo secret treatment while on the waiting list for adoption?

I love this idea- it's Operation Stealth Ass Con! Shh, I'm shooting up on the sly. Doctor, bring me a Martini, shaken not stirred.

No, that would be very difficult. You both have to provide all sorts of medical information, including reports from a GP. I think it would get quite complicated, and if we were found out, it would be bad. Very bad. I don't want to start off the process by bending the truth. Plus, we'd sure to be busted when we undergo the lie detector test. (Kidding. There is no lie detector test. Just checking to see you are still awake.)

Acupuncture- good idea, one which I will probably investigate at some point. However, personally, if I am going to adopt, I would prefer to focus primarily on that, and not on treatment or getting pregnant. There is, frankly, only so much time in the day, and the logistics of overseas adoption appear quite complicated for us. So I would want adoption to be the first place for my energy. That seems to be very in line with the thinking of most agencies, and the reason they require couples to have finished with treatment before they start adoption.

I seem to recall something about you being a US citizen. Why don't you adopt in America and bring the child back to that place where you live, what's it called, oh yes, Scotland

Ya gotta love that lateral thinking. Points for effort, kids. The problem with that plan is that as far as I can work out, to bring an adopted child into this country, you must be approved for adoption here. In other words, even if we were to adopt in the US, we'd still have to undergo the homestudy etc, here and be approved. Plus, it then all seems to get hopelessly messy because E. is not a US citizen. Try confuzzlement on a grand scale. Again, don't get me wrong, I am sure there are ways around this, if we really wanted to make it work badly enough. But given that right now the overwhelming urge to put my head down on the desk and weep, I'm not quite at that point yet.

Isn't there somewhere on the internet you can get decent, accurate information on all this?

Well, yes and no. There are links, some of which are informative in a general way, like here. Many sites I have tried simply take you so far and then dry up to a dribble. I've tried joining a few Yahoo!groups and the like, but most of these require you to be "committed to adoption" and "in the process" before they are willing to accept you into their message boards. Never mind how the fuck am I supposed to work out if I am committed when I cannot even get the information I need.

My adoption research is like panning for gold- the odd glimmer of value, a whole lot of crap. And this is me we're talking about, Little Miss Googlemeister. I am truly not trying to be defeatist, but trust me, this is not easy. I have spent hours, hours, and more hours already trying to get information and discuss this with E. But I only have so much energy in one day, and not an unlimited amount of time to make a decision.

Huh. That sucks. Maybe you could cheer yourself up by eating some haggis. What is haggis, anyway?

Generally, sheep's stomach stuffed with offal and barley. Wait, it's a lot nicer than it sounds. I had some chargrilled haggis in a restaurant the other night. It tasted like there was steak mixed in, and oh my. Yummy scrummy.

Listen, I adore you all for your wonderful support and concern. And I am going to be fine. Really, I believe that I will be fine. Maybe not right away, but someday. One way or another we will find a way, or make one. I just needed to be clear that in our case, we may not be able to go from Plan A to Plan B, and to be aware the risks of our choices. Because Plan B might not work out either.

But I do hope you'll stick around for the rest of the story. We can find out how it ends together.

Baby or the Tiger

2005-02-06T18:10:00.000Z

This is a difficult post for me to write. We're at something of a crossroads here. And while we've now finally made a decision about which way to go, I confess it has taken its toll on me. I'm feeling a little emotionally exhausted, to be honest.

While I've been building up to this for awhile, I am a bit tentative about discussing our options. I've been doing a lot of information and data gathering, but am still not sure I have all the right pieces. So to add a gigantic caveat at the beginning- this is what I know, at this point in time. Some of it could be wrong, and if anyone knows something I don't, then by all means speak up.

After our unexplained diagnosis in December, we had decided to wait a few more months and then start treatment. But as I have mentioned before, I am the sort of person who likes not only an intermediate plan, but a detailed long-term road map. As we were having a breather before moving on, I wanted to know and to understand our family building options if, a year or two from now, treatment fails. I wanted to have a clear picture of where that leaves us.

The answer, as far as I can see from the research I had done about the adoption procedures in Scotland is: up shit creek without a baby.

The prospect of adoption throws up all sorts of hurdles for E. and I, in our particular situation. Most of the challenges are not insurmountable. If we did adopt, we would wish to go the overseas route. Scotland is really not geared up for overseas adoptions past the point of the homestudy, but I am a resourceful cookie, and there are ways to deal with this. Also, in order to adopt as a couple, we would have to get married- something E. views with great distaste, but which he would ultimately agree to for the sake of our family.

But there is a problem, one we cannot easily overcome. And the problem is this: by law, there are no age restrictions for prospective adopters. But in our area, in practice, the policy is that the oldest person in the adopting couple should be no more than 42 or 43 at the point at which the application is sent for approval by the adoption panel. E. will be 40 this year.

In theory, that would leave us a year or so to play around with some assisted conception larks. However, remember that nothing in this country moves quickly. It has been nearly six weeks since our last visit to Dr Ticktock, and I have yet to receive the letter confirming our appointment with the Ass Con crew. And that appointment will probably not be until April. Of course, the answer to all this NHS arsing around is to go straight to private treatment- which we are probably going to do immediately. However, before we do that, we would be required to pick up a yet another couple of tests to add to our butterfly collection, all of which is going to take another month or so.

I'm not saying the slowness and delays are insurmountable, but I am trying to give you a flavour of what we are dealing with here- and in the overall big picture, I know we have to factor in movement at the rate of pond water.

To cut a long story short, a year is not an unrealistic amount of time to undergo a proper course of treatment here, running the gamut from IUI to a cycle of IVF. And if it all fails, well, E. will still probably be about 41 or so.

But now for the hiccup. To work with the only agency I can find that appears to have any clue about overseas adoptions, we would have to go on a "preparation class". That class is only run once a year. There is currently at least a year waiting list for this. Prospective adopters are not permitted to undergo infertility treatment at the same time as adoption, so we could not put our names down and see how it goes. It then takes a further six to nine months to get a homestudy completed, although I know fine well it could be longer.

In short, it is very likely we would up against the clock in a major way in terms of E.'s age. Dealing with the medical system is frustrating enough, and neither of us particularly want to spend the whole treatment phase fretting over the passage of time. The answer might be that we would have to agree to adopt a slightly older child, but after some heart-wrenching discussions, we admit that right now, that does not work for us.

Some commenters on an earlier post kindly suggested that treatment might be viewed as "nothing ventured, nothing gained". I would normally wholeheartedly agree with that notion. But in reality, if we go down the treatment route, we are committing ourselves to a reality in which adoption might not be an option after all. Or, if we adopt, we must face up to the distinct possibility that should we then decide to pursue treatment at a later date, it is likely to be too late. And we forever forego the possibility of pregnancy and a biological child.

Treatment or adoption. We can probably do one or the other. It doesn't appear we can do both. Or, at least not if we stay in Scotland, but frankly, the idea of an international move back to America in the middle of all this is beyond what we are willing to contemplate right now.

I am put in mind of the story of "the Lady or the Tiger", where the condemned prisoner is forced to undergo a terrible test. Led to arena, and made to choose between two doors. Behind one door, a beautiful lady, whom he will marry on the spot. Behind the other door, a ferocious hungry tiger, waiting to pounce. The prisoner's secret lover knows what lies behind the doors- she can give him a clue. But which door will she choose? If he opens the door with the lady, he will live, but will be lost to her forever, in the arms of another woman. She would almost rather see him dead. But if he opens the door with the tiger, can she bear to watch her beloved ripped to shred before her eyes?

We are standing in our own arena. Behind one door is a baby. Behind the other is a tiger, of grief, loss and regret-even with the aid of my handy bullwhip, not easily tamed. There is no one to give us a clue as to what to do. We must decide for ourselves. And so, tightly holding hands, we are now moving to our chosen door. Knowing that one way or another, there will be a ending. Knowing that we have chosen with our eyes wide open, chosen as best we can.

Vox Populi

2005-02-04T08:11:00.000Z

The S.I.P.P.Y. ("Scottish Infertility Political Posturing and Yammering") alarm went off a few days ago. I sent a squad car out to investigate.

Turns out there was a debate in the Scottish Parliament last week on infertility services. But wait! Before you start issuing tiny squeals of delight, let me assure you that it's not all that.

While I do applaud the efforts of the Minister for raising the issue, unfortunately a fair bit of the debate was also comprised of politicians engaged in self congratulatory drivel. Yes, well done, Mrs. Hairy McClary, thank you for sharing you once had a problem with endometriosis. Hooray for you, Ms Hortensia McCleod of the Clan McLeod on behalf of your constituency on the shores of Loch Shiel, for revealing that you nearly had to go through IVF once, but instead were saved by (and I quote) "a "miracle pregnancy!

Honestly, a bunch of us infertiles could have achieved more in a half hour coffee klatch in Soper's kitchen than Scotland's elected officials did in a hour of parliamentary discussion. All this blah, blah, blah, and no indication of the problem might be solved.

Note this: only one male MSP hung around for the debate. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was scheduled for after 5pm, not exactly political primetime. Or it could be that they all had something more pressing to do, like topping up their spray-on tan , or lighting the curtains on fire. But that did not deter our sole stalwart male politician from attending, oh no- after all, this was clearly an unmissable opportunity to spout crap.

Let's dissect a few gems, shall we?

1. "Members have raised issues about age. I agree that the age at which people qualify for treatment should be raised, especially as nowadays people who have careers often marry or settle down much later in life. However, I have a slight reservation. I do not condemn my parents in any way, but my mother was 37 and my father was 42 when I arrived. That was fine: I had caring, loving parents. However, when it came to asking, "Are you going to come and play football, dad?" that was a wee bit beyond his level. We must bear the needs of the child in mind."

Woof. Did someone fart, or does it suddenly reek of HFEA in here? To this I say, please, spare us your childhood trauma. I'm really sorry you didn't get whatever you needed from your daddy when you were growing up, but take it up with your therapist, not the debating chamber.

2. The sexual health of the nation is poor. We do not know how many infections there are. I would back the idea of a chlamydia testing scheme. For many people, the problem is a matter of lifestyle. They get into drink and drugs; they end up having sex and getting infections. That damages their lives.

Where do I even begin to discuss how very, very wrong this is? Thank, Mr MSP, for equating infertility not only with lifestyle choices, but to infer that it's all the drink! the drugs! and the STDs! causing the problem. How dare you suggest this is our fault, the result of our irresponsible living? And what the fuck would you know about the lifestyles of people needing treatment anyway, you ignorant moron? Do you have any evidence to back up your assertions, or do you just like the sound of your own verbal dribbling? And anyway, last I checked, this town is full of pissed-up junkies pushing prams en route to the methadone clinic.

If you are already thinking this asshole really should have shut up by now, just wait. He saved the best for last.

3. "Many contraceptive preparations damage women's fertility. They can limit a woman's physical capability to have children. Moreover, the sheer angst caused by fertility problems can cause mental health difficulties and those, again, can postpone children. There should be some form of counselling for people who have such difficulties."

In other words, all you women are to blame for using that nasty birth control stuff in the first place. Because birth control doesn't just prevent unwanted pregnancy, it ruins your fertility forever! Now look at what you've done, you stupid bitches. Made yourself infertile AND crazy. Get a shrink, or some electroshock therapy, you unhinged hysterical freaks. Oh, and just relax.

If you're wondering, what is that faint high pitched noise you are hearing right about now? It is the echo of my primal scream of frustration.

In and out of the closet

2005-02-02T18:17:00.001Z

It occurred to me this morning- as I stood in front of my closet in the usual frantic lather trying to decide what to wear to work- that infertility has wrought many changes in my life. Some are big and glaringly obvious. For example, sex on schedule, doctor's appointments, blogging, and weeping in the bathroom on a regular basis. Others are small and much more subtle. So subtle as to be barely noticeable until the odd revelatory moment, like today.

I am extremely fond of nice, simple, elegant, well-made clothes. I'm not a label slave, though I appreciate the work of some designers. I'm not into following trends as such. Though I will confess to liking that tweed thing that was going on a few months ago. This is a good country for tweed. But generally I try to adhere to clean lines and classic cuts in neutral colours, with the odd sploosh of red or pehaps forest green for good measure, on days when I feel like being a bit sassy. I know what I like and I know what looks good on me.

This is not to say I can afford to buy these things on a regular basis. I cannot. But I will wander the high end shops, stroke the pretty items, before recoiling in horror at the price and running screaming to Gap or H&M where I will pay a fraction of the price, albeit for something that usually falls apart in six months time if not sooner.

But sometimes, especially during the sales, I simply cannot resist. Out comes the credit card and into my bag go delicious, covetable items. A Joseph shift dress. A MaxMara coat. A pair of sleek Prada boots. Quivering, I rush home and unpack my treasures, doing a little dancce of guilty happiness around the bedroom before hiding the receipts from E. Although I don't know why I bother with that last part- it's my goddamn money, I earned it.

Now for the weirdness. The beautiful things hang in my closet unworn. Oh, every now and then I will go to a party or a special work do, and my finery will get a once annual airing. But for the most part, I hold back. My rationale is that once I wear the nice things, the specialness will be gone, or worse, the outfit will get ruined. And then what will I do? How would I ever replace my Marc Jacobs high heeled camel boots that I sought out so feverishly, that took me six months to find on eBay and shipped from the States? Where will I ever find another pair of black trousers so perfectly cut, so flattering? Can't risk it, oh no.

But a funny thing happened about a year and a half ago, when we started trying. You see, I convinced myself that I would, of course, get pregnant any second now. And then I would be too baby-bellied to fit into the beautiful things. Worse, I worried like a loon that I might somehow not be able to ever fit into those things again, as if pregnancy was actually a permanent figure-altering fixture.

So one day I simply started wearing the nice stuff. It was hard some days to break the habit of a lifetime. It was strange to go into work wearing something nice and expensive without any particular justification. And of course I still worried that any minute now I would upend a cup of coffee all over my cream cashmere sweater- but I forced myself to do it, because after all- about to get pregnant! Any minute! Maternity clothing impending! Trousers with expandable waistband soon to be required! Of course, there would always be nice hand bags on the horizon, but still- Nursing bras! Large, unflattering knickers!

Well, we all know how that has been working out. And here I am a year later, feeling as though not only have I endured a suckass time in not getting pregnant, but shit! I've worn out all my good clothes while I was at it. What a dumbass. Worse, now that I am reverting to my old fashion routine, people have asked what happened to that really nice skirt I wore a few months back? Do I still have those lovely kitten heels?

Yes, I want to say, yes I do. I still have all these things. I'll probably wear these clothes once more someday, even though some of the specialness has worn off, along with any of the hope or joy or naivete I ever had about getting pregnant in the first place. Even though all those things are now at the back of the closet. Even though the fit may never feel as right, ever again.

The Furtive Infertile: Notes from under a desk

2005-01-31T19:07:00.000Z

Today, just as I had stuffed a much-needed, oversized hunk of chocolate into my mouth, the phone rang. It was the clinic. Really, their timing is uncanny.

"Hello, this is Mareighsgana Marmarmar," I garbled, strangling on my tongue and half chewed chocolate.

"You phoned us?" said the stern voice on the other end. There was a long, deathly pause. OK, obviously even though I had left a detailed message earlier, they were going to make me repeat the whole thing. Again. At my desk. At work. In my open plan office.

So I crawled under the desk and barricaded myself in behind some files and my gym bag.

"I was just wondering when we were going to get our letter confirming our appointment. We were referred, or supposed to be referred, by Dr Ticktock at the end of December, and we still haven't heard anything" I said quietly.

"Referred to where?" said Ms Sternietty Stern.

I felt like reaching through the phone and giving her a sharp neat slap. Firstly, I said 'where' in the message I left earlier. The message I had left in the privacy of my own home this morning. Secondly, I mean, where do ya think? Where does Dr TickTock usually refer people? Referred to Paris, France? Referred to Mars? Referred UP YOUR ASS?

"The um, Assisted Conception Unit," I whispered.

"Where? I couldn't hear you," Sternietty Stern barked.

"The Assisted Conception Unit," I repeated at normal volume, furtively glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention. Fortunately, most of the staff were huddled around a colleague's desk on the other side of the room cooing over baby pictures, so the coast was more or less clear.

"I'll transfer you," she grumbled, while I contemplated whether the phone line was long enough to turn into a noose, and if the filing shelves would stand up to the weight of my swinging body.

The Ass Con people were slightly nicer. I say "slightly" in the way that I find shots in my left arm slightly better than in my left buttock. She informed me that the letter confirming the appointment was on its way "sometime next week". Or you know, maybe Christmas. And that appointment would probably be for the end of March. Or possibly Christmas.

"Or it could be April," she chirped gaily. "Oh, and don't forget, the waiting list for IVF for fee-paying clients is at least six months. Or you know, longer!" Like around Christmas.

I wanted to ask about how we go about teeing up an IUI, but then all of a sudden half the office seemed to find a reason to stand in my immediate vicinity, so I gave up.

It's suddenly looking like a good idea to pursue private treatment in the Other City, or at least to gauge whether the waiting times are comparable. In a way that might be no bad thing. I've spent the last couple weeks in data-gathering mode about options - that is, for treatment and/or adoption, and am about ready to post my findings thus far. So I might as well fill in the jigsaw as best and fully as I can. Even if that entails more phone calls conducted in hushed, furtive tones.

"Mare?" I heard a voice from above, and looked out to see a pair of nicely polished shoes. It was my boss. "The meeting is about to start. Can I ask why you are under your desk?"

Have a slice of controversy with a portion of ethics du jour

2005-01-27T22:18:00.000Z

Somehow, this news slipped under my radar, probably because it issued when I was thrumming with hormones and crying in the middle of the office. But I was rummaging around online the other day when I came across this which reports the following:

"The Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA) are launching a wide public consultation into how clinics should protect the interests of children born through fertility treatment. Under new consultation Infertile couples could face routine criminal records checks before they are given treatment".

The consultation in question, snappily labeled ‘Tomorrow’s Children’ can be found here. I urge anyone living in Britain affected by fertility issues to read and respond to the questionnaire. The consultation paper focuses on three main areas:

• The kind of enquiries to be made of prospective parents – whether medical or social and which other professionals (i.e. social services agencies or the police) should be involved.
• The factors to be taken into account in the assessment – whether these should include medical, physical, psychological risks and social factors.
• Whether patients undergoing different kinds of treatment need different assessment and information – such as people using donor conception.

Suzi Leather, (the deliciously named Chair of HFEA), has said: “The law sets out the important principle that, before any treatment is given, clinics must consider the welfare of any child who may be born as a result. Our job as the sector’s regulator is to ensure that this is delivered in practice. There must be a reasonable, proportionate, fair and practical system that delivers an appropriate level of protection for children without unjustifiably hindering the treatment of people who need medical help in having a child."

Having read the consultation paper, my first point is that much of the news reportage of the issue has somewhat unfairly focused on the rather sexy angle of CRIMNAL CHECKS! FOR INFERTILE COUPLES! It should also be recognised that HFEA are talking about revisions to a Code of Practice rather than a change to the law. And at the moment, some assessment of medical, physical, psychological and social factors already takes place (or is meant to) prior to treatment. So in some ways, the consultation opens up the possibility for relaxing the current code.

However, the bottom line is that what the current consultaton throws into sharp relief is a key question: namely to what extent should infertile couples who require medical assistance to reproduce be treated differently than couples who conceive naturally?

I should start by saying that I view anything that HFEA says with a certain amount of wariness, primarily because I inherently distrust an organisation comprised of unelected representatives holding themselves out to be an ethical regulator and "fertility watchdog".

My views on the consultation proposals are this: On balance, I think that the legal requirement to take into account the welfare of any child born as a result of assisted conception should be generally be limited to questions of medical risk to the child to be born. I think that any further routine "social enquiries" involving any third party/agencies takes us into into dangerous territory, a tenuous ethical landscape where external value judgements and assumptions assume a crucial yet dubious importance. I think it's a slippery slope that has potential to give even more authority over a couple's family building choices to physicians and clinicians, who in some cases already have far too much power over the process, in my opinion.

I can fully apprecate the arguments that it would be preferable if drug addicted, child-abusing psychopaths did not become parents via IVF. Moreover I can see a thorny ethical issue in a scenario arising where a patient seeking IVF, apart from any obvious medical risk to the child, appeared to all concerned to be a wholly unsuitable candidate for parenthood. For that reason, I think there probably should be scope to make additional enquiries in exceptional cases where there is a clear and justifiable reason to do so. But even that makes me a little uncomfortable-because how do we define what is a clear reason? Who gets to decide if a certain factor is a "problem"?

Furthermore the whole issue generally makes me grapple with how we go about evaluating the welfare of the child - a child that is not yet in existence and may never come into existence. How do we fully and properly assess a future scenario that may never come to be?

What HFEA seem to recognise is that at present it can be very hard to to ascertain in all cases if there is a "problem" and if so how is that issue explored or resolved is a bit of a grey area. The consultation paper talks about using a patient questionnaire. But they also recognise that, cunningly, people with a potential problem which might preclude them from receiving treament might lie on such a questionnaire. At the moment some clinics make enquiries to GPs, but of course in many cases, a GP is really not going to be in a position to give any sort of meaningful evaluation of fitness to be a parent. I mean, I have met my GP maybe 5 times. Which leaves talking to a social worker, or the police.

The problem is that takes us from one end of the spectrum (not many checks) to the other (criminal records search, for example). Anything in the middle risk is fairly unsatisfactory, in that it risks pissing off potential patients (who frankly, are usually feeling vulnerable enough as it is) while failing to really ensure any problems are caught.

Findings on the use of the current "welfare of the child" assessment guidance indicate that patients are rarely refused treatment, suggesting that any benefit of the present system is disproportionate to the time and resource required to carry out the checks. I'm guessing that has a lot to do with the fact that most people who reach the point of seeking assisted conception have already thought long and hard about parenthood, have already undergone a certain amount of intrusive and painful interventions, have already made difficult decisions about family building.

But leaving aside all the ethical dilemmas, I have to say that on an emotive level I simply find the whole notion that infertile couples should have to contemplate the possibility of additional hurdles, such as an interview with a social worker, or a criminal record check to be repugnant, invasive, and downright creepy. I cannot even begin to imagine how upsetting and stressful it would be to sit in the waiting room, knowing that not only will your physical body be wide open for all to see, but wondering if they are going find anything else which will prevent you from receiving treatment.

It also may a knee-jerk reaction but all I can think if IVF candidates are required to routinely undergo detailed checks, then who's checking the parents who conceive naturally? The people who in some cases conceive carelessly and thoughtlessly? Or who make reproductive choices as private decisions, and subsequently parent without being subjected to any sort of assessment whatsoever? HFEA's rationale on that point seems to be that once a person requires the intervention of third parties, such as medical staff, then this does put people on a different footing, one more akin to adoption. So really, if ever there was a practice designed to further widen the gulf between the experience of the bountiful uber-fertile and the bitter isolated infertile, this is it.

I'd really, really appreciate comments on this, which may help me to finalise my opinion and articulate my views to HFEA when I come to respond to the questionnaire. I'm also very interested in what goes on in other countries- for example, is there any form of check in the States prior to commencing treatment? If so, how do you feel about that?

Take a number. Get in line.

2005-01-26T21:35:00.000Z

I have, in my own quiet way, started taking a few tentative steps toward getting political about the issue of fertility treatment in this country. I would describe my recent efforts as baby-steps in that direction, but oh! The sweet sweet irony!

Even though I'm not still yet fully subsumed into the ART vortex, I feel as though I could write the first chapters of an entire book about the perils and pitfalls of negotiating fertility treatment on the National Health Service in Scotland. But I fear that would bore most of you rigid, and how can I blame you? Let's face it, I wouldn't be particularly intrigued about the finer points of socialised medicine either, were it not a matter I must confront on a seemingly daily basis.

Put briefly, the deal is this. In Scotland, the amount of funding for fertility treatment in each area is up to each local health board. And, for most areas, the policy is that for qualifying couples, up to three IVF cycles will be paid for by the NHS. The catch? One of the criteria to qualify is that the woman must be 38 or under. That doesn't sound so bad on the face of it, but factor in the waiting lists are currently now hovering at 3 to 4 years minimum, it basically means that if you haven't gotten started by the time you are 34, you're already screwed.

It doesn't mean that IVF is not available for women over 38. It is- but most clinics require it to be paid for out of pocket. Bottom line- there is no money and no resource to fund widely available NHS treatment. In other words, if you can afford it, you pay for it. If you can't, you remain untreated and childless.

And when people shake their heads and demand to know why it should be any other way, why IVF should be "free" to couples in need of treatment, I want to beat them about the head with the arm I rip off their body. I've discussed this briefly before, but the difference is now the subject irritates me intensely. It's not fucking "free", OK? Not for me anyway, the taxpayer.

Anyway, in light of all the high pitched wailing that now emits from Minsterial offices on high whenever there is a mention of the dreaded "population" crisis, somebody somewhere has suddenly woken up to the fact that there are plenty of people who would very much like to do their bit for the census statistics, if given half a chance. What's stopping them in many cases? IVF waiting lists. Cut off age of 38.

So now there's some talk about possibly raising the age limit for treatment to 40. What a revelation, a bolt from the blue! As I read of this in one of the local newspaper- a parochial pile of crap that frequently distorts and slants just about everything it touches- I spotted the name of a certain politician who apparently is working for campaigning for better fertility services in Scotland.

I e-mailed her with my views and some of our history. Among other things, I explained that for an infertile couple, the waiting times and expense don't begin at the stage of IVF- that there is plenty of aggravation and cost the minute you step onto the diagnostic path. Example- need an HSG before you can be eligible for IVF? Choice: Wait seven months, or pay £500. Seven months, which bearing in mind the IVF waiting lists and the age limits, may just be the nail in your ART coffin before you have even begun.

The response was immediate- yes, she was working on change. Yes, it was helpful to know of our experiences. Yes, she would take it forward-and could she speak to my doctor to get more insight into the processes? So I gave her Dr Ticktock's name. A week or so later she e-mailed me back to say she had left the doctor a message, and was still waiting to hear back from him.

To which I thought, "Oh, sister. Welcome to my world. Take a number. Get in line."

Waiting for Vizzini

2005-01-24T20:05:00.000Z

"I'm waiting for you, Vizzini -- you told me to go back to the beginning and so I have. And this is where I am and this is where I'll stay. I will not be moved."

"....when a job went wrong, you went back to the beginning. Well, this is where we got the job so it's the beginning and I'm staying till Vizzini comes. "

Inigo from The Princess Bride*

I once shared a house with a woman who had an entire living room wall filled with self help books. Her life was a a bit of mess, particularly on the relationship front, and she probably needed all the help she could get. You know the type of book- "How to Love Men who Can't Commit to Loving Women who Love Themselves Too Much".

At that stage in my life, I myself was dating a lot and, as it happens, getting dumped a lot. So I confess I also used to make frequent reference to these guides on how to improve my self-esteem, my self confidence, my self worth, my inner smile, be my own best friend, learn to let go, and above all, to move beyond the COMFORT ZONE.

Ah, the Comfort Zone. In a nutshell, the concept that people have certain aspects of life that we are simply used to, and in which we feel safe. Even if change or progression might be a good thing, getting there requires breaking free of the normal safe patterns.

When we decided to try for the three more months before moving to medical treatment, I felt enormous relief. I was going to put in every effort, all those tips and tricks hoarded up like pirate's gold over the last year and half. I hauled out the thermometer again, and renewed my zeal for evening primrose oil and green tea. We promised each other we would not just "babydance" (that horrid phrase), but get down and baby-DISCO, if that's what it takes.

But it has occured to me, as we throw down the gauntlet on yet another cycle, that I remain in familiar waters, old terrain. I know this path so well by now. What was once was an exciting adventure is now rote and mechanistic. So I chart my temperatures' tides. I monitor the secret secretions. And X marks the spot where we dig for buried treasure each night. But I am just repeating the same old story over and over again- there is no suspense now.

Each time we come up empty handed, but not entirely surprised. But it almost doesn't matter anymore if we are trapped, walking in circles in the maze, because at least as long as we remain here, we know there is nothing around the next corner that can bite us. Even if that means there is also nothing around the next corner for us to love.

I am in the TTC Comfort Zone. Moving out of that, to something else- be that drugs, needles, IUI, IVF- is to step off the map. To enter a part of the maze where we have never been, and where the cloud of possible disappointments seem to cast a longer shadow. And once we head off in that direction, I am not sure there is ever a way back.

Strangely, I feel as long as I stick to the road and stay off the moors, I can somehow better take the pain of each monthly failure. I can hang on to the hope, however misguided, that it will one day just happen. But I am not sure whether I will be able to bear it if we attempt medical intervention, and it fails. I really don't. Because then the problem becomes real, in a way I only acknowledge to myself in the darkest moments. Because even after these months of thinking and writing and talking about infertility, you know what? There is a huge part of me that still cannot believe this is happening. To me. To us. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. I never signed up for this. In fact, fuck this altogether.

I know that soon, it will be time to be brave. That I cannot stay in this place much longer. The maze which leads us nowhere has become a prison rather than a safe haven. I know I must take a deep breathe, and gather every scrap of courage and strength to move to the next stage.

But for the moment, I'm back at the beginning. I will not be moved. I am waiting for Vizzini. I am waiting for something that may never come.

*With thanks to Moogielou for the loan of a theme.

Hot off the Presses

2005-01-22T10:13:00.000Z

We have a busy weekend lined up here. The delightful plans include taking apart the tiled bathroom wall to get at the leak which has emerged in the last week, pooling water in a stealthy stream all over the carpet, creating a grim fusty smell. Good thing we were planning on ripping out the carpet anyway, since we were always a bit perturbed that the previous owner had seen fit to install it, instead of tile on the bathroom floor.

But it will almost certainly make a big mess, and involve a fair bit of vexed shouting and throwing of tools around the room. The only consolation is that E. is really rather cute when he engages in these manly chores (plus he tends to wear those sexy old jeans that I love). And I like watching the flexing of his biceps when he wields the wrench in that certain way. Oooh and yum.

Anyway, since I am likely to be too busy to blog at length while all this is going on, if you're looking for something different to read, may I suggest that you stop by and say hello or welcome at some of the newer blogs on the block. These are just a few that have I recently encountered and am enjoying:

Within the Woods

Many A Mile to Go

sweetisu

The brand-spanking new Fertilely Challenged

And finally, a wonderful new male voice to add to the collection, Baby Hungry Man.

Now, hand me that power drill.

Updated:

So, we spent most of the afternoon prising the wall apart, including resorting to sawing off part of the built-in cabinet to get at the leak. Trust me, there was no other way.

Eventually E., in a display of Herculean manliness, tore off the entire tiled panel. It was very thrilling to witness! There we discovered a series of three small holes in the water waste pipe. Basically, in the process of drilling the screws into the wall to hold the tile panel in place, the builders managed to penetrate right through the pipe. Three times. Tomorrow, the digital camera comes out and curt e-mail with photos to be sent to the developers.

Can life get any more exciting?

Happy/sad

2005-01-20T22:21:00.001Z

And the result of this month's patented "Let's give trying au natural a try for just three more months before leaping on to ART Express Train to Hell" Plan?

BFN. No, let's make that BFFN- Big Fat Fucking Negative- because that's what it is. So...strike one.

On the upside, the aliens were clearly impressed with my laser death beam rays pointed directly at their home planet, because E. is being so sweet again. He's not really a "bouquet of flowers" kinda guy, but he did turn up tonight with a very nice bottle of wine and a take-away chicken curry. Plus spicy pakora treats.

Oh, and a bag of jelly babies. I forget if they have these in the States. Do you know of what I speak? They are a teeny bit like gummi bears in that they have a peculiar gelatinous type consistency, only slightly sweeter, and of course, shaped like fat little baby shaped people. I thought for a second this would make me cry, but then I ate a few, and started laughing.

We danced around the kitchen together while the food was re-heating. We ate with gusto. Then for the last hour we've been spooned up on the couch, drinking wine and biting the heads off the jelly babies one by one. And I had to sneak away for a minute just to reflect about this strange state in which we find ourselves suspended yet again. Happy and sad.

So happy and so sad.

Alien Brainsuckers Stole My Man!

2005-01-19T17:45:00.001Z

Firstly, many thanks to all you blogging muffins for your kind comments. I can say- without exaggeration- that because of you, I had a reason to get out of bed the last two days.

I wish I could say that I am feeling lots better, but that would be somewhat untrue, since there is still a wee bit of drama going on here at the Barn. Actually, a lot of the drama is probably all in my head. Hard to tell, since I am so hormonal at the moment, like an electrical wire stripped bare. Listen, can you hear the synapses popping and crackling? I can assure you that I am normally as soft and fluffy as a little kitten. But- when I am in this frame of mind- I will quite happily, and with very little provocation, rip someone a new one.

How unfortunate then that E. should pick this particular moment to allow himself to be kidnapped by alien brainsuckers. Because that can be the only possible explanation for the conversation we had last night on the phone.

[Editor's note For those of you who are just joining in, and wondering why I seem to spend so much time on the phone to E. the answer is here.]

By way of background to our conversation last night, I should explain that, given we have this three month interlude in which to give the au natural method one last college try, I've been quietly doing a little background research on adoption. I'll go into what I have learned about adoption in more detail in another post- but as to why I've been looking, well, there a couple reasons for this. Firstly, I am a "big picture" kind of girl, and I like to have a sense of how all the various processes & options hang together. And I am aware that the adoption procedure in this country can have a very long lead-time, plus there are other scary factors like age limits and the requirement to be married.

Secondly, I must confess to suddenly having major qualms about leaping on the ART Express Line to Hell. Again, more on that another time. But I can tell you that my current state of mind is saying not "bring on the drugs", but rather "oh, fuck that noise". In light of that, I think it no bad thing to begin to at least get a handle of some of the fundamentals of adoption here.

Anyyway, I mentioned to E. on the phone last night that I've been in touch with an agency, and that I'd like to explore the adoption option.

"I think we should try medical treatment first," he said.

"Well, my fuzzy lambchop, I'm not saying no to that. But the problem is, as I understand it, we can't begin the adoption process if we are undergoing treatment. "

"I want us to have children of our own," he grumbled.

"But sweetie, an adopted baby WOULD be a baby of our own. Ours. We'd be a family."

"OK, well, then maybe we should sign up for adoption while we're doing the treatment,"

"Ah," I replied, "no can do, buckaroo. You can't get on the adoption preparation class (which has a one year waiting list at present) if you are undergoing treatment."

"How will they find out? They'll never know!" he said.

Ahem. I then pointed out to him that LYING on the application form is probably not a good way to begin. And I said I thought that it was more than likely that as part of the application process we would be required to show medical certificates, which would indicate that we had been diagnosed as infertile.

Ok. This is the part where I realised E. has been kidnapped by alien brainsuckers. Are you ready?

"We're not infertile!" he said.

"Excuse me?" I squawked, slopping my Tension Tamer tea all down my front. "The doctor diagnosed us as having unexplained infertility at our last appointment!"

" I never heard him say that, " E. snapped.

"Well, he DID. I don't know where you were at the time, but he told us..."

E. interrrupted me. "I don't want to have this conversation right now. This conversation has ended."

"Oh, I cannot fucking believe this," I raged. "You are honestly telling me that on Planet E., we're not infertile. That the diagnosis of unexplained infertility passed you by? Let me repeat that, IDIOPATHIC infertility. Are you in deep denial about all this, or just stupid?""

I carried on in that vein for about five full minutes. Before I realised I was talking to the air, and that he had hung up on me.

Oh. Oh. Oh. I cannot tell you how much I hate it when people hang up on me. So I phoned him back and spat tacks down the line at him for another two minutes, before he hung up on me again. Fucker. We did that two or three more times in quick succession until I gave up and stormed off to bed in a puff of smoke and thunderclap.

Hopefully, I will calm down by the time I see him, and will be able to negotiate a treaty with the aliens for E.'s swift restoration to me.

Meltdown

2005-01-17T19:05:00.000Z

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. ]

The Right Stuff

2005-01-15T13:04:00.000Z

A colleague has just become the proud grandmother of an "Oops" baby, and I am already utterly tired of hearing about it. I did my best to make all the right noises at the appropriate times when the news was announced. Of course, it's lovely for her, and she's thrilled and all that, but I really feel as if I have now used up my alloted amount of good will to others who effortlessly achieve what I cannot. I don't want to discuss the baby's name, or coo over pictures, or interrupt my insane work schedule to chat about the details of the birth.

I was grumbling quietly to E. about this on the phone the other night. And as usual, he doesn't get it. You know, why can't I be happy for her, isn't that a nice thing that has happened, blah fucking blah blah blah.

What is it with some men, I thought as I slammed the receiver down and went to investigate if there was any Christmas chocolate still stashed away at the back of the cupboards. Do they have some gene which overrides the jealousy emotion? Or do they lack the appropriate framework to enable them to emphasise fully with the situation?

As I rummaged through the boxes of old pasta noodles and rice cakes in the hunt for a leftover After Eight mint, it occured to me that it might help if I could give E. a working analogy of how I felt. An analogy framed in an appropriately manly sphere. Mmm, what do men get het up about? Careers, right? Competitiveness at work? At which point I had a thought.

Supposing you, Man, had a lifelong ambition to become an astronaut (a suitably macho pursuit, no?) Your whole life, you dreamed of rocket ships, outer space, and walking on the moon. The walls of your childhood bedroom are lined with posters of the solar system, of photographs of NASA launches. You beg your parents to send you to Space Camp. You read everything ever written about the space programme. You watch films like "The Right Stuff" and "Apollo 13" until you could quote the dialogue in your sleep. In the summertime, you lie on your back in the backyard of your house, watching the shooting stars.

You choose your college courses based on the ones most likely to help you get accepted as a NASA astronaut. You keep your hair cut short, nose clean and your collars buttoned high. You get top marks, and great recommendations. But even after working your ass off to get a pilot's license and a Ph.D in astrophysics, NASA still aren't quite sure about you. They offer you a job, but as a member of the astronaut support team. They tell you if you work really hard, and re-apply every month, they will one day let you become a fully fledged astronaut. You figure that it's better than nothing, a foot in the door. So you go for it. What have you got to lose?

You like the job well enough, since you get to be around real live astronauts. OK, so you mostly find yourself cleaning up after them, and doing all the grunt work to prepare for the missions. But at first, you don't mind. It's kind of interesting hearing their all their war stories of missions and spaceflights. All of that will come in handy when you yourself take to the stars! You have been applying faithfully every month, just as requested, and one day, the Board is bound to agree that it's your turn.

But the months go by, and you are continually rejected. You are beginning to be a bit puzzled, since on paper you are the ideal candidate. You make some discreet inquiries with Human Resources, and find out that there is no reason why you shouldn't be accepted as an astronaut. Hell, they think you have a great chance- just keep trying. Don't worry about it too much, it's bound to happen.

A couple years go by, and you're still a lowly support team member. Pretty soon you start to notice other people, newer people, being accepted onto the astronaut program. Some of them are less qualified than you. Some, in your opinion, are disasters waiting to happen. That new guy, he keeps on pushing the red button. Everybody knows you never push the red button!!! You become quietly baffled and confused.

Then one day, you are sitting in the locker room having just finished your shift picking up a pile of someone else's smelly flight socks. You reach in your pocket and open this month's envelope from the NASA Board. This time, they haven't even bothered being polite about it. All it says, in big black letters in the middle of the page is NO. The answer is NO.

You're about to crumple it up and throw it away when the door opens. One of the new astronauts comes in, back from the test flight you had hoped to be part of. He's a little drunk, and you wonder if he's been sipping that whiskey on the job again.

He flops down on the bench beside you, loudly complaining about another mission tomorrow. He had been hoping to get out of it, since he has a hot date with an airline stewardness tonight. He nudges you in the ribs as he says it, notices your rejection letter. Hey, what's that? Another big fat no? Ah, don't worry about it. Just relax, it'll happen one day. Hell, he got in on the first try. Although he wasn't sure if he even wanted to be an astronaut, cause the money is so much better in corporate finance. He'd love to quit, actually- hey, do you think you could cover for him if he doesn't show up tomorrow? Thanks, pal.

You sit there after he leaves, having thrown his helmet and suit in a crumpled heap on the floor. You suddenly realise the truth, that you may never get to where he is. Sure, there may be other great jobs for you, important, fulfilling jobs. But all you ever wanted in your whole life was to fly to the stars, orbit the earth, floating weightless.

All you ever wanted was to be an astronaut.

Dead in a ditch

2005-01-13T20:30:00.000Z

One of the things that always makes my American friends fall about laughing is when I tell them that in this country, in order to watch TV, you need a license.

No, really. You do.

It costs about £120 a year, which is about $225 at today's exchange rate. This is mandatory. As in Not. Optional. If you own a TV, it is a criminal offence- yes, a crime, punishable by £1000 fine, not to have a license. And enforcement is taken seriously. If you have no license, the TV licensing authority actually send out special "detector vans" full of high tech NASA equipment, SWAT teams and sniffer dogs to scan your house to see if you are receiving airwaves- or maybe microwaving a pizza, who knows.

OK, so the vans are a bit of a joke, but they can also send out special TV inspectors to search your house. Even if you tell them you don't own a TV, they will think that you do, because TV is obviously as essential to daily life as say, a Starbucks grande latte and mini iPod. What right minded person would be without it? I mean, if you have no TV, you might miss an episode of Eastenders- heaven forfend!

And what does the license fee pay for, I hear you ask? One answer- the BBC.

Don't get me wrong, in many ways the BBC is a fine institution, with some quality programming shown without ad breaks. Do I want to pay £120 year to fund it? Um, no- I'd rather watch the ads, if that's what it takes. Ad breaks are good for dealing with those little mini chores, like making cups of tea and picking the lint off the sofa.

And the thing is- if you watch any other channel other than the BBC (which you can, if you paid your fee and are allowed to own a telly)- you have to watch the ads anyway. A lot of people feel quite vehement about the license thing, and there have been some test cases challenging it on human rights grounds. But with £3 billion of revenue at stake, the BBC is not inclined to give in very easily.

Still, it all becomes even more galling when you see some of the things on which the BBC spend the money. For example, the show I saw last night. I would say that words fail me, but then that would make the rest of this post very short, wouldn't it? So I will soldier on, and tell you that it was a programme about Trying to Conceive. Whoo hoo, my very favourite topic. The presenter was cast as a down-to-earth doctor, who seemed keen to demonstrate how very comfortable he was talking about SEX, which is how babies get made, dontcha know.

Oh, and they threw in a story about an infertile couple for good measure. They couldn't conceive! After months of trying! And so they had to do this thing called I-V-F. Where they give you some drugs (cue picture of some stacks of drugs), take out some eggs (cue shot of petri dish), fertilize the eggs (cue lab technician trying not to sneeze all over petri dish) and stick them back in the woman (cue shot of her sitting there looking a bit bewildered and tense).

Then comes the two week wait. Now remember, nooooo testing until the two weeks are up! (Cue shot of woman going into drugstore to buy test, then cut to her wandering into the bathroom to pick it up, longingly.) Never mind that almost every woman I know would be peeing on anything that comes within 10 yards of her person by that point. And hey presto! A Positive!

Cut to shot of woman relaying the result, evincing a show of enthusiasm equivalent to that usually displayed by inert objects, such wheels of Gouda cheese, or shoelaces.

But wait! It gets better! Cue shot of dildo cam (OK, it was kind of interesting to see that portrayed on TV), and guess what! Twins! Oh, the joy, the joy times two.

Having dispatched the infertile couple with such expediency left plenty of time for dispensing of crap, anedoctal evidence and advice. Sing it with me now- Go on holllliday, just rellllax. Cut to shot of hotel someplace sunny, interspersed with graphics of stress hormones swirling around the body.

But the last part absolutely took the biscuit. Apparently, working as a checkout girl at the supermarket chain ASDA can make you more fertile. Certain checkouts in different stores all over the country have a guaranteed pregnancy rate- one shop alone reported 50 births resulting from clerks sitting at one particular till station. Cut to shot of woman holding young son in said store. She was infertile! For 10 years! Until she took over checkout 15, and lo! Knocked up.

The explanation for this? Well, many years ago, before they paved paradise and put up a parking lot, a pregnant woman fell into a ditch and died in that very spot. So now anyone that sits there gets pregnant. Wow. Just imagine if she'd been suffering from something else, like constipation.

The programme ended with a reminder that really, the key to getting pregnant was to have lots of sex. Oh, and eat lots of fruit. And relax. And go sit in a spot where a pregnant woman has died in a ditch.

My license fee at work.....

Shades of grey

2005-01-11T20:22:00.000Z

Well, it would seem that last post didn't exactly light the heather on fire, did it? Never mind.

I've been typing so much at work the last two days that I think some sort of carpal tunnel syndrome is setting in. So this will be fairly brief.

This post by the lovely Bugs got me thinking about hair. Specifically, about finding my first grey hair about a month ago.

I've been, um, enhancing my natural hair colour with the aid of some, um, enhancers, for the last ten years. So it's safe to say that the real colour doesn't often see the light of day. But with all the traveling back in November/early December, there was a gap where the roots made a break for freedom. And the light in the bathrooms in my parents' house must be better than here, because there it was. A big grey hair, right at the front. I immediately did what any self-respecting hair color enhancer would do, and freaked the fuck out, while clawing at my scalp, wailing about my waning youth.

Oh, but wait, it gets worse. Because I couldn't help but notice yesterday, what with all the fossicking around that goes with cervical mucus analysis and charting, that...well...how do I put this? There were clear indications that in terms of grey hairs, the carpets match the curtains.

A little Google action has revealed that the average Caucasian begins to go grey at 34. So, at least I am right on schedule with that one. Great.

Molasses in January

2005-01-10T19:54:00.000Z

I got a letter today, dated 22 December, from my RE. He advised that my HSG report had shown up 10 minutes after we left the clinic (having up until then been delayed in the post). And that, surprise surprise, all was normal. I knew this already, but it was nice that he bothered to write to confirm it.

However. The date of the letter did give me pause. Even factoring in the postal service, and the various public holidays, there was a distinct sensation of the slow movement of pond water.

But then, I've come to expect this. Nothing gets done at speed in this country. After all these years, I have devised a theory as to why that should be so. It's not because Scottish people are lazy or lax by nature (apart from the lad who checked my groceries the other day- I've seen garden slugs with more energy). On the contrary, there are a great many hardworking and industrious little bees in this Caledonian hive.

No, the reason is that a large number of people in the workforce have a large number of annual paid vacation days. Not just the high heejuns or the head of company. No sirree, for your basic full-time employee, 25 days or five weeks is fairly standard. Plus public holidays like Christmas, New Year, and the odd jubilee for Queen Whasserface. It all averages out to be about six or seven weeks a year. And then you get other companies with flexi-time, so if you work more than your alloted hours per week, you can claim it back later on, at a time that suits you.

This, it has to be said, is a good thing about living here. Holiday time, at least in my place of business, is sacred. If you don't use all your many holidays, you get a large boss-shaped person chasing you around the desk with some suntan lotion and a floppy hat, screaming "GO ON VACATION!!!"

The irony is that this is the same person who will be shouting at you when you get back for not having the Aegean stables of backlog cleared in time. But hey, it's all about striving for the work/life balance.

The point is that in any given task, goal, or chore involving more than one person, there is a very high probability that at least one individual in the equation will be about to on holiday (and therefore too busy getting ready to go), on holiday (and therefore absent), or just back from holiday (and therefore too busy catching up). Add more than one person and it's absolutely inevitable.

For example, if I phone up to make an appointment with Dr Ticktock, I will almost certainly be told that he will skiing in Chamonix on the desired dates. Could I leave a message with the receptionist? Well, the main receptionist is presently sunning herself in Benidorm, but her lackey could pass on the request. And then when three weeks go by and I phone to yell at the lackey, it turns out she has headed off to Blackpool for a short break, forgetting to pass on my earlier request.

Finally somebody phones me back, only to get my answering machine- because I'm away on holiday in Florida/Amsterdam/Darkest Peru. By the time I return, Dr Ticktock is away again.

In short, I have realised that I need to take into account the "Molasses in January" factor in all my future planning and plotting of treatment scheduling. Even though that drives me crazy. Do you think it would be a bad idea if I asked all the medical staff to give me print outs of their 2005 calenders, with their holiday bookings marked up in red pencil? No? Too excessively controlling, I hear you say?

Tell me, because I would love to hear- do things move as slowly in your part of the world, and if so, how do you deal with it?

Love in a cold climate

2005-01-07T11:22:00.000Z

When we're all done rocking around the Christmas tree, when we've removed our gay apparel and the boughs of holly are wilting over the mantelpiece, when we've cleaned up the last vestiges of empty champagne bottles and party hats, what are we left with? I'll tell you what.

Winter. Winter, in her grim glory. She has us now, wrapping her harsh wooly mitted fingers right around our necks, squeezing intermittenty, for the next few months.

You know that expression, "it's not the heat, it's the humidity"? Well, in this country, in winter, it's not the cold that gets to me most- even though that cold is a particularly nasty, wet, raw, seeping into the bones sort of chill. No. It's the dark. We wake up in the dark, go to work in the dark, come home in the dark. Once in awhile, on a brisk sunny day, we might get the odd pale ray of sunshine, but for the most part, it's like being in a cave. And after all the holiday lights come down, it's bleak.

I'm a fanatic about energy conservation-admittedly not because I have any aspirations to save the environment as such, although that would be nice, too. It's because our electric bills are so astronomically high. Especially when I am home alone, I feel compelled to turn off every light behind me, apart for one little bulb burning in the room. This is fine, except when I suddenly need to go to, say, the bathroom, down the darkened hall. Then I must make my way, groping for the lightswitch on the side of the wall. Unless I miss, and walk into the door as I did the other night. Great.

Of course, our home is also heated by electricity. E. and I wage a constant stealthy war at the thermostat. It's the battle between Heat Miser and Cold Miser. He likes to bask in his t-shirt in a balmy room, where I am firmly of the school that one should "Put a sweater on if you're chilly"! I spent all the winters of my childhood shivering by a great hulk of the old coal stove in the basement of my parents' house, since they didn't believe in using the electric heaters, either.

All of this cold and dark is something of a passion-killer, to say the least. Forget about rolling around like greased naked seal pups on a sheepskin rug in front of roaring fire. I want to put on my warmest pajamas, grab a hot water bottle, and crawl under the covers. To sleep until spring. Hibernation, not procreation.

That of course, is directly at odds with the Plan. For those of you just tuning in, a swift recap- we're going to shag like bunnies for the next three months, hope that this last ditch effort at getting pregnant works, failing which we go straight to IUI, do not pass Go, and certainly do not collect two hundred dollars (quite the opposite). However, the bunnies part of the equation hadn't reckoned on the factors like how offputting it is when your beloved hops into bed with feet that are LIKE ICE BLOCKS, dear God, get those away from me this instant. The bunnies part of it overlooked the fact that I am simply not at my alluring best when bundled up in enough layers to pass as a body double for the Michelin Man.

And still, we can but try. I can just about bear it, as long as I can keep my fuzzy socks on. I know it's not sexy, but then again, neither is hypothermia.

How to lose sales and insult customers

2005-01-04T18:18:00.000Z

I've known for some time that the market on stupid comments is not solely limited to infertility, adoption or miscarriage. It's just that I tend to be more alive to the verbal barbs which are hurtful to someone in my situation, my soft emotional underbelly more easily pierced by a thoughtless remark.

However, in the Not-Infertility Related Sphere, today someone said something so gobsmackingly idiotic to me that I just had to share.

What happened is this: some years ago I was given a hardbacked copy of the novel Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. Taking place in 1843, it's the story of a 16 year old Canadian servant girl imprisoned for the brutal murders of her employer and his mistress. I had started reading it, got sidetracked by something else, and had never returned to it until now. The main reason I had kept it was because I loved the cover, the UK hardback version being particularly attractive, and it looked so nice on the shelf. Yes, I am shallow like that.

Anyway, I recently began reading it again, and this time, was completely engrossed. Over Christmas, I made my way, page by page, chapter by chapter, toward the gripping denouement. Until finally, lying awake at midnight with the low bedside light burning, I was almost at the conclusion. I was about to find out, or so I thought: did she do it? Was she innocent? Or was she insane? I slowly turned the page and...

AGGGGGH! The book was misbound. A whole section of earlier text was duplicated, and when the normal pages resumed, it was impossible to work out exactly what had happened, or what was said.

So, in the morning, we headed out to do some errands, and on our travels stopped off at a local bookstore- mainly so I could find a copy and have a quick skim of the chapter with the missing pages. This was accomplished as E. happily discovered the book he had been wanting for months, on sale. We were thinking of heading to the tillpoint to purchase this when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

It was an acquaintance/friend of a friend, who I knew from a few years ago at the university. Whom now, as it happened, was the manager of the bookstore. We exchanged vague pleasantries in the way of people who don't really know each other. I made some benign comment about how town was so busy, but the bookshop seemed pretty quiet.

"Thank God for that," he said, shaking his head, "We had people phoning up first thing this morning to see if we were open. Imagine!"

"Yes, well, it is a holiday today here. Guess a lot of people are still off work," I observed.

"I just don't get it," he went on, "I really don't get how people can think it's a good idea to go shopping right after Christmas like this. Like we all need MORE stuff. I see them coming in here, and I think, "crazy". People who go shopping on public holidays are just crazy."

Ahem. Now. This is, in some senses, quite an astute remark. There is perhaps something a little unseemly in the general mad, slavering rush to buy a bunch of frivolous junk in the sales, especially given the stark contrast with those who have just lost everything in one dark hour half a world away. Having worked in retail myself in the past, I also have considerable sympathy for the post holiday weariness of the shop worker.

But not exactly the kind of thing you would really expect a store manager to say OUT LOUD to a potential customer who, up until categorised as "crazy", had been about to amble up to the cash desk to part with some hard earned cash. Money which could equal BONUS for you, pal.

There was a pause, while I attempted to realign my jaw to the lower half of my face. Then I turned to E., gently took the book out of his hand, and put it back on the pile.

"You're right," I said to my former aquaintance, "It would be crazy to buy this today. Guess we won't. Let's go, E."

And we walked right out of the shop.

For some reason, I found it kind of refreshing to encounter someone being insulting about something else for a change. To realise, again, that people just say dumb stuff all the time, in a range of situations- their mouth opens, and tactless crap falls out. I don't know why- I will never know why. People are just. plain. stupid. C'est la vie.

The missing pages were really quite good, by the way.

In the frying pan

2005-01-03T16:29:00.000Z

I am just back from one of our disheartening trips out to see a potential house purchase. We do this from time to time- get it into our heads that with the property market being what it is, we really should be investing in some sort of small holiday home. Plus the fact that it would be nice to have a place out of town to get away to at the weekend, especially if we were ever in a family sort of way.

Unfortunately, we always end up plunging headlong and screaming into the gap between expectation and reality.

Take today, for example. We drove for over an hour, through surprisingly heavy traffic, to look at a house that, on paper at least, would have ticked a lot of boxes. Once there, we parked the car, and walked up and down the narrow sea-lashed street. We peered into the window. The glorious views promised in the brochure were, on this cold January day, simply bleak. The quaint harbour walls were slimy with moss, and the neighbouring houses appeared neglected and crumbling, in a vaguely sinister way. An unappealing caravan park lay just down the road.

We got back in the car and drove straight home. En route we had our usual argument about where to live, should we move, should we stay...a discussion so repetitious we could have it in our sleep. We arrived in a fractious, frazzled state, collapsing exhausted on the couch with cups of tea, wondering why we spent the whole day off subjecting ourselves to this kind of exercise.

Sometimes I think we just need something to take our minds off the current state of infertility- to seek out something, ANYTHING- other than dwelling on that one seemingly insurmountable problem. I worry though that one day we may actually overcompensate, finding ourselves with a shedload of other difficulties- i.e waking up to discover we have bought AN OLIVE FARM! IN SPAIN! Or whoops, I 've moved- to New York City! That would certainly be an interesting distraction, but probably not the sort of thing one wants to undertake as a casual diversion....

It's just that sometimes it takes such an effort to stay in the frying pan, rather than throwing oneself into the fire...to sit still long enough to figure out what is really right in any given situation. To know when is "long enough".

New Year's Resolutions

2004-12-31T13:07:00.001Z

I don't usually make New Year's resolutions. However, E. is quite fond of doing so, and frequently makes up a list for me, which says things like, "Eat more fruit" and "Run the London marathon". Then I wad up the piece of paper and throw it at his head.

Still, I feel moved, on this one time occasion, to tentatively propose the following:

1. I will stop dribbling disgusting oobleck in the keyboard, such as dinner detritus, cookies, flaking skin.

2. I will refrain from taunting Soper.

3. I will organise a relay team to run the local marathon for charity.

4. I will eat more fruit.

5. I will clean the microwave on a regular basis.

6. I will stop exaggerating the price reductions of the expensive designer shoes I buy- instead of saying I got them for 50% off, I will say it was 25% off.

7. I will comment more on the blogs of others.

8. I will learn how to do proper HTML links and possibly jazz up the blog banner.

9. I will read an "improving sort of book" once in a while, and not just candyfloss chicklit.

10. I will reinstate "Filing Hour", my once-weekly ritual of keeping on top of all the bills and paperwork.

I think that's enough for now, don't you?

Happy New Year to all!

Got grip?

2004-12-29T17:57:00.000Z

Having spent a few days wandering around extorting myself under my breath to "Get a grip, get a grip," I think I finally have. Got one. A grip, that is.

Part of this comes from the scale of the tsunami disaster in South East Asia. Really, how can that not give me at least some sense of perspective? However, having said that, while it's well and good that I should be able to recognise this, I'd probably be tempted to punch out the lights of anybody who would actually dare suggest it to me. Perspective of that kind seems best when processed through one's own filter, you know what I am saying?

As it happened, I found my grip again at a family Christmas gathering a couple days ago. These events are always something of a pain in the neck, since it involves getting ourselves to an island off the coast of Scotland. Now, before you start sighing at the charming quaintness of such a notion, let me just point out that taking a ferry across choppy, open water in gale force winds in December is NOT a happy folk song of an event. No, no, no. It wasn't too bad going out as long as I stood in the biting cold air looking at the horizon. But then, horror of horrors, the evening service back to the mainland was abruptly cancelled, leaving us stranded at said family members' tiny flat for the night. Other people were already having the sofa bed, which left us with the sub-sofa bed. Groan.

I confess that this did not uplift my mood. For starters, I hadn't packed an overnight bag. No toothbrush, no face wash, nada. As an aside I should comment that I don't know when I turned into such a big weenie about that kind of thing. Once upon a time I used to be quite happy to rough it. I've slept in a number of very odd places during my travels- bus shelter alcoves, garden sheds, graveyards, you name it.

But somewhere along the way that kind of thing has really lost its allure. Along with whatever remnants of natural beauty I might have ever possessed. Trust me, there's a reason I wear stuff like eyeliner and foundation. And it would be different if we were staying somewhere random amongst strangers, who would never have to see my visage again. But not quite such a treat to have to appear bare-faced in front of say, my sister-in-law. Luckily, on this occasion I had some emergency slap to hand in my purse, so I knew all would not be lost, but it still wasn't pretty.

Then there is the small matter of having one's period. I am no shrinking violet, and this is generally no big deal. But eight people sharing one small bathroom, which incidentally has no bin or trash disposal of any kind?

Flushing down the delicate loo pipes is not an option- the horror, if it clogged, would be unthinkable. But what the hell do you do with the discarded, um, product? Wrap it up and try to sneak it into the kitchen trash bag when no one is looking? Oh wait, everyone is milling around outside the kitchen. Throw it out the window? Hide it somewhere and come back for it later? Stash it in one's handbag?

Yeesh.

Finally I decided that I would have to accept that the whole situation was simply going to be generally less than ideal, so I might as well just suck it up. Another mince pie while we watch the news? Oh yes, why the fuck not, thanks. Yes, go on, pour on some of that there cream. More. More cream. I said MORE. Thank you. Another large brandy? Sure. That would be lovely. Oh lookie here, there is my grip, floating in the bottom of the glass.

Having found it, I just hope I can hold onto it for awhile.

Pass the parsnips, we have a plan

2004-12-26T17:24:00.000Z

I started crying on Christmas Eve, and couldn't stop for awhile. I cried through "The Princess Diaries" and "Shrek" on BBC1. I cried through "Chocolat" premiering on BBC2. And I wept through numbers 40 all the way up to number 1 on the "100 Greatest Christmas Moments" on Channel 4.

E. was at first bewildered, then alarmed, then consoling during this weepfest. It took him a while to notice, so engrossed was he in the orgy of telly watching, but he finally realised I was not simply just upset at Johnny Depp's faux French-Irish accent.

"What's the matter, sweetie?" he asked, giving me a cuddle.

And I blurbled something along the lines of: "WhyforunexplainednobabynofamilyChristmas
whatforClomidbabynoIVFclinicWHAT!"

So. What brought all this on? Well, I could go through the minutiae of our last appointment and what Dr Ticktock said, but honestly, it's too dull, even if you like reading about other people's infertility treatment decision-making process. Let's just say, he talked a lot, for half an hour, and most of it was garbled. It was also like "Infertility, Dick & Jane style", whereas I already have a degree from Google Medical School.

What it boils down to is this:

1. Carry on trying and do nothing medically.
2. Try Clomid for a few cycles.
3. Do an unmedicated IUI.
4. Do a Clomid IUI.
5. Do IVF.

That's it. Our clinic won't do injectable IUIs, so we would have to go someplace else if we wanted to do that. We also have to pay for any treatment from now on, unless we want to wait three years for NHS funding.

These were the things we needed to think through. Namely, where, when, and what.

The "where" comes from the realisation that if we have to pay out of pocket, there is no reason to necessarily stay with our current clinic. We may as well pick a place that suits us in terms of appointment times, waiting lists, location, reputation.

That "when" should become such an issue surprised me. Once upon a time I thought that we would head, all body parts blazing, into an IUI cycle. However, I discovered that I was more than a little taken aback by two things. The first, that we were really going to have to do this, to have medical intervention to get pregnant.

I don't really know why this should have come as a revelation- after all, I have slowly been coming to that understanding over the last year. And for months now, I have been completely embedded in the infantry of others' infertility wars, albeit wearing a flak jacket and clutching a press pass. So I thought I knew exactly what to expect and how to feel about it. But finding out that this is no fire drill, but is really happening- to us- was a shock.

The second thing is I realised I resented the hell out of entering into, and paying money for treatment for a medical problem that is UNEXPLAINED. Never mind the lack of a guarantee it's going to work, nobody can seem to tell us why we need to go through it in the first place. So that was hard.

However, and this is where the "when" merges into the "what" and the "where", there are timetables to consider. We're clearly not ready to embark on IVF. But if we stay at our clinic, we would need to get IVF teed up some months in advance. Dr Ticktock suggested that, regardless of what we decided in the long run, it would do no harm to get a consultation set up at the Ass Con Centre, with a view to starting IVF at a pre-determined date. Say January 2006. Everything else in between could be arranged at relatively short notice, whenever it suited us.

And so the tears, as I pondered all of this. Clomid. IUI. IVF. Statistics. Costs. Clinics. Timetables. My period showed up on Christmas morning, just to add to the sense of frustration and doubt.

Finally, E. and I sat down at Christmas dinner, and talked it all over, as you do, between the brussels sprouts and the roasted potatoes. We agreed to stick to our current clinic. At the end of the day, the options for going elsewhere are somewhat limited in terms of staying in Scotland, and at this point neither of us can quite face the logistical nightmare of treatment down South.

Then E. said what I had been thinking, namely, that we should wait just a few more months. If only so we can feel, with some sort of closure, that we have done our best, and that it is now time to try medical assistance. Agreed.

Finally, "what", in terms of treatments.

"I think we should do a Clomid IUI," E. said.

"That's easy for you to say, " I told him, helping myself to more gravy. "Apart from the whole idea of getting on the treatment rollercoaster, I approach Clomid with a certain amount of dread."

"I know," he admitted. "If you don't want to do it, you don't have to."

For a brief and tantalising moment, option 1-"do nothing medically" danced appealingly in the air. Oddly, there is something so compelling about just carrying on as we have been. About throwing my hands up to the whimsy of egg & sperm, or of fate, or whatever you wish to call it. Of relaxing into the idea that we don't have to be parents, if it never happens on its own.

I looked at E. He looked at me. I took a deep breath.

"OK. March 2005. Clomid IUI. Let's do it."

He reached a hand across the table. And we shook on it, in a strangely business-like, yet comfortingly decisive manner. Forming a contract. Sealing the deal.

Look what Santa brought

2004-12-24T20:42:00.000Z

We opened one of our presents early, so we could have nice coffee on Christmas morning. Isn't it pretty?

Happy holidays, everyone.

The Tide is High

2004-12-22T18:51:00.000Z

I have to begin the tale of our trip to the RE today with a bit of background history.

When I was in my freshman year in college, I lived in a big girls' dorm on campus. There was a girl on my floor with some dumb nickname like Snoopy or Flopsy, and she used to always take her portable stereo in the communal shower/bathroom area. There she would play pop music at top volume, which everybody knew was simply a ploy to disguise the fact she was having sex with her boyfriend in the shower.

So one night, quite late, I go into the bathroom, and Poopsy Thingie and whoever she's currently banging are in the shower, as usual. The big room is filled with steam. The stereo is blaring out Blondie's "The Tide is High." It is then that I notice that one of the stall doors is shut, but there is a lake of blood coming from out of that cubicle. The floor is covered with it. The blood is running into the grooves of the tiles, there is so much blood, and Blondie is wailing that the tide is high, she's moving on, she's going be your number one. Number one.

To cut a long and rather gory story short, a classmate was in that stall, in the middle of attempting suicide by slitting her wrists. She was ultimately "fine" in the end, but to this day, I cannot hear that song without imagining that very unpleasant scene and the aftermath. I cannot bear to be in the same room as Blondie's voice.

Fast forward to the present day, and our appointment with the RE this morning. This was our follow-up consultation to talk about where we were at, and the next steps, based on all the tests we both had over the last few months. We sat down in the waiting room, unraveling ourselves from our many layers of outerwear. And what do I hear echoing from the office sound system? Christmas carols? Harpsichords? The Mormon Tabernacle choir?

No. Blondie, fucking Blondie, singing "The Tide is High."

I leaned over to E. and muttered it was a bad omen. He had never heard that story though, so he didn't get it. He made that funny Scottish noise in the back of his throat and went back reading his car magazine.

As it happened, the news wasn't particularly bad. Nor was it particularly "good". My HSG results were, as we knew, normal. Previous bloodwork indicates all is normal with hormone levels and so forth. And interestingly, E.'s latest sperm test revealed his swimmers to be much improved, as compared to the last substandard morphology result. It was, in Dr Ticktock's view, entirely normal.

And so it is there we came to that diagnostic cul-de-sac. I knew which way we were headed. I had been expecting it, but then there it was, all wrapped up and shiny with a big bow on top. Merry Christmas. A diagnosis of "Unexplained."

Or should I say "pigeonholed"? Since that is the word Dr Ticktock used. OK. We have been officially "pigeonholed" into category 'Unexplained'. In my mind, I imagine E. and I folded up like little bits of paper, filed, contorted, in a big row of small square wooden boxes. Pigeonholed.

I need some time to digest what followed on from that. I will post about it once I have had a chance to consider, reflect, and Google until my eyeballs roll backwards in my head, and my fingers wear down to stubby nups.

Episode Three- Return of the Mare

2004-12-20T18:46:00.000Z

Sometimes, it's the little things that uplift us the most. And for those of you who have followed the Good Desk saga so far, there is now a new installment to resolve this exciting trilogy.

To recap- in Episode One, A New Hope, I revealed how the prospect of improved office seating hung in the balance. But I resolved to let go, to use the Force, and to let the universe guide my steps. Oh, and to basically display a total lack of assertiveness in getting what I wanted.

Insert John Williamsesque soundtrack musak here.

Things then took a dark turn in Episode Two, The Empire Strikes Back as the forces of an evil bureaucracy finally defeated my claim. Frozen in carbonite, I returned to my veal crate to sulk, and shrivel due to lack of natural lighting.

Insert gloomy John Williamsesque soundtrack muzak here.

Then, out of the blue, an announcement of yet another office reshuffle. The desk's occupant was slated for a move to a different department. So, through disciplined Jedi mind control, (and by bribing the secretary with chocolate), I made my move. The Good Desk is now officially mine. I shifted all my files today, and transferred my phone line. My plants are so much happier. I am so much happier.

Insert triumphant John Williamsesque soundtrack muszak here.

But nobody stays at the Good Desk for long. Which must mean that surely I must be about to get pregnant and go on maternity leave?

Scrappy Doo Chubby Belly

2004-12-18T10:18:00.000Z

I don't know quite what to make of the fact that someone recently found my blog via a search for "Scrappy Doo Chubby Belly."

Even if I have been consuming a lot of mince pies and festive grog lately, it's surely not as bad as that!

A few observations on the festive season from under the palm tree

2004-12-17T18:49:00.000Z

Well, well, quite the Christmas social whirl here since I got back. What this basically means is going out for lots of overpriced lunches/dinners with friends I haven't seen in a year. Also colleagues, as we are corralled like braying cattle into forced festivities. Invariably, this involves staggering home at midnight having eaten too much rich food and imbided more red wine than is really good for one.

I have to confess, I am having more than a little trouble getting in the Christmas mood this year. Last December, we were in the middle of moving house, so I had the perfect excuse to be all bah humbuggy.

This year? I think it has something to do with being stuck on a certain tropical island. It's a bit like the way I felt in Florida. Hard to get in the swing of the holly jolly holidays while sitting under a palm tree sipping a frosty drink and scanning the horizon for the rescue ship. Maybe I can try to carve some reindeer out of those coconuts while I wait.

And there's another thing...Christmas cards. I'm not sure why, but I tend to think the whole idea is dumb and pointless at best, particularly the ones where people just sign their names. And if people scrawl a bit of news, or God forbid, send a newsletter with photographs of the happy clan, I more often than not feel overcome with an urge to stick something sharp into my eye. Maybe it's because I know a lot of people, many of whom I know fine well to be experiencing some...rich complexities of life. But none of that is conveyed in the card. It's all shiny happy Pottery Barn shit.

Please. If you love me, send me a note sometime when you have a minute to write something real, and tell me about your life, not just your big new promotion, your holiday to Cuba, your child's trophy in some obscure martial art.

Actually, I had a big fight with E. the other day about Christmas cards. I got back from Florida to find a card from a friend I shall call "Smug Polly". I went to university with Smug Polly, and we were on extremely friendly terms for a few years. We then had a spectacular falling out over something really dumb, and didn't renew our acquaintence until she was pregnant with her first child. At that stage, E. and I weren't yet trying, and I was more than a little curious about the whole pregnancy/birth/parenting thing.

Smug Polly, in addition to be very smug, falls firmly into the Uber-Fertile category. So there was lots of allusions to the fact that it had been incredibly easy for her to get knocked up, and she hoped it would be the same for me. Then, as time wore on, and it wasn't happening, she joined the Just Relax Brigade. We'd go for a walk in the park with her adorable, delectable toddler, and she would lecture me on the need to chill out and stop being so "goal oriented".

Unsurprisingly, I once again stopped hanging out with Smug Polly shortly thereafter.

But guess what Smug P's news was on the Christmas card? No, really, you'll never ever guess in a million...oh, right, another baby on the way. Smuggity smug.

I threw the card away. E. fished it out of the bin and lectured me on "not being very nice". You know, I love him more than life itself, but sometimes I want to give E. a nice sharp slap upside the head.

However, several days later, buoyed by the good news post-HSG, I was overcome by yuletides gay. I figured I may as well e-mail Smug Polly to say congrats and all that. Peace on earth, good will to fertiles. How quickly I regretted that move, since her reply went something along the lines of "see, there is nothing irreversibly wrong with you. It's all your head, so just relax, and by the way, you are so lucky not to have any kids, because you can go on vacation whenever you like."

WHY do people not appreciate how inappropriate that kind of comment is? I hate to drag out the overused cancer analogy again, but would you really say to someone undergoing chemotherapy that they just need to chill out, and by the way, isn't it neat how they get to wear all those fun wigs? No. I think not.

Now, maybe I shall distract myself by trying to make a sand sculpture snowman.

no si thgil der nehw retne ton oD- yaR-X

2004-12-14T19:39:00.000Z

I had my HSG yesterday.

I took the small valium tablet in the taxi on the way to the hospital yesterday, surreptiously rootling it out of the envelope my mother had given me, dry-swallowing it while the driver wasn't looking. I wasn't quite sure when to take the tablet but the whole taxi thing was stressing me out almost as badly as the thought of the procedure. So I figured better sooner than later. I HATE taxis with a fiery loathing. I sit in the back, watching the fare tick tick tick, palms sweating, agonising over the extortionate amount of money. To go so little a distance! I could tell you long tales of the lengths I usually go to avoid taxis, but we're here to talk about the HSG, so I won't.

Nor was I quite sure how the valium would make me feel. I knew it wasn't a very strong dose, but I haven't taken anything stronger than an Advil in over 15 years. Plus, as I have already explained hospitals can sometimes be a little surreal for me at the best of times.

I got there, found the X-Ray department, filled in a form, took out a second mortgage on my house to pay for the test, and sat down to wait. Whereupon I began to feel slightly odd. In particular, I found myself staring at all the signs around me, trying to work out what the words said, if read backwards.

As in, "rehpargoidar eht rof tiaw esaelp"- "Please wait for the radiographer" . Or "tnangerp eb thgim uoy kniht uoy fi wonk su tel ot erus eb- seidaL"- "Ladies- be sure to let us know if you think you might be pregnant".

Once I started, I could not stop. So I figured the valium must be working.

I also discovered that one of the nice things about paying for treatment at a private hospital is that in addition to the nasty paper gown tying up the back, they also give you a big fluffy warm white robe to cover your pantless dignity while you wait. And a wee locker for all your gubbins, seeing how you are about to be flat on your back with a tube up the cooter, and will hardly be in a position to mind your handbag.

Excellent. Deep breathing. Letters backward. The doctor will be with you soon. Noos. Noos. Noos.

Once I got into the X-Ray room, there were a few quick questions- had I ever been pregnant? No. Was there a chance I could be pregnant now? No. Had I ever had a test like this before? On. Sorry? On. I mean, no. No.

OK then, all aboard.

Now, I do so hate anybody clamping anything on my cervix, you know, generally, and this was no exception. But it didn't really hurt. It felt a bit...squiggy, I guess is how I would describe, though I very much doubt that is the technical term. When the dye went in, there was a brief sharp period-like ache but that was it. No BURNING, SEARING pain a la Soper *. Thank you, baby Jesus.

[*Read comments section on the last post for this soothing, uplifting description of what may be experienced in some cases.]

The test itself took all of five minutes. I know, because I heard the doctor tell the nurse afterwards, and I lay there for a moment calculating how many £££ per minute. Gah. A lotta lot .

And now the good news- I have a uterus! And fallopian tubes! Right where they should be! The tubes are clear, and all looks normal uterine-wise. I looked over at the X-Ray monitor as I was cinching myself back into a more dignified sitting up position, and there it was- my little dye filled uterus, all as normal as can be. Cute, I thought, looking more closely at the screen while the nurse went to get me a sanitary pad. It's quite cute. Empty, but cute. Etuc.

Now all we can do is confer with Dr Ticktock when we have our appointment next week. Somehow I doubt "cute" is an adjective he will be using, but I don't really care as long as he concurs that all is normal.

And then...? We'll see.

Lagjetted

2004-12-12T11:48:00.000Z

I was hoping to have a chance this weekend to ruminate over, then write about, certain aspects of my trip to the familial home in Florida. But it looks like it may take me a little longer than I had thought to regain equilibrium here.

Traveling between time zones and countries is always a little disorienting, but this time seems particularly bad. Apparently, according to E., I sat straight up in bed in the middle of the night and shouted, "Where am I?"

My body clock is clearly confused. I never master the whole sleep-on-the-plane during night flight- then stay- awake-until bedtime when back in UK, thus reducing awkward jet lag. This trip was no different. Instead, I watched all the movies and read my book under the dim shine of the cabin light before arriving, exhausted, in London where I promptly fell asleep on one of the few reclining chairs in the airport. I then had a further nap when I got back to the flat in the Other City. This screwed things up completely when it came time for "normal bed time".

Then there is the obvious, um, difference in the weather. Florida last week? Sunny, warm, glorious, relaxed. Scotland this week? Cold, dark, wet, gloomy. I am having my usual crisis of wondering why it is I live here. E. keeps reminding me that visiting is not the same living there. An obvious fact, to be sure, but one which is easily overlooked in the pangs of regret that tend to accompany the return to life in Scotland.

Lastly, I have been trying to lavish lots of love and attention on my much neglected E.. But it's somewhat hard to be at my affectionate and perky best when my eyes feel like burnt holes in the landscape of my head, reeling from cultural whiplash, and contemplating certain grim realities. Namely, returning to work tomorrow morning. Oh, and let us not forget my HSG tomorrow afternoon. The joys, the joys.

E. can't come with me to the appointment, so I must now figure out how to make my way by public transport or taxi to the hospital, and then depending on his timetable and whether he can collect me afterwards, how to get home again. Also when to take my valium tablet, bearing in mind I may also have negotiate complicated paying of the bill before procedure. All of this is preoccupying me somewhat, whereas in an interesting role reversal, E. is more focused on things like when we are going to set up the Christmas tree and start writing our seasonal greeting cards.

Is it any wonder I am tetchy, bristling like a fretful porpentine.

Home sweet Barn

2004-12-10T21:46:00.000Z

At last, I am home, after another marathon 22 hour journey. Home, home, home.

There's lots of catching up to do, as well as unpacking all the bounteous goodies, and reacquainting myself with that cute boy E.. I think he was beginning to wonder if I was going to return, as my e-mails became more sporadic, running along the lines of "Sorry, gotta dash, off to the mall." "Sorry, must dash, off to the movies & dinner". "Sorry, have to dash, there is sunshine here, something I will not be likely to see again for another six months. Must go soak up rays."

He clearly requires soothing and affection. I'll try to work on that, in between falling into bed to sleep for at least 16 hours.

And then, at last, normal blogging service shall be resumed.

Life's a beach

2004-12-06T00:26:00.000Z

I am still in Florida. There is a very nice beach here. Yesterday I decided it might cheer me up to go sit there, catch some rays, and watch the surf come in, go out, come in, ad infinitum,in a soothing kind of way.

It was only after I had unravelled beach chair from handy carrier bag type thing, completed Ph.D in beach chair assembly, planted self securely in a good spot (quite near the lifeguard station but not too close to large flock of marauding seagulls), shook sand out of shoes, lathered self with lotion, put on hat, had drink of water and handful of trail mix, unearthed sunglasses from bottom of beach bag, together with New Yorker magazine and other reading material, and adjusted skimpy boy-surf shorts which had begun to ride up in unseemly fashion and indeed cut into self, that I realised...the enormity of my error.

Because the beach was suddenly full of children. Specifically, small chubby toddlers wearing funny bathing suits and floppy hats, swaybacked and fat tummied, clutching pails and buckets in eager little fists. Headed right in my direction.

Maddeningly, one small munchkin plopped himself a hand's breadth away from my perch, and began building the Great Wall of China in the sand, humming some little tune over and over under his sweet baby breath.

The surf came in. The surf went out. The world continued to spin on its axis. And there was a well of tears behind my sunglasses.

Finally, small munchkin's mother appeared from somewhere, whistling for him and calling his name over and over in a high-pitched squeal, like he was a purebred puppy. Honestly, I don't mean to judge other people's parenting skills, but is it reallly necessary to summon your offspring in that manner? Here boy, fetch. Good doggie.

I think for the rest of the visit, I will stick with sitting on the end of my dad's dock, watching the mullet jump. This is also quite soothing. Who needs all that sand anyway.

Shudder

2004-12-03T13:54:00.000Z

As always, I am touched by the kindness of so many of you, women who appreciate that a garden variety, bog-standard cycle with no particular prospects for success can nonetheless deliver a pretty potent kick in the teeth. I think there are a couple of reasons I felt it quite acutely this time, but that will have to wait until I have some time to blog at will and at length.

In the meantime, can I share something else that is distressing me? Not in the grand scheme of things, exactly, but it has given me pause on more than one occasion on this trip. I'm talking about Coach.

Have they have LOST their collective minds? Whither the classy little leather bucket bag? Wherefore the once proud sleek streamlined duffle?

I mean, really. The new designs make me *shudder*- as if my granny, once immaculately decked out in Chanel, had started parading around in a Juicy velour top with acid washed micro mini. If I wanted something made out of a quilted material, lined with fur in an ocelot pattern, then frankly, I would have just gone elsewhere. I know you can still get the good stuff, but it was far from in evidence on my recent retail tour of duty.

I despair. Is nothing sacred anymore?

In which it turns out I am disappointed after all

2004-12-02T00:02:00.000Z

So. As anticipated, I am definitely Not Pregnant. Un-pregnant. Pregnancy-free. Without child. Knocked down, as opposed to knocked up.

Sorry, Mom, no need to rush down to Walgreens or wherever for an HPT. I know you had a 15% off coupon and were all psyched up to use it on some peesticks for me.

Sorry, E. I wish we knew what the problem was here. You told me tonight that you phoned the clinic, and they won't give the SA results until we speak to our RE at our next appointment. We'll have a lot to chat about, won't we, since that HSG will be going ahead after all. Guess I better not go too hog wild with the credit card since I'll now need to come up with the cash to pay for that appointment.

It's funny how the disappointment finds you, even when you thought it wouldn't. Even when you knew what was coming, and had braced yourself for another let down. Even when you told yourself all those fantasies of buying baby clothes (the exchange rate! so good! worth it to shop now!) were foolhardy in the extreme.

Even when you thought you had outrun it, gone into hiding. Gone on holiday.

Basement stealth post

2004-12-01T00:57:00.000Z

As I have explained, I have a new laptop, and therefore some control over the posting situation, especially in terms of not accidentally leaving telltale traces back to my blog URL. This does not however assist with the lack of privacy or need to account for one's activity at all times. Our visits tend to be spent superglued into each other's company, extracting every bit of familial goodness out of the event.

However, I have managed to set up camp in a corner of the basement where I can steal away for short intervals. So the blogging method for the next week or so is going to be a little different- bite sized chunks o'Mare, with less content but more frequency. That's the theory, anyway.

For today's segment, can I join the rest of the internet in wishing the lovely Julie a hearty congrats on the birth of wee Bat. I sincerely hope all goes well there.

Also, I discovered today that my mother and I do not share similar attitudes to HPTs. I casually mentioned to her as we cleared up the dinner dishes that I would know in the next day or two if I am pregnant. Whereupon she practically frothed at the mouth, demanding that I pee on something THIS INSTANT.

I didn't actually bring any peesticks with me, since I am pretty sure I am not pregnant, but she was undeterred. So we may be making a run to the drugstore tomorrow- I may not be about the instant gratification in terms of knowing the result. But we are dealing with my mother here. And who am I to deprive her of a vicarious thrill. Or you know, not, when it comes up negative.

The newest member of the family

2004-11-29T22:58:00.000Z

So. Here I am in Florida, at my parents' house. What can I tell you about the last few days? The 20 hour trip to get here? The feeling of unfolding myself into the light after the beginnings of an early winter hibernation in Scotland? The bizarre sense of culture shock I always experience at first- the cars, so big! The food, so big! The houses, so big!

But I won't go into any of that right now. Instead I will bid a warm welcome to the newest member of the Mare household- a jazzy new laptop for E. with all the bells and whistles. I was ruthlessly decisive in picking it out, and felt no worry at the fact that it's a PC, not a Mac. The kids will just have to learn to live together, that's all.

My parents were raising their eyebrows at the cost, but I mean, och...[insert Scottish sound at back of throat]. Have you seen the exchange rate lately? My credit card will be bursting into flames by the end of the trip, as I plan to shop til I...have to stop.

I'll try to post something later, something more properly bloggish, but for now, there is sun to be lain in (is that grammatically correct?) Who cares, there is sangria to drink and sand to stir beneath toes.

Housekeeping

2004-11-25T20:06:00.000Z

We don't celebrate Thanksgiving in Scotland, for obvious reasons. Instead, we have other events like Burns Night on January 25th, which involves doing strange things like reading poety to a haggis before consumption.

So while many of you are currently off doing something related to turkey- that is, buying, cooking, eating, throwing against wall in fit of rage at insensitive comments from relatives, my dinner consisted of a bagel with some pastrami, and a couple of chocolate chip cookies.

Don't worry, I intend to make up for lost gorging time when I embark on the second leg of my international jetsetteryness to the States. I gather my mother has meals a-go go all lined up.

Before I depart, and in addition to all the frantic packing and tidying up of the house (I can't stand leaving a mess behind, even if I know E. will be here while I am away and wreak unspeakable havoc on the place), I thought I might take a moment to do a little blog housekeeping. This has involved a bit of tidying up behind the scenes (i.e. deleting a couple of old unpublished posts), going through e-mails, and the like.

Which brings me to an intriging comment someone left here about the way the template background looks. I am puzzled by the commenter's suggestion that I should keep the light green background, as she or he "did not like the black".

As far as I am aware, the background, as least as I see it on my screen, has NEVER been black. It was white very briefly, when I first started, then gray for quite awhile. Then I had a little flirtation with different shades of green, with one afternoon of blue, until I arrived at the current hue.

I do realise that the look of a blog can depend very much on what kind of browser you are running. I figured this out when the computer crashed that time and I had to use my cranky old laptop. All of a sudden I could see that using Internet Explorer on that model, the font looked teeny tiny and the background looked like...well...baby shit brown is the most apt description for it.

Blech yuck, thought I. That's not what it looks like to me, on my beloved iMac running Safari, my preferred browser.

But now I am curious as to whether the background has ever appeared black to anyone else, or if the multitudes out there using the dreaded Windows see things quite differently than I.

On a further computer, and indeed, travel related theme, although I will off to the States in the next day or two, I should hopefully have internet access at my parents' house. There is also chat of buying E. a new gizmo, since his laptop is on its proverbial last legs. The thing starts up with a kind of groaning sigh, farts periodically, is apt to fall asleep in the middle of important e-mails, and is generally ready for the big Hard-Drive heaven in the sky. If we get him a shiny new one, then he can play with that, and the much-fought-over iMac will be ALL MINE. Yay yay yay. Plus, I can buy it in America and use it to post on while I am there.

See. A cunning plan. I am all about the ulterior motive. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Why aren't you happy yet?

2004-11-23T19:22:00.000Z

Back from the first of my jaunts abroad, the Amsterdam leg. A very lovely place. It took me a day or so to get used to the bicycles whizzing by at top speed, and to remember to stay OFF the bike path lest I get mowed down. And it hailed, hard wet pellets of misery on our shivering selves.

Despite this, we had a marvelous and indeed well-behaved time, our depravity restricted to a quick spin round the red light district to see what all the fuss is about. Oh, and a few cheeky beers in a cafe by the canal, despite being well within the two week wait. We stayed in a glorious charming B&B, with a massive comfy bed. With fresh pastries for breakfast, of which I think I may have consumed my body weight several times over.

In celebration of E's birthday, we went to a show one night, a very entertaining comedy thing by an American theater company called Boom Chicago. The show was entitled "Why Aren't You Happy Yet?" and comprised a series of both scripted sketches and audience participation improvisation. Frankly, I expected it to be rubbish when E. first described it to me, but it was hee-lair-ee-ous. Oh, how we laughed, ha ha ha, aided by a few more cheeky cocktails and more beers.

However, like every garden of Eden of enjoyment, there was the one usual infertility related snake.

When we sat down, there were little slips of paper on the tables, asking your name and, simply, Why Aren't You Happy Yet? followed by a blank to insert your reason. These would then be used by the cast later on in the show in one of their improv pieces.

E. loves proving to the world how clever he is at coming up with shit like that, so he grabbed the pen and filled my name in at the top. Then there was a long pause. We looked at each other.

"So. Why aren't we happy yet?" he asked.

"Well, duh," I said. "You know why."

"I can't write INFERTILITY. That's so unfunny. That's a major downer, not to mention too personal," he grumbled.

"But it would be true," I told him.

"Think of something else," he urged me.

Pause. Pause. Sips of beer.

"OK," I said finally, "how about: "I want my boyfriend to marry me, but even though he wants to father my children, he simply won't propose!" Lots of chuckles in that one, right?

E. crumpled up the paper and threw it away.

Later, during the show, the cast selected someone else's slip.

"MARY," shouted the cast member (shouting because it's theater, dahlink, and they have to speak at top volume), "IS NOT HAPPY YET BECAUSE....."I HAVE THREE DAUGHTERS AND AM STILL WAITING TO BECOME A GRANDMOTHER.""

There followed an excruciating sketch, in which said cast had to turn this into something funny. Naturally, one of the daughters had no children because she was a ball-busting high-flyer with no time for kids. The second daughter was a lesbian. This was rather interesting, since unless I missed something, being a lesbian doesn't automatically render one sterile.

I can't remember what they thought up for the third daughter because by that point I was under the table gnawing my own leg off, and calling for additional cheeky cocktails to ease the pain.

The following day we woke up, consumed yet more pastries, and went to visit the Anne Frank House . This was something of a momentous occasion for me, Anne's diary having been an immense inspiration to me when I was growing up, and indeed, one of the reasons that from the age of 11, and up until the start of this blog, I kept my own diary.

I half expected the exhibition to be overblown and cheesy, but the museum itself, which is basically the house itself where Anne and her family went into hiding, tells the story of the Secret Annexe with a remarkable simplicity. Even with crowds moving through the narrow rooms, it was an immensely moving and poignant experience. Particularly when I stood in what had been Anne's room, looking at the old pictures of film stars she had pasted to the walls to make her surroundings more cheery. I suddenly found there were tears behind my eyes and a little lump in my throat.

Sombered, we went out into the cold November rain, not getting very far before promptly ducking into a cozy cafe for one last cheeky beer. And I raised my glass to young Anne, who I imagine would have understood very well the appeal of blogging, and who knew very well the importance of continuing to tell her own story, even during the darkest times.

International Jetsetter

2004-11-18T19:10:00.000Z

GAH! Where has the week gone? How is it Thursday already?

I know I haven't been writing quite as much as usual. This is due, in part, to the fact that there is nuffin' much happening on the baby front. We may get some SA results for E. sometime next week, or we may not. We are a little confused how one goes about obtaining these, since the instructions for the test had big bold letters at the bottom in flashing neon saying: WE WILL NOT GIVE OUT RESULTS OVER THE TELEPHONE.

Well, OK, fair enough. But if we phone, will you tell us how to get the results? Or are we supposed to write to you to ask you to post us the results? Or fax them? Or will it be our special secret to share with our RE when we see him next? Oh, what a little mystery.

Another reason is that I am working quite long hours at the moment. This involves sitting at my desk in front of a computer, furrowing my brow and wracking my brains to come up with cogent, lucid and relevant material. I do this for an unbroken eight or nine hours a day, with a half hour for lunch, gulping some sustenance before returning to the salt mines. So you can probably understand why I haven't been exactly keen to come home to sit at my desk in front of the computer to wrack my brains to come up with witty & interesting posts.

Apart from the sheer brain strain, I find that the lower half of my body is perilously close to seizing up, or developing deep vein thrombosis. It's cold in the flat too, with the entirely inadequate heating system as found in most houses in this country, so every fifteen minutes or so I have to get up and run around to try to get the blood circulating. Which breaks the chain of thought.

Lastly, I have had lots of other scurrying around to do to get ready for my stint as an international jetsetter! I am really pleased at how my travel arrangements have worked out, even if it means a slightly insane schedule and needing about twenty five different types of clothing to accommodate all the different climates. This weekend, Amsterdam for E's birthday. Next weekend, Florida, to see my parents.

I think I may have already mentioned, I am something of an anxious traveler. I like to be at the airport six or seven hours early to board flights ( I jest, but not by much). I have a complicated handbag/carry-on arrangment and I always worry that somehow they won't let me on with both things, or try to make me check my carry-on. Since my handbag is invariably pushing my luck a bit, with something verging on a large tote stuffed to the gunnels with books, magazines and spare knickers. But there is no way I am parting with the carry-on either, which contains essentials such as larger presents, make-up, and clothes which I want to wear on the trip but worry will get lost if checked through. Did I mention there is a lot of worry involved together with luggage separation anxiety.

One of my travel nightmares nearly came true a few years ago. Coming home after Christmas, due to bad weather, we were routed through a different airport and made to stay overnight at a hotel before boarding an entirely different airline for the second leg home. This in itself would not have been a problem, except the airline seemed to think that our luggage, which we had checked at the start, should be sent on ahead on a DIFFERENT plane.

We tried to explain that really, this was inadvisable, since our bags would arrive about 12 hours ahead of us. Where said bags would go round and round on the carousel, uncollected. Until somebody decided to walk off with our stuff. Our bags, full of special Christmas pressies and goodies.

This was pre 9/11. Where the airlines still thought it was somehow sane to load up planes with bags with no passenger on board.

It took some serious cajoling to reunite us with our luggage. Shooting my best laser beam death ray eyes, I think I may have threatened, or um, volunteered to go into the holding bin or whatever to physically remove our items. To this day, E. refers to my encounter with the customer service representative in tones of hushed awe.

Also, it can be tricky to remember which passport to use when. And not get stopped, as I did several years ago, by the evil airline security for having the audacity to travel to a certain destination on a completely valid, yet somehow nonetheless "wrong" passport. I mean, really. Cut us international jetsetters/dual citizen types some slack, willya?!

I'll be back early next week, no doubt with lots of riotous stories to tell about our visit to Amsterdam. Even though we are very boring, and would certainly never engage in the kind of debauchery that apparently goes on there. Debauchery, us? Of course not. How could you think such a...well, I did hear a rumour there was a museum with a gigantic chair shaped like a penis. We might have to check that out.

I mean, it is a museum, after all. Culch-chure.

100- (For JJ).

2004-11-15T18:38:00.000Z

It occurred to me in looking over my blogging records, that this is my 100th post. It arrives almost six months to the day since I began, back in May.

Not to be overly navel-gazing, but it seems appropriate to take a moment to say a heartfelt thank you to the person directly responsible for setting me off on my blogging adventures.

I met JJ on a message board, one which had the rare distinction of being frequented by a group of particularly smart, sassy women. It was the first board I found where I could be a smart ass about the whole "TTC thing", and nobody seemed to mind. In fact, people like JJ actively encouraged it! Hurrah, I thought, I am not alone out here in a vortex of babydust.

JJ's posts kept mentioning this thing called a "blog". Having been practically surgically attached to the internet for the last three or four years, I had heard of blogging, of course. But I didn't know anyone who had ever kept one, or how it worked. The idea of having my own little corner of cyberspace had never really crossed my mind.

Through JJ, I read a few other of these newfangled blog thingies, specifically Julie and Karen. I thought to myself "Wow", the way you do when you catch a glimpse of something which seems astonishingly accomplished, polished, and seemingly unobtainable. Kind of like the way I feel when I leaf through Vogue- sure, I know I could go out and buy a Prada handbag, but I will never ever have the money or the long legs required to pull off those outfits, that look.

So I admired from afar. Occasionally a little voice in my head wondered how you went about setting up one those blogadoodle sites, and then I shook it off thinking I couldn't possibly ever do that. I don't know how to set up websites and templates and codes, and my goodness, it must be sooo complicated, where would one find the time?

Then JJ started talking about opening a blog site for women of our message board. The idea being that we could do with a wider forum to expand on our brief posts. Giving us the freedom to ramble on at will, without worrying that we were monopolizing space on the board or droning on about ourselves too much.

She dangled the idea in front of us like a shiny lure. It floated in the waters of the message board for a few days. And then suddenly, surprising myself, I turned into a large spangled silver fish, and bit. Bit hard. I decided, like the greedy trout I am, that I would not only take up the offer of a group blog, but I would, gasp!, start my own as well.

It took me, oh, about half an hour to discover the existence of Blogger, and another thirty seconds to discover that it was free. That magic word- free. I could try it, and if I didn't like it, well, no harm done, no money wasted. An experiment. Nothing to lose, but some spare time. Time I was otherwise spending staring into space, brooding about babies, or Googling endlessly for answers that would not come.

I think the act of blogging, together with all my encounters with this particular community of women- infertile, adopting, coping with pregnancy and life with babies after infertility- has saved me in many ways. It has given me an outlet for some of the raw and murky stuff I carry inside my head every day. It has been the most wonderful source of information and education. It has astounded me with the kindness of strangers. It has provided the most amazing sense of perspective. It has shown me that it is possible to walk a sad and uncertain road with dignity, grace and compassion. Above all, it has made me laugh, which on the darkest days is the most wonderful respite.

I don't know if I would have ever started a blog without JJ. I might have, eventually, but I think I would have first spent a very long time in the shadows, lurking. Admiring so many of you without ever joining in, and without ever really getting to know you. It was JJ who opened that door for me, and having done so, grabbed me by the hand and pulled me in.

So, thank you again to our dear, charming, funny JJ. Stand up and take a bow. Actually, no, wait, don't. Your knee is oogy and your leg is broken. Take a metaphorical bow.

And remember, I wish you all good things in this world- dollhouses, decent doctors, a bestselling novel, geneology of princesses and kings, the muzzling of Frosty and the defenestration of the Trainee. Ovulation. The love of Hubby. And however you get there, the joy of motherhood.

How not to do business on the telephone

2004-11-13T09:33:00.001Z

Like many jobs in this world, mine requires a certain amount of negotiation skills. I negotiate all day with people in my own company, and then I negotiate with people outside of it, who may not like what my company is doing. In those cases I often have to make lots of telephone calls where I either try to gently smooth things over, or more actively work on keeping the shit from hitting the fan. Or, if the fan has been hit, damage limitation.

This can, in its own way, be entertaining, and I do enjoy it. But I sometimes have trouble with doing business on the phone with people I don't know. To sum it up in a single sentence, I don't give good business phone.

Part of it is that I can usually tell when whoever I am talking to seems to be distracted. While I am trying to wrap my mouth around a complicated explanation, I can practically hear them doing other things- rustling their papers, drinking coffee, checking their e-mail, feeling up their secretary.

This disconcerts me. I find talking shop about complicated matters on the phone a little disconcerting at the best of times. I want to scream "FOCUS here, people, FOCUS!" And my tangled verbiage becomes even more tangled as I try to make my point.

Then the person at the other end lapses into a kind of unnerving silence, reduced to curt Uh-huhs, and Mmm-mmms. Or maybe I have just stunned them into submission with my use of big words in context.

Things are usually a little better if whoever it is phones me. Then it tends to be at a time when they are ready to talk, when their mind is clear and focused on the matter at hand. I try, whenever I am phoned unexpectedly, to give my full attention to the speaker. This is probably easier for me, considering I don't even have a secretary to feel up.

Yesterday,"Mrs Brown" phoned me. Heretofore, I've been dealing with Mrs Brown only in a very indirect sense about something. "Mrs Smith", the other person whom I had been dealing with up til now, was not good at returning my phone calls, and so I sometimes had to leave messages with Mrs Brown as an alternative, pleading for someone with a pulse to phone me.

The conversation went something like this:

"Hello, is that Ms Mare? It's Mrs Brown here from XYZ Ltd. I'm picking up this matter from my colleague, Mrs Smith."

"Oh, yes, hello," I said, "I gathered Mrs Smith was not around, since she hasn't gotten back to me, and I've left 10 messages. Because it's quite urgent I speak with her, or with someone, at XYZ Ltd."

"That's fine. You can talk to me."

"Good. Now, about this issue of...."

Cue interruption from Mrs Brown.

"She's on holiday, actually, with her husband. Mrs Smith, I mean. For two weeks. They go to America every year at this time."

"How nice. Now, as I was saying..."

"It's really quite hard to manage when she's away. I mean, so many things pile up. My goodness, we've been rushed off our feet here."

"Oh," I said. "Is this a good time to speak about this?"

"Yes, yes, yes, fine, really fine," said Mrs Brown, tittering nervously.

"OK, so about the..."

"It's just the last time she went to America, she came back pregnant! Which meant I had to cover her maternity leave, obviously. The baby is so cute though. She used to bring her in. What an angel! It was good when things got back to normal finally. But you can see, we've all been wondering if it's going to happen again! I mean, her coming back from America pregnant."

Cue Mrs Brown braying with insane laughter down the telephone.

I treated her to some unnerving silence, and a couple of curt Uh-huhs.

The Scully Effect

2004-11-10T19:55:00.000Z

There's something very strange going on recently. Everywhere I go, I see articles of discarded baby clothing. Walking to work, a small sock dropped in a frosty puddle by the side of the road. On the floor of the bus, a lost Winnie-the-Pooh bib with bright blue strings. Roaming in the country park with E. at the weekend- one little mitten randomly perched on top of a tree stump.

Part of me thinks it may be a form of Yellow Van Syndrome. Another part of me thinks it must be a sign! A sign that one day too I will be a mother who gets home to find a baby with one sock!

But mostly I think it's just coincidence. That it's just that there are a lot of kids out there, dropping stuff.

I don't know when I stopped fully believing in fate, or the divine plan, or that things are meant to happen for a reason. I suspect it was probably around the time that I became aware, primarily through my experience with infertility blogs, that some truly heartwrenching stuff happens to good people who certainly don't deserve it. That the framework of "meant to be", as this brilliant post by Marla so eloquently discusses, can create a very problematic paradigm for the infertile.

If I start to see the lost socks in the road as some sort of symbol or hidden message, then for me, that end up meaning that other events have secret import as well. That if I can just decipher the underlying meaning of the codes played out before me, I'll somehow unlock the reason why this is happening to us. That I will get an inside glimpse into this larger plan, the pattern that fate is weaving for us. That I will be able to see where we are going, where we will end up.

Well, my present frame of mind says "bugger that." I'll drive myself nuts, and besides, I am not too comfortable with the whole idea that I can or should ascribe any larger meaning to the large doses of crap infertility dishes out to me, and to those I care about, on a seemingly daily basis.

Instead, I aspire to something, which for me is much more soothing. I seek solace in the idea that if there is a reason for what is going on, it is based on some sort measurable, scientific fact. That it's hormones, not the cosmos lining up against me. That it's biology, not the whim of a mischievous or angry God.

I call this line of reasoning the "the Scully Effect".

I am, admittedly, not an X-Files aficionado as such. But a few years back, I enjoyed watching the odd episode while I was eating dinner, or late at night when we came home from the pub. I was always bemused by Agent Scully's take on the world. I mean, weird shit was going on, all the time. And no matter how glaringly obvious it was that there something downright unearthly happening, complete with screaming, goo and alien lifeforms, Scully always has a rational explanation for it.

She would say, "Oh no, Mulder, it's just swamp gas." "Oh, no, Mulder, that person claiming to have telekinetic powers is a known schizophrenic." "Oh, Mulder, trust me, I'm a medical doctor".

Her stance kind of irritated me at times. It's like, look, you have clearly just traveled back in time. There's no denying you have just seen a man spontaneously combust. Wake up and smell the mystical. But I was also strangely reassured by how this woman could take all the strange crap thrown at her, and could process it, totally unapologetically, in a way that made sense to her.

I know that as time worn on, things did change. Apart from an improvement in the clothes department, I mean. Poor Scully, before she picked up a few sleek little navy suits, can you believe she actually went to work dressed like this? No, I can't either. But I digress.

Anyway, maybe around the time she got cancer, but miraculously went into remission (either due insertion of microchip and/or prayer), I could see Scully's rock hard adherence to science starting to waver. Then I missed almost all the later episodes. Unfortunately, I never did see how it all turned out in the end. So all you X-files experts who may be rolling their eyes and saying, "Of COURSE, Scully went from skeptic to believer- that was the WHOLE point. The truth WAS out there"- I'm making a loose analogy here, OK? I'm talking about vintage, early X-Files brand Scully.

Vintage Scully, the woman who appeared relatively unfazed by the fact that at one point, she had all her ova removed by the bad guys, to be stored in a government lab, leaving her barren. A character who was able to coolly and dispassionately keep her head when everything around her was, quite literally, melting down. Who was able to retain some reasonable dialogue with God despite her core beliefs that the world is made up of elements which can, ultimately, be explained.

I sometimes wish I could be more like that. Apart from the bad suits. And having to maintain such bouncy yet perfectly coifed hair while fleeing from swarms of bees, or similar.

I'll start by walking past the discarded flotsam of other people's babies, without a second glance.

Checkmate

2004-11-07T21:07:00.000Z

I spent the weekend with E. at our flat in the Other City for a change of scene, and we talked of many things. Of ships and shoes and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.

But not, for the first time in many months, of babies. It was a blessed relief, to be honest, to turn our minds to something else for a change. The chaos in our life extends to other areas, such as our wonky living situation, and E.'s feelings of career stagnation, so there is never any shortage of material to work with. Periodically, as we did this weekend, we take some time off from the Infertility Express train to Hell, and think about other stuff.

Like, where do we want to live? Should we sell one or both of the flats and move to somewhere in the middle? If so, where? Should E. quit his job and start his own business? If so, what would that business be? If he could get a better job, would it be worth thinking again about making a big geographical move? You know, that kind of thing. The sort of discussion which at the best of times leaves you staring wide-eyed at the crack in the ceiling in the middle of the night. And that's before we add a hypothetical baby into the mix.

We talk about the "other stuff", and then we get back on the hamster wheel, spinning mindlessly towards nothingness.

One thing I continue to find hard about where we are at in the infertility process is that it renders us almost absolutely incapable of planning anything, decisively, for the long-term. There is still so much we don't know. We don't know if we'll be buying maternity clothes in the spring, undergoing treatment, talking to adoption agencies, or getting a puppy with the aim of learning to live childfree. If you put all of that on a spectrum of what could be, it's really insanely mind-blowing. I mean, any one of those outcomes is, in its own right, so chockfull of possibility, it makes my head hurt.

People say 'you have to get on with things and live your life'. Try not to let infertility get in the way of planning things that you would otherwise want to do. But the thing is, I am not talking about whether or not to book a holiday to Aruba here, I am talking about decisions, big decisions, which, if circumstances change significantly in one direction or another, could have enormous impact.

People say 'well, just be patient, everything will work itself out in time'. Yeah. That's what I said a year and a half ago. How much time should I factor in here? For everything to "work itself out"? To wait and see what will be. Two years? Three years? Say another two years to try fertility treatment, and if that fails, then a year to get into the adoption process and another year to actually get a baby from somewhere? Are we really saying that we put everything else in life on hold for at least four years while we figure this shit out? And what about the very real possibility that we'll opt to live without children, if it comes to that, in which case, knowing how much of a blow that will be, I'd really like to get on with making some arrangements to make that as pleasurable and comfortable as possible.

People say, ' well, sometimes things don't go to plan'. Yes, I get that. I'm not even talking about things not going to plan, I am talking about not being able to make a plan in the first place. I am talking about the feeling of sailing into uncharted waters, of going right off the edge of the map-where we may find land, or where there may be dragons.

I think the reason we aren't talking about baby things on top of, or in the contexts of, those other discussions is because we both feel like we need to make a conscious effort to work with what we have got. Even if what we have got remains a gigantic question mark. I know I can't wait around forever for things to fall into place. I also know some of the answers are coming, very slowly, in painstaking drips.

But it seems so desperately slow. E will do another SA this week, and I have the HSG scheduled for December. We then need to see the RE again to discuss options. It's the usual hurry up and wait, without any definitive plan of action anywhere in sight. So right now it feels like there is absolutely hee haw happening on the baby front, apart from the forced march of baby-making sex on cue.

We are both so tired of waiting. All these months going by, and our lives don't change- we are stuck, in suspended animation, waiting for something, anything, to happen. I don't want to wake up one day in a few years from now, and find that opportunities have passed us by. Nor do I want to wake up, and find we have gotten ahead of ourselves, and burned our boats, only to find that I now need passage off the Island.

I feel like whichever way I move, I am trapped by the spectre of infertility. One way or another, something will have to shift. Because I can't live my life in checkmate forever.

Tomorrow is Another Day

2004-11-05T01:02:00.000Z

Well, well, what a complete fuckarow yesterday turned out to be. First of all, the election. Suffice to say, it didn't go the way I had hoped, obviously.

Then I found Waldough, who, as it happens, was hanging out in the ladies' bathroom on the second floor of my office building, second cubicle on the left. Welcome Waldough, you irritating little fucker. So no, I am not pregnant.

I wasn't really expecting to be, not really. I apologise for making it sound like a more exciting moment of great import than it really was. It was simply that it was day 13 DPO, and if nothing else in all this cycling nonsense, I am regular like clockwork. I may never have seen a positive pregnancy test in my life. But I have also never, since I started paying attention to these things, gotten past 14 days post ovulation, never ever ever.

Come day 13, my waking temperature will invariably hover around 97.3 degrees, a sure indicator that a hot date with Waldough is not far in the future. I don't even temp the rest of the cycle. I just make a note of the day I think I ovulate, wait 13 days, and pop the digital thermometer in my mouth that morning. And as sure as night follows day and day follows...you get the picture. It's 97.3, and I always get my period the next day. Always. Every single month for the last year and a half. There may be something else wrong with me, but it sure ain't regularity of my cycle.

As an aside, I am, as usual, cheered and bemused by the sheer enthusiasm for peestick peeing that some of you evince at the mere mention of a possible pregnancy. I liken it to some sort of tribal rite, where the women in a big group cluster round the initiate, gyrating in a slow circular dance, chanting "PEE, PEE, PEE" while waving popsicle sticks in the air.

Anyway. I sat in the bathroom feeling a bit glum, to say the least. Thank you, Universe for that sharp left hook, followed swiftly by the upper cut to the jaw. BAM, BAM. The proverbial double whammy.

I came home and watched the BBC vultures gorge on the carrion of the election wind-up. Then E. came home to find me in a dismal heap. He cooked me dinner, as he always does, bless his cotton socks. Afterwards we changed into our soft flannel jammies, ate some ice cream, and watched a fun, mindless movie, lying with our legs intertwined together on the sofa.

I love watching movies with E. We have quite similar viewing habits, that is to say we will both watch just about everything. We enjoy "quality" films, but also have a secret mutual fondness for complete brainless fodder. You know, the type with lots of explosions, aliens, things that lurk under the bed or in the bushes, people mutating into strange forms as result of killer viruses, senseless plots to destroy the world, and anything with excessive amounts of slime and goo.

We know fine well that one should suspend all disbelief for these things, but like me, E. is quite happy to engage in a little running critique on some of the stupider efforts.

So we spent a delightful couple hours enjoying the movie and each other's commentary. Where did the red dress come from, and couldn't she have found something more substantial to wear before embarking on the mission? Why don't the soldiers radio for back-up? Why haven't they figured out that the fact that the computer shut everything down and deliberately terminated everyone in a creepy BIOHAZARD centre was probably for a very good reason? Who was that other girl meant to be working for? I wouldn't open that, would you open that? Fuck no, I thought you wouldn't, so why did they?

It was all very satisfying. I felt much better afterwards.

And this morning, strangely enough, I woke up feeling quite positive about life for the first time in awhile. Had myself a little Scarlett O'Hara moment in the shower, soaping and singing. OK, things are crapadoodle doo in many ways. But for some reason, my good spirits have returned, and I feel sort of recharged. Quite scrappy and ready for battle. Bring it on. Tomorrow is another day, and all that.

I don't know long it will last, but at the moment, it feels just fine.

Election Day

2004-11-03T01:26:00.000Z

Today I discovered that there is nothing like a presidential election to take one's mind off those otherwise burning questions- you know, like, am I pregnant? Are my boobs looking bigger or am I just getting chubby from eating too many bowls of ice cream while I sit on my blogging ass? If I am not pregnant, where the fuck is Waldough ? And should I go pee on something for good measure?

Happily, all those thoughts have been wiped clean out of my tiny mind by the never ending media onslaught that is the Race to the White House 2004.

You'd think that the election was taking place in Britain, since the news coverage is so intense, and everybody here is taking such an interest. I think it would be fair to say that folks are fairly riveted. People were stopping by my desk all day to talk about it- had I voted? How did that work? Who did I vote for? What would I do if Bush won? (I never know how to answer that one- I mean, I can't very well say "leave the country", cause, um, I kind of already did that.) Colleagues at work actually stopped talking about babies and their children for at least five minutes to discuss world politics instead! It was very exciting!

I think the thing is, people recognise that the results of today's election will have a long term and significant impact on Britain. After all, the Americans are not just electing a president, they are choosing Tony Blair's new best friend.

The time difference is proving something of a pain in the ass though. I have an early meeting tomorrow morning, which rules out any ideas of staying up til the wee small hours to see a glimpse of which way the cookie is crumbling, or the final result . That is of course, if the wolf packs of lawyers can be kept under control.

I also have to laugh as I witness what is being presented as something of an immense hoo-ha over the new automated balloting machine thingies. There's no paper trail! Gah! The screen went blank! The memory card failed as we were moving it! Pass the provisional ballot! Call the lawyer!

I mentally compare it to the process here. When I vote in Britain, I go to my assigned polling station, and walk straight in, and the nice lady sitting at the collapsible card table on the folding chair ticks my name off on a long list. Then she hands a slip of paper and a stubby pencil. Yes, that's right, a stubby pencil. I kid you not.

I make a big X next to whoever I want to win, fold the slip in half, stick it in the wooden box, and away I go. Later on, the slips are all counted through the night by hand by people sitting at a big long table in the various districts throughout the country. For big elections, a news presenter called Peter Snow follows the results with statistical analysis in the form of the famous Swing-o-meter. I saw him on Newsnight or whatever that programme was last night doing something similar with a gigantic graphic of the United States, which cheered me up no end.

I love voting here, it's really sweet, a little eccentric and rather charming. It no doubt lacks most of the hype and frenzy, and of course, anything like the scale or import of voting in the USA. And to be honest that is all quite refreshing. Though right at this particular moment in my cycle, the distraction of events over the water is very welcome indeed.

Happiness

2004-10-30T00:09:00.000+01:00

"The difference in the two of us
Comes down to the way
You rise over things I just put down."

- "Happiness" by Grant Lee Buffalo

I began to wonder if my ongoing and intense irritability with the world was somehow simply due to lack of exercise. So I went to the gym last night, and tried to outrun my demons on the treadmill. When that didn't work, I let them chase me on the rowing machine. Finally, by the time I hit the elliptical trainer, I was a soggy mess, but the pursuit was waning. High on endorphins, I pumped some iron (ROAR! FUCK YOU, DEMONS!) and then skipped back to the changing room feeling pretty good for the first time all week.

Whereupon I ran straight into my seven-and-a-half months pregnant former boss. In her bathing suit. She was leaving work for maternity leave the next day, so she wanted to chat to say goodbye and all that jazz.

As I have already indicated, I like FB very much, I think she is a class act . But in my present state of mind, encountering a woman so heavily pregnant, wearing that little clothing was somewhat...um, gosh...unsettling? I honestly didn't know where to look. My eyes were drawn, as if by tractor beam, to her voluminous belly, while my brain was squeaking, "Don't stare like a fixated freak! Don't stare like a fixated freak!".

By the time I left the changing room, the demons had found me again, and were making up for lost time by gnawing a hole somewhere around my midsection. I walked home berating myself for feeling this way. Wondering why I can't simply be happy for her.

This expression "I'm happy for you" is one that is causing me some consternation at the moment. It's not so much that I am finding it hard to reconcile some truly volcanic pissed offness at the universe with the uncomfortable awareness that the happy news of others should really elicit something other than a weak grin. It is not even so much that anyone is expecting that of me- it's that I am expecting it of myself.

But why? Why do I expect it of myself? Why do I think I need to be happy for the pregnancy of others, at a time when I am so profoundly unhappy with my unpregnant self? Would it be such a bad thing for all concerned if I took a moment here and there to acknowledge how I feel, rightly or wrongly, that the whole world seems to get pregnant apart from me? Knowing that even if a much longed for pregnancy is achieved, that it can be such a fleeting gift, that it can be taken away in the blink of an eye, seemingly on a whim from the fates? Can I not churn through some anger and bitterness about that, without slapping a happy face on?

I thought that I had attained some sort of understanding how delicate the emotional interplay with others can be. That all relationships take on shaded patterns, and so very rarely is the path of the emotional arrow straightforward. Take love, for instance. There is only one person in the entire world for whom I feel simple, uncomplicated, unquestioning love. And that is E. This is not to say that he doesn't occasionally bug the shit out of me, but the love I feel for him is so pure. It's the one true and clear thing in my life.

And that is not to say I don't love other people-of course I do. My parents, for example. I love them very much, and sometimes with something akin to simplicity and joy. Other times, the picture is much darker, with violet shades of guilt, magenta of regret, scarlet anger, navy hued sadness. I live, quite happily, knowing that the colours of our relationship are not always going to be blue skies, but more likely the Northern Lights. Complicated and beautiful.

I wish that in the middle of the hellish maelstrom of my inner world at the moment, that I could, automatically and on cue, be able to pluck something elusive as "happiness" for somebody else out of this mess. But I have trouble feeling happy for myself at the best of times. So why should I keep trying to wave my wand and summon the fairy godmother of happiness, when I am limp with the pain of longing for my arrival of my own good news? When all the happiness I can muster may still not save someone from pain and loss?

Because, I whisper to myself, because the world does not revolve around you. Because no matter what happens, a generous heart is a sign of a hero.

I so want to be a hero in this. I want to be able to step outside myself, step back from the stunted knot of bitterness. Take your face in my hands, and press a happy, uncomplicated kiss on your cheek. And I want you to know that a part of me is doing just that, even though in some cases, it might look for a moment like I am turning away from you with a tear in my eye.

Even if, in some cases, I am already gone.

Time brutality

2004-10-26T22:20:00.000+01:00

There are not enough hours in the day. There are simply not. I am suddenly desperately busy at work, and trying to fit in everything that needs to get done: test scheduling, phone calls, banking, booking flights, obtaining currency for various destinations, laundry, shopping, sex on certain days, cleaning, doing E.'s taxes, arguing about where we should live- it seems overwhelming. Not impossible- just terminally exhausting.

My real life support system is somewhat lacking. For some time now, in my professional life, I have felt extremely...what's the word? Vulnerable? Exposed? Scared shitless? Like any minute now, the ice I have been walking over, praying the freeze has gone deep enough, will crack. Sending me plunging, screaming into dark water. Ostensibly, I have someone superior to me who is meant to help me out, give me guidance and support. But in reality, there's no substance there. There is no one to go, no one who really understands what I am talking about. There is no one covering my back.

Many of the "infertility chores"- the scheduling, for example- bring a kind of emotional baggage that weighs on my mind, more than a little bit. I can't just make the appointment and forget about it. I have to worry for the next two hours- what if that day turns out to be not OK after all? Should I have gone for the later time? What if something comes up? What if, what if, what if. Really, I worry about my sanity. I honestly don't know how people with kids manage to work full time jobs, or go through secondary infertility together with their other responsibilities. I take my hat off to anyone who does it, my admiration is boundless.

When things get hectic, I try to calm myself with deep breathing and take things one at a time. But I am not so good at that. I'm more like a whirling dervish. En route to emptying the dishwasher, I see the laundry which needs to be folded and that reminds me that it's time to buy some new underwear, because will you just LOOK at the state of those old knickers, and where did I leave my stockings, speaking of undergarments? What, have no stockings? Perhaps rearranging clothing in cupboard would help. Let's go see.

And so on. Yes, I am a basket case. No, I don't think that behaviour is very healthy either.

E. is unfortunately prone to similar tendencies. Only, as we have established in my last post, without the side trips to the dishwasher.

He, too, tries to get too much done, do too many things at once, exhausts himself with endless juggling. Though when I first met him, he was worse. It used to be that when we would speak on the phone in the evening, he would be doing something around the house at the same time, like making a cup of tea, or drilling a hole in the bathroom wall.

"Hon," I'd say, "what's with all the crashing and banging?"

"That's nothing," he reply, "I'm just grouting the tile in the kitchen splashback."

"But sweetie darling, you're on the phone, talking to me. It's distracting."

"Sorry," he'd say, and continue on doing whatever it was he was doing, until he made up his mind that our alloted minutes were up. Then he'd cut the conversation short, and basically hang up on me. I was initally anxious to appear cool and chilled out about stuff like that, so I bit my tongue for nearly a year. Then fnally, I got pissed off and confronted him about it.

"Look, I am a busy person," he explained. "I need to exercise time brutality."

Time brutality? What, pray tell, is time brutality?

In the end, the excuse of time brutality is one that I have adopted to suit my own purposes, and turned to my advantage. I now happily deploy this whenever he phones and I don't want to speak to him, right at that particular moment, i.e. when in the middle of bidding for something on eBay or typing a blog comment, or whatever. Can't talk now- time brutality, I chirp and how can he argue? He can't. He just wishes he had never introduced the concept.

Like many people, when E. is stressed and busy, the things he least wants to do fall through the cracks. Take for example, his next sperm test. We had the little chat about the timetabling for this- you know, abstinence balanced with relatively fresh swimmers. Well, actually, I lectured, and he responded by assuring me that he knew what he was doing. After all, he'd already done this once, right? He was totally on top of it.

Or, as it happens, not so much. When he informed me that he was intending to hand in the sample on Thursday morning (the only possible time this week), I raised my eyebrows.

"Really," I said, "because unless you've either been taking care of business on your own, or else getting up to something you shouldn't, with some other person, then I was under the impression that it had been a couple of weeks since we, ah, you know. Cleared the pipes. So you have a bunch of elderly swimmers in there. And if you do it now to refresh the batch, well, you won't have abstained for 3 days, as nice Dr Tick Tock asked you to. "

"Didn't we have sex over the weekend?" he demanded.

"No," I assured him, "I can say, with some certainty, that we did not. Unless I was unconscious at the time, in which case, ewwww. And how could you not remember, one way or another? Is not every carnal encounter with me forever emblazoned on your soul?"

Remind me to add: "organize sperm" to my ever growing list of tasks.

Sackful of weasels

2004-10-24T12:59:00.000+01:00

I don't know what my problem is, but I have been as irritable as a sackful of weasels all weekend. The relentlessly optimistic part of my brain is already chiming: "Hey! You're not usually like this! Maybe it's a sign that you are pregnant."

To which I snarl, "Shut up, brain." I don't think I'm pregnant. I think I am just extremely cranky. For no apparent reason.

Like most people, I am very bad company when I am in a grumpy mood. Unfortunately, I have been taking it out on poor E. who has been very patient with me. He doesn't deserve the brunt of my bitchiness, but really, if only he would put his fucking dishes in the fucking dishwasher, he would immediately eliminate about 60% of my daily snipe. Honestly, it drives me berserk, the constant ensemble of plates, dirty cups and spoons in or next to the sink. The fucking sink being directly next to the fucking dishwasher.

This is truly a long running irritant, but maybe because I am in a pissy mood, this weekend it has seemed worse than ever. For example, yesterday I had just finished emptying the dishwasher, and the tray was still pulled out when the phone rang. I went to answer it (wrong number), leaving the empty tray and the door open. By the time I came back, E. had managed to walk up to the counter, dump his breakfast dishes in the sink and walk back to the table. Readers, I proceeded to rip him a new one. I felt badly later, but my God. I can't tell you how many times I have begged, pleaded, cajoled, whimpered, nagged, promised blow jobs and the sacrifice of baby goats, if only he would do this one thing- Put. the. dishes. in. the. dishwasher. Please. Please. Pleeeeeeeease.

Neglect of the dishwasher aside, everything else has seemingly conspired to get on my nerves as well. The list is long and mundane. And, at the risk of annyoing you all with my endless ramblings about the scheduling of one measly test, I will tell you that I received a letter from the private hospital for my HSG appointment. Happy news, yes? Oh Yes. Except.

Except that they have scheduled it for the one and only day next month when I will be unavailable, and indeed, out of the country. Which means I will have to call up and try to get it rescheduled. Or else cancel E.'s birthday trip to Amsterdam. Consequently, I have been worrying about it all weekend. Now, I am sure I will be able to sort out something else, but it continues to make me fret, which I hate.

Lastly, I discovered, quite by accident, during an online search for something entirely unrelated to fertility, that my ex-husband and his new-ish wife have had a baby son. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I know I have absolutely no right to complain about anything the ex-husband may do. And if the fertility gods smile kindly on him, and not me, following the demise of our relationship, well, boo fucking hoo. But I confess it bothers me a little.

I mean, didn't he get the memo? The one that says he has to spend the rest of his life pining for me? Living in monk-like solitude burning candles by the shrine of his great love lost? Not getting on with things, finding a nice girl who was actually willing to have sex with him (whereas I was not), marry him and bear his children. Living happily ever after, with wife and son in harmonious bliss, while I flail desperately. The bloody cheek of him, how dare he. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me- he managed to irritate me intensely while we were married, and why ruin a perfectly good trend.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go sulk in the corner with a petulant little scowly face.

Stand in the place where you live

2004-10-20T21:05:00.000+01:00

When I went back to university not so many years ago, I had this one professor with a....distinctive style of lecturing. Standing at the podium in front of 150 students, she would talk for an hour AT TOP VOLUME. Now, bearing in mind that a good many of the other lecturers would mumble their inaudible way through the material, this was not always a bad thing. She was screechy and extremely nasal, but you weren't going to miss a key point as a result of not being being able to hear her properly.

The only time it became unbearable was when she became overly excitable about one of those key points. She was fond, for example, of posing "yes or no" questions to the class, which no one had any intention of answering in front of their peer group. When enough of an excruciating pause had elapsed, she would SHRIEK the answer in a banshee cry- OVER AND ABOVE what was already TOP VOLUME.

"THE ANSWER", she would bellow, "is NO!"

And the "No!" would be sort of drawn out in a long pitchy nasal kind of wailing shriek. "Noooooooo!" Think Cartman from South Park, only female and about 3,000 time louder.

I nicknamed her "The Jackhammer". Which, unfortunately, kind of caught on amongst my fellow students, and I lived in mortal dread for the next year that she would find out it was me who had labeled her so. Especially since she was my course adviser, and I needed her to sign stuff on a regular basis.

I tell this story apropos of nothing, really, except that to this day, sometimes when I am answering a question for myself, I hear her voice in my head. If nothing else, she was definitive. And loud.

The question for me the last couple days was brought about by the whole "HSG-Christma"s dilemma. (To digress again for a second- I do wonder if those two words- "HSG & Christmas" have ever been juxtaposed before in this way- I'll have to keep an eye on the Google searches.)

Specifically, a number of you posed the very good question/suggestion/advice that I could have the HSG done when I was home visiting with my parents over the festive season. Thus cutting through the logistical knot of when to go, and as opposed to being jerked around here, trying to hoop jump referrals, re-scheduling yadda yadda.

Now, can I just say that:

a: this was a very good suggestion, and thank you to everyone for your comments and views
b: I had already thought briefly of the idea, but hadn't really gnashed it over in my mind at that point of writing the last post.

I have thought about it. And Class, the ANSWER is NOOOOO!

See what I mean? The Jackhammer.

Now I will try to give you an insight into my thinking. This is difficult, because at the risk of being overly cryptic, the main reason would involve writing about a conversation I had with my mother, and my feelings thereto. Now, I know I write about all sorts of personal stuff here, but I made a solemn vow awhile back that one of the things I would not blog about in any detail is my parents, or our relationship. I had once written a post about something that happened with them which, in retrospect, was unkind, and not the kind of thing I would want to air in public. I felt really uncomfortable about it, and finally deleted it. So I am trying to stay true to those self-imposed limits. Also, I am scared my mother will find my blog, kill me, then disown me.

But let us suffice to say that at this point, I think it would be better for me and my mental health if I took care of it here.

The other reason is also a little hard to articulate. But I got to thinking that the whole treatment option in America vs UK touches upon an issue which does come up for me from time to time.

You see, moving here was very hard in lots of ways. Maybe it was because things went badly wrong for the first two or three years, but I spent a great deal of time regretting my decision. I thought a lot about what I had given up, what I missed. About whether to go back.

However, much as some people are able to make the world their pingpong ball, I really couldn't face the prospect of another international move- which, in reality, would have been a retreat- and the inevitable starting all over again with nothing- no home, no friends, no job. And it wasn't even if as if I had burned my bridges- it was that I felt those bridges were never mine in the first place- that they had never existed.

Finally I decided the only way to not make myself crazy was to focus, fully focus, on living here, and to not constantly compare the two places, or long for things which may or may have come to pass if I had remained in the States. To make the best of things in the place I had landed, the place I had chosen for better or worse, to call home.

Now, I know that what is being proposed- namely, one test- is not the equivalent of saying "adieu" to my adopted homeland and relocating permanently to America. That in fact, it would be a good solution to a logistical problem, no more. I realise this. And, believe me, depending on how things go for us, we certainly would not rule out the option of pursuing treatment in the States someday.

But in the short term, I feel like I need to somehow make this work for me here. I am hopeful that in learning my way around the system, I can gain some control, which will enable me to make some positive decisions, based on the best possible options, and not necessarily what looks easiest at the time. I am not wholly confident that I can successfully negotiate the minefield of treatment Scheduling with a capital S, as Karen so aptly put it. However, at this point, I am determined to try.

For example, after I wrote the last post, I wrote a letter to Dr Best Friend asking if we could expedite the whole referral process. She phoned today to say of course, she would get on it right away, and that I didn't need to go in for an appointment with her next week just for that. That I was on a "treatment journey" and her job was to help me tie this up as neatly as possible. I have yet to hear back to confirm an appointment date, but it was step in the right direction, I thought.

I love Dr Best Friend. Remind me to ask her, when next we speak, if she can fix me up with some heavy duty painkillers prior to the HSG, cause from the sounds of it, ibuprofen is not going to cut it.

The HSG that stole Christmas

2004-10-19T01:01:00.000+01:00

In reviewing my recent post about our first visit to the RE, and the comments thereto, I got to wondering if maybe I have been doing my usual habit of getting ahead of myself. By this I mean my tendency to leap from Point A to Point W in the space of a few nano-seconds. I do this with everything, it's the way my mind works. I'm known for this at work- it's both an asset and an irritant to my colleagues.

These great cognitive leaps, often without so much a thin bungee cord to bring me back, are frequently taken without any solid fact, foundation or substance. I rely on intuition, flashes of insight, the eureka! method. Quite often, I'm right, and it's simply a case of dispensing with the slow, plodding blah-blah-blah reasoning to take us there. And other times, I'm just talking crap. E. is generally very good at reeling me back in, which is one of the reasons I love him so.

So I should maybe clarify that all my chat about Dr TickTock alluding to a preliminary diagnosis of "unexplained" was really the result of my reading between the lines. Drawing inferences, leaping to conclusions. He hasn't said anything on the basis of that one visit, except to look over what thus far appears to be a perfectly normal file. All my bloodwork- normal (apart from the TSH, and we've fixed that.) All my cycle charts- normal. E.'s first SA- more or less normal apart from a potentially wonky morph issue. Accordingly, Dr TickTock made a few cryptic remarks, which I have proceeded to interpret in an inimicable fashion. Plus, he's ordered more tests.

It's here the fun begins.

One of the things that has begun to dawn on me in recent months, with a growing sense of foreboding, is how much schedule juggling is required when undergoing infertility treatments. I know that in the big scheme of things, I am a complete novice, but already I am daunted by the logistics of trying to arrange the next set of tests. For reasons that will become clear in a minute, I'm slightly obsessed over how it's going work out. So at the risk of boring you all stupid with the tedium, here's the deal:

As I mentioned, Dr TickTock wants an HSG for me before doing anything else. There is, however, at least a seven month waiting for an HSG on the National Health Service (NHS) in Scotland. My tax dollars at work- HA!

In order to obtain this test any time soon, I have to get a referral to the local private hospital, where I will pay hundred of pounds for the exact same doctor (who would have eventually done the test at the NHS hospital, if I could be bothered to wait til next April) to carry out the procedure. However, the referral to the private hospital can only be obtained from my GP. The receptionist would not let me speak to Dr Best Friend on the phone for this, and the first appointment I can get with her isn't until the end of next week. There is then at least a three to five week waiting list at the private hospital, and I understand ideally it's best to do the HSG during the first part of the cycle, prior to ovulation but not during my period.

Assuming we manage to get the HSG done by the end of December, we are supposed to go back to see Dr TickTock for another consultation. But if we haven't, for any reason, managed to accomplish this, together with another SA for E., we will have to postpone that appointment, and wait for another opening. Which would be likely to be in an additional three months time, so say, March.

Now, this would not be so bad- the timescales, while not roomy, would probably be manageable. Except that my parents, in particular, my mother, are very keen for me to come home in early December. You see, thanks to the extortionate airfares if one flies at Christmas, as opposed to three weeks before or three weeks after, we don't usually see each other during the peak festive season.

My poor mother. In her heart of hearts, she really wants a daughter, who having married a nice man and produced two bouncing grandchildren, lives within a day's drive. Instead she gets funny infertile me, shacked up with an intractable Scotsman in a foreign abode. The rest of the year, she bites her tongue (more or less) about the situation, but I think she finds the distance at Christmas truly dismaying.

As a compromise, the plan was for me to come on my own at the end of November/beginning of December. We were going to squeeze in about 10 days of undivided family time, complete with mother-daughter shopping trips and father-daughter fishing off the boat dock. I confess, I was rather looking forward to all this. Christmas here tends to be something of a muted affair, with just E. and myself, so the idea of a break in the sun with the folks beforehand was very welcome indeed.

Looking at my calendar, and the possible dates for the HSG, I've now had to rule out early December as a likely time to fly back to the States. Unless I take out an additional mortgage to pay for the HSG and the airfare for a flight closer to Christmas. Except that the horrendous expense aside, E. doesn't want to go there for Christmas, and neither of us wants to be apart over the holiday. Which takes us into January, when E. was hoping to get away for a short New Year's break, when it may be hard to get away from work, and when a close friend was asking if she could come to visit for a week.

I'm sort of tearing my hair already. I know I can't please everybody or even please myself. I know the HSG has to get done as soon as possible to enable us to move on. But it's already seeming unfeasibly complicated. Who should I decide to disappoint, and when? I know the timing may well work out. Then again, given the number of variables conspiring to fuck things up, it may not. Either way, it's going to make it very difficult to plan anything. This is, frankly, something of a bummer.

I feel like sending out a seasonal greeting which announces that, due to the requirement to have X-rays taken of my uterus and fallopian tubes, Christmas is cancelled this year.

My house was a very very very fine house

2004-10-16T02:41:00.000+01:00

One of my colleagues, "Ann", used to be my neighbour. Our flats were on the same street. If I leaned out my kitchen window, I could see her front door. When we moved last year, and couldn't fit everything into the van, she helped me lug my oversized house plant and rug up the stairs to her spare room, where she kindly allowed me store these items for over a month. She cooked me dinner in her warm yellow kitchen on my last night in my old home, since I had packed up all the pots and pans, disconnected the fridge, dismantled the table. She didn't make fun of me when I told her, after the move was complete, that I had cried when I locked the door of my old flat for the last time and shoved the spare keys through the letter box.

So when Ann came into work this morning, and told me that my old flat is on the market again, that there is a big FOR SALE sign outside, I don't think she was surprised to see my face fall a little bit. Ann understands how I felt about that place.

I lived in the flat for over six years. I fell in love with it the first time I saw it. I bought it, rather recklessly, given my marriage was about to end, and the prospect of divorce meant my husband would probably be entitled to half. In the end, he left, and it was all mine.

It was a funny, slightly ramshackle home, all unusual angles and rooms with strange corners. It needed work, since it was an old building, and the floor boards were uneven, the insulation non-existent, the plumbing vintage, the plaster crumbling. At night, when the wind blew, there was a strange sound in the gable eaves, a dull thumping, like a dead man hanging, swinging feet against the attic wall. Despite all that, it had the best karma of anywhere I have ever known. It was utterly cozy and inviting. I felt so completely safe there, so very much at ease. I filled it with comfortable old furniture, and stacks of books. I spent many a happy night, with a coal fire burning low in the grate, the sound of the river burbling gently in the distance, cuddled up under a quilt with a book and mug of tea. Or on a long summer evening, sitting with my laptop at my long wooden scrubbed oak table, watching the light pour into the kitchen window, the white cat on the wall of the garden opposite. It was my nest, my shelter in a storm, my solace. It was home.

Then I met E., and things changed. He loved the flat too, but admittedly wasn't quite as immune to the problems as I was. He wanted someplace with better heating, better plumbing, more modern. He didn't like the lack of parking, the dearth of storage, the tiny bathroom. It was too small for the two of us. And we both had to admit, it was totally unsuitable for a baby, a family. We started talking about moving. When we finally decided to start trying to conceive, we began actively looking for a new home at the same time. And when we found our dream house after months of searching, I had no choice but to put my flat on the market.

I sold it to a single woman not much older than me. At first, this delighted me, since I had felt so safe and happy as a woman on her own in that flat. CIearly it was perfect for the single girl! Then, as the sale was going through, she started coming round to ask questions about the central heating, to measure up for carpets, to criticise the existing decor. During one of those visits, she let drop that she thought the flat was "OK", but she wasn't, like, "in love with it that much". Sort of take or leave it, you know. I felt like she had stabbed me in the heart. How could you not love my flat, you heartless bitch? Everybody loves my flat! I love my flat! Fuck you! Don't buy it then! I somehow resisted the urge to push her down the stairs and slam the door in her ungrateful face. (My mother, when I told her this story, shook her head and explained that this is why in America, the buyer and seller are kept apart at all times).

I consoled myself that it was for the good of the relationship and for the family that was to be. That it was time to move on, time to let go. That all things change. That all change is good.

Unfortunately, just before we were about to move into the Dream House, things went very badly wrong. Disastrously, fatally wrong. The deal fell through. I had to be out of my beloved old flat in six weeks, and we had nowhere to go. Somehow, I managed to keep from falling into a sobbing quivering lump. I drew on some inner resource of fortitude, sucked it up, and found somewhere else that we could buy. Maybe not our dream home, but nice all the same. With much teeth gnashing, hair pulling, and monumental nagging, I ensured we were able to get the paperwork done in record time. And here I am today.

Until this morning, I thought I had pretty much forgotten about my old flat, as I am happily settled into what is very much our home together. But now I realise I had simply packaged it up most of my memories, and shelved it. Because I will always be a little wistful, remembering the place I loved so much. Because I know what was special to me has become someone else's rung on the property ladder. And because it is yet another reminder that we continue to make decisions based largely on the hope of things to come. Hopes which have yet to be fulfilled.

The accidental tourist

2004-10-13T19:29:00.000+01:00

Well, well, what a very interesting and informative experience today's first visit to the RE turned out to be. Truth be told, I felt like something like an armchair tourist, abruptly plunged into the thick of things, into the action. All these months of reading as others discuss certain medical procedures, thinking "Huh" with an interested detachment. Then today, suddenly, it's me with the dildocam up the fanoir. And all the while, part of my brain is humming that surely, this is something that happens to other people, to serious travellers. Surely I am just an accidental tourist.

Here are some things I discovered today, in no particular order:

1. Wearing high heeled shoes with a complicated strap, hard to take on and off? Bad idea. I had to remove said shoes to be weighed and measured (still short, no discernable weight gain from the holiday- v. good.) Then I had to do it all over again when they sprung the ultrasound on me without warning. Never mind not having had a chance to spruce up the old bikini line, I could barely get my damn shoes off! Afterwards, it took so long to re-do the strap as I put the shoes on again that the nice nurse had to evict us from the room, with me hobbling along trying not to fall over.

2. In future, bring lots of change for the parking meter.

3. The waiting room at our clinic is a treasure trove of magazines. Lots and lots to read- I may cancel my subscription to Fashionista Monthly. Even E. was impressed at finding an old issue of Guy Gadgets. "Look," he whispered in awe, "just three years ago, my Palm Pilot cost £££Lots. And I only paid £Lots!". Yes, dear, that's good. Shut up and let me read about how tweed is the new black.

4. My RE shall from henceforth be known as Dr TickTock. Here's why.

According to Dr TickTock, assuming the diagnosis turns out to be "unexplained", the statistical average for conception is the same after 3 years of trying au natural as it is if we went ahead and did IVF. So in other words, if we tried for two more years, we'd be just as likely to get pregnant as if we did IVF tomorrow.

Did you just pause there? Yes, so did we. There were several things I took from that comment. Firstly, that the doctor is already leaning toward the "unexplained" angle. I mean, having gone over our medical histories today, I can see why he might be of the preliminary view that nothing is leaping out at him saying "PICK ME" as a cause for barrenness. But you know, that is not to say we necessarily want to languish in purgatory for another two whole years! Secondly, given that the current NHS waiting list for IVF is lingering around two-three years, it wouldn't surprise my cynical little self if that stat coincides nicely with the timescales in which medical intervention might finally be available.

Doctor, with that comment you appear, with all due respect, to be entirely missing the fucking point. It's far too early in the process to start settling on that happy co-out "unexplained". Plus, we don't want to wait two more years to become parents of our first child, never mind his or her sibling. That is the very reason why we sit here before you now, in the infertility clinic. TICK-TOCK already. Your moniker is now bestowed.

5. When lying/sitting in the dildocam chair, wand in situ, my hands immediately assume the "demure folded on chest as if expectant mother pose". Does everyone do this? Totally unconsciously, as if to nuture that oh-so empty womb. Empty that is except for the three, count'em three follicles already vying for supremacy. Two in my left ovary, one in my right. It was so nice to see them, I got a warm and fuzzy feeling. I felt like saying Hi kids! Wanna make friends with some cute sperm? Right this way, one at a time (or two, if you must). Everything else looked OK, as far as they could tell.

6. Not to be hung up on the whole ultrasound experience, but there is something decidedly odd about having your beloved partner stand at your side while a male doctor shoves a foreign object up your cooter and wiggles it around. Even in the interests of medicine, etc. I think E. was more worried about it than I was, though. Afterwards, on the drive home, he kept talking about how if we went to a private clinic, we might get a female doctor. I think at some point we need to have a chat about little it's going to matter as to who gets the tour of my nether regions during infertility treatment. To be honest, I was more disconcerted by the fact that during the ultrasound, the angle at which Dr TickTock was standing as he was wielding the wand meant that as I lay/sat in the chair-thingie, my bare right foot was sort of wedged up against his warm leg. Oh God, at least I hope it was his leg.

7. E. can do his next SA in a week or two, but there is a seventh month waiting list for my next test, an HSG. Seven. Months. Apparently this is due to the fact that they only do eight HSGs a week, and at least two people just don't show up because they got their period/got pregnant/forgot. Eh?

This announcement was followed by one of those lovely moments when you can read your partner's mind, because without missing a beat, E. and I, swiftly and in tandem, established where we can get the test done privately( (i.e not on the NHS), how long it will take (three to five weeks wait after referral), and what it will cost (couple hundred pounds). Check, check, check. All do-able.

As we were leaving, I looked back and saw Dr Ticktock pick himself up off the floor where he had collapsed under our barrage of questions, making a quiet note on our file: "Diagnosis: Willing to pay."

Journey to Camazozt

2004-10-11T18:22:00.000+01:00

This Wednesday, E. and I have our long awaited appointment at the Ass Con Centre . You would have thought by this point I would be positively giddy with excitement at the idea of going to talk to a medical professional who may actually be able to help us. Instead, my primary emotion at the moment is... exhausted numbness.

There's a word you sometimes hear here-"fashed". "To be fashed" in Scots means to trouble, to worry over. The expresson, "I cannae be fashed" translates roughly along the lines of: "Whatever, I don't really care." Or: "I can't be bothered worrying about it, such is my general indifference". And that's how I feel today- I cannae be fashed.

Having thought about it in preparation of writing this post, I'm not entirely sure why I feel this way. Could it be that my scratchy throat has emerged into a full blown cold, stuffing my head with hay and confuzzlement while I sneeze and blow my sleepwalking way through work? Or something more pernicious- a deep seated emotional weariness with the whole process? I don't know.

Truth be told, whatever the reason, I feel completely bone tired right now. Exhausted down to my core. And more than a little numb. That worries me some, given that it is so early in the process to be so...done in.

Infertility feels like an unhappy infatuation, a desperate crush. I have pursued the object of my affection relentlessly for over a year now. I have flung myself, repeatedly, recklessly and wantonly at my dream. And in return, not received so much as a backward glance. Never mind returning my phone calls or love letters- conception, pregnancy, or motherhood don't even know I exist. My desire has been so wholly unrequited for so long now that I have trouble imagining how I am going to keep up the chase indefinitely. I mostly feel the way I used to on the morning after a big party, having made a complete bunny boiling fool of myself in front of somebody I really liked.

Having had my heart stomped on ten ways to Christmas is something I have experienced before in my life, particularly one really ugly and extended episode. It was made worse because I willingly put myself in that position again and again. And it took an enormous feat of self-love to elevate myself beyond what, in retrospect, what a totally unnecessary cycle of pain. Sometimes lately I find myself feeling like my dalliance with infertility is becoming all too familiar, too similiar.

One of the most refreshing things about going on holiday was the minor epiphany that I could probably one day be happy without children. That I really could imagine some sort of life for us that didn't include children. Since then I have drawn back a little, reminding myself that- almost undoubtedly- there is a gaping chasm in reality between going on a fun holiday with the two of us without worrying about family commitments, and facing down an entire lifetime without a family. But it did plant a little seed in my mind, one that now occasionally whispers, "You don't have to do this, you know. You don't have to keep beating your head against the wall. You can make the pain go away by accepting things as they are, by resigning yourself to a childless life. By not trying- if it happens, if happens, but so be it."

This is confusing. We had already decided we didn't want to settle for things as they are. But I also don't relish the idea of the ongoing emotional rollercoaster that this process appears to involve. You know, I guess I'm just not all that het up about the idea that we finally get to take ourselves to the infertility clinic, a place I profoundly hoped that we would never see the inside of. I'm not sure I have any faith that we will get any answers soon, if at all. I'm not sure that those answers are going to be the ones we want.

And all the while, the voice in my head, so seductive, so compelling. That giving up is the best thing I could do. That I should just accept it. That I was never the type of woman who was so sure motherhood was the only option, however achieved. So why struggle like this? Why do this to myself?

The answer, I think, is this: because I also don't like the feeling that voice gives me. I don't really buy into notion that all I have to do is stop trying and all will be well. Above all, because the voice reminds me of the giant disembodied brain, IT in A Wrinkle in Time sucking my will, stealing my choice. Feeding the lie that doing what seems easiest right now is actually that- easy.

I know that one day it really may be time to stop. And I hope if that day comes, the good insights of the minor epiphany are not too far behind. That we won't be too worn down to make the choice. That it will be just that- a choice-rather than an slow, exhausted deflating. That until then, I can bring myself to feel something other than resigned weariness.

That I wake up on Wednesday, and remember, again, why we began down this road in the first place. How we arrived here. And where we want to go.

A very Important Task

2004-10-08T23:34:00.000+01:00

I have the feeling that normal service has yet to be resumed. It's kind of the way you feel right after Christmas (or, in Scotland- New Year, since the party goes on until 2 January).

Just as you start enjoying yourself and relaxing a bit, deciding it's OK to sleep until 11 am, then wander around in your jimjams, watching crap telly and dipping into boxes of truffle-filled chocolates whilst pouring bottles of brandy down your throat, it's time to go back to work. Ugh. I have yet to finish unpacking, doing laundry, paying the bills, returning phone calls, tending to the withered plants, hoovering up the dust bunnies from under the bed or reading the rest of my bloglist. Bleh.

To compound my general meh-ness, I have picked up a bug on the flight home (or possibly while on holiday- running around that last night in my little strappy top despite the chill). I have scratchy throat and croaky voice. The plan is for me to lie in a little ball in my bed for 48 hours straight this weekend, arising periodically only to do various chores, like put another load of washing on. E. has promised to bring me cups of tea at regular intervals and not make me go to the grocery store.

There is however one essential task I must do. Fill in and post my absentee ballot. The envelope was waiting for me upon our arrival home, and yesterday I finally got around to opening it. I've put it to one side for the moment, figuring that I needed a day or two to reflect deeply upon matters. Such a big decision ahead. It's a tough choice, one that has kept me awake at night, pondering.

Will I vote for John Kerry with the blue pen or the black pen? Or perhaps, the racy number 2 pencil?

OK, I might make light of it, but it is important. Perhaps even more so, given the confession I am about to make. You see, unlike some , who proceeded to actually follow through on their carefully made decision, (albeit one which they may have regretted later), I...well....I....

I'll just say it. Election 2000. I filled in the ballot, then failed to mail it. Repeat, I failed to mail my absentee ballot .

Lame ass excuse? Well, I may have mentioned before that I have this real loathing of posting things. Going to the post office here is just an ordeal that I avoid, wherever possible, especially if it involves standing in line behind people who feel the need to explain their endless life story to the pond-water speed clerk as they carry out whatever it is that seems to take up nine hours, or at best, my entire lunch break.

Mailing the ballot would involve getting stamps to go to America, which means going to the post office. So the envelope sat on my hall table, and eventually, I decided it was too late (though it may not have been) and threw it away.

Now. That would be bad enough, but then it got a whole lot worse.

Because I am registered to vote in Florida. As I was in Election 2000.

That year, I watched from afar in increasing horror the events unfolding before me. As the lawyers waded in and the mudslinging began, I began having nightmares that it came down to just one or two votes difference between Gore and Bush, and then someone discovered that I hadn't posted my ballot, and the fingers of accusation would point harshly my way. Now, I know there is still debate about the final numbers. But it appears to me that in the big scheme of things, the margins were close enough for me to put my head in my hands for the next four years, cringing. What had I done? Or more important, what I had I not done.

It wasn't just even as if I had gone to the polls, and accidentally voted for the wrong person by misreading the buttefly ballot. It was that I hadn't gotten off my fat ass and posted an envelope! I hadn't cared enough to exercise my precious democratic right to vote, a right which the United States generously continues to bestow upon me for federal elections, even though I live overseas. A right that was arbitrarily taken away from some, in error, by the disenfranchisement which went on in Florida (and perhaps elsewhere for all I know) before the election. A right that people have fought and died for.

This is not intended to be a political rant. I had vaguely decided awhile back that while I would generally keep my political views more or less to myself (unless they encroach into reproductive rights, which are of importance to me but which I have not yet really gotten into in my posts). I felt partly like this wasn't really the platform for me to talk about politics, at least not in the broad sense, and partly because I feel like so many other people say it so much better.

But this is not about my political stance. It's about recognising that 4 years ago, I was limp and pathetic, feeling like it didn't really make a difference whether I went to get a stamp. I'm ashamed, because... well, as it happens, it may have made a very big difference. I'm not saying that I, Mare, would have singularly changed the course of American history. But that election was such a revelation to me- how all the individual voices do mount up, how each vote does have some weight.

How it matters.

Over and...not out

2004-10-07T01:15:00.000+01:00

I'm back! I'm backity back! We got in very late last night after a very long journey. Then I had to go to WORK this morning, nightmare of nightmares. There are big goings on there. But perhaps more importantly, since I have been cut off from oxygen, I mean, internet access for the last two weeks, I also have no idea of what has been happening in Blogland. The loop, me, far out of and all that... So I have a lot of catching up to do.

But first I will tell you a few things about my adventures on the High Seas.

Firstly, E. and I did manage to rendez-vous at the airport as planned. He was not just on time but early, and very contrite. Spending three days bouncing around in a small wooden boat in rough swells with three other smelly, snoring guys was apparently enough to forcefully illustrate to him the sheer folly of his ways. He practically hurled himself at me as I came off the flight from Scotland, gibbering incoherently with delight at seeing my funny little face.

Oh, and amongst all the exclamations of how much he missed me was a confession that the trip had cost him an astronomical amount of money. Really. I had to extract the final sum from him in a slow and tortuous interrogation, but eventually he revealed exactly. how. much.

At which point I had to go find a bench to sit down on and put my head between my knees while breathing into a paper bag. Never mind, it's only money la la la. The important thing is that he had a good time. Which he didn't... and..oh, bugger, let's move on, shall we.

Has your flight ever been delayed at Gatwick Airport? No? Well, mine has, plenty of times. In fact, a couple years ago, we were stranded there on New Year's Eve and actually had to sleep at the airport. So you might say I have a fairly intimate working knowledge of the place. So on this occasion, when our flight was delayed by four hours, I very quickly became catatonic with boredom. The obvious thing to do was to read a book. But I have this weird habit, whereby I don't want to read any of my books or magazines til I get to whereever I am going, because otherwise I might use up all my reading material, and then what would I do. I did however surrepitiously leaf through all the magazines on the news stands. While we waited. For four fucking hours.

It might not have been so bad except that we had a four hour trip upon our arrival on the other end, including a ferry ride, to get where we were going. We landed at midnight. So yes, it was four in the morning by the time we got to our destination.

And even that might not have been so bad, except we had to be up at 9am to start- wait for it- yacht training! As in learning how to sail the yacht. Now, seeing how this was a sailing holiday, this should not have come as a huge shock. But this was the part of the brochure I was a little sketchy about. I sorta figured this would involve learning how to tie a few funny knots and maybe do a little winching or whatever with the sails. But admittedly, I was quite vague on the particulars.

What the training really involved was five people on a not very big boat, tripping over each other. For four days, 9am to 6pm. Us and another couple, and an instructor, who was a slip of a girl far too wise for her years. The other couple was a nice, good-looking pair, but slightly vacuous and befuddled by everything. Happily, they appeared to be even worse at sailing then we were, which cheered E. and I up.

Together we embarked on endless mooring practice, jumping off and on the boat with ropes and lines in every different direction. Anchoring, taking bearings with a compass, or learning how to do certain things with the sails, depending on which way the wind was blowing. Tying knots. Man overboard. How to set off flares in an emergency, or call on the VHF radio. For example, did you know that when speaking on the radio, when you want a reply, you say "Over". When you are done with the conversation, you say "Out" or else "Standing by on..." whatever channel. It is therefore totally inaccurate to say "Over and Out". Doing so will earn you fifty lashes.

All this activity, all this leaping around in the fresh air- it was fun, yes, in a way. But it was absolutely exhausting. At the end of the second day, E. and I lay sprawled on the bed in the hotel, wide-eyed with fatigue in a floppy pile. Finally, E. raised his head slightly, and poked me in the belly with his index finger.

"Shouldn't we be having sex?" he asked in a pale voice.

"Too tired," I whimpered.

"But....but...but, oh, you're right, me too," he agreed.

The weather then turned crappy, and very windy which made it even more challenging. E. turned out to be rather clueless about how it all worked, which surprised me a little given the manly (not to mention expensive) sailing weekend he had just "enjoyed". But by the end of the training, I was feeling as if we had both learned lots. Ready to head out on our own! Slip the leeward line! Gybe ho!

At which point the instructor told me I needed to do an extra day. Me and only me. Out of the four of us. The dippy couple, on the other hand, were signed off, and sent away.

"I want you to go out tomorrow for an extra day," she said to me.

I looked at E. He raised his eyebrows. I know he can read my mind at times, and he was getting ready to say something diplomatic.

"I'd really like to have a day off. From sailing. I haven't had a break. No chance to sleep late even one day since we got out here, " I explained.

"And I'm supposed to be on vacation," I added for good measure.

"Well. OK. A day off, then you can go out the day after that," she said.

"I'd really rather not," I said.

"I think you really better had," she said, in a firm tone of voice. Meaning if I didn't there would be no two of us on our own. No gybe ho, no Master and Commander.

E. and I went back up to the hotel room. And I bawled like I haven't done in ages. I mean, ripping, sobbing heaving crying, of an intensity I have not experienced in a long time, even in a year of infertility. I failed! I fucking well failed, where everyone else had passed. This was supposed to be fun! It was our vacation. But instead of lying by the pool sipping a margarita in the sun, I was going to spend another day in the rain, bashing my knees against the seat while somebody accidentally bumped me in the ass with the tiller. Being made to go to what seemed to be ridiculous lengths while everybody else breezed through...and it was just too much like...well, like the way I have felt for so long now.

I sobbed in the shower, on the terrace, under the covers. E. kept patting me and bringing me drinks, which was nice, but not hugely effective, until finally he crawled into bed with me and spooned me for half an hour, whispering comforting things into my ear.

We had a day off. And then I got back on the fucking boat and did the extra day. It pissed it down with rain for hours, was freezing cold, and for extra amusement value, I fell off the boarding plank getting back on the boat after lunch. As in, all the way into the water. In front of the whole marina. Happily, I had my thermals on under my wet weather gear, but it was still more than a bit uncomfy, plus I gashed my shin. Lovely. And then I got back on the fucking boat and finished the day.

There was one other extremely hairy interlude on the first day out on the flotilla with just the two of us on our own boat. There we were merrily sailing along, getting the hang of doing everything without five other people to trip over. The weather was fine, the wind was good. Suddenly, during an exposed passage between two islands, the wind picked up and we hit some horrendous swell. The boat was being thrown about so badly we had to harness ourselves on, at which point there was a problem with the sail and it was all looking not a little alarming. I decided this was a good time to have an all out panic attack, complete with high pitched keening noices and being sick over the side. When we finally made it to harbour, I immediately went below, pouring half a bottle of strong drink down my throat in order to calm down.

So yeah, not all fun.

But those were the worst bits. After all that sturm and drang, there were wonderful times too. There was, mercifully, absolutely no baby talk whatsoever from any of the other couples, all of whom were childless. I ate and drank whatever I wanted and ignored, for the first time in over a year, anything to do with my cycle. After that first scary day we had a hot, sunny and almost windless week, with flat calm waters (not so good for sailing, but mighty soothing). Dolphins leaping off the starboard bow. Anchoring in amazing little bays off secluded islands. Brilliant starlight nights. Some excellent company with which to share a companionable gin and tonic on deck. Lastly, I finally got to grips with the sailing, learning to enjoy it.

Now back at home, I am ready to pick up where I left off. I have realised afresh that this habit of stubborn resilience is one which is now so ingrained that I find myself doing things, in more than one area of my life, that once would have finished me off completely. Fall down, get up. Fall in, get up. Fall over, get up.

Sail on.

Rope swing

2004-09-21T02:28:00.000+01:00

Well, it's time for me to bid you a temporary farewell, for as of tomorrow morning, I shall be on my long awaited, much anticipated holiday. For two! whole! fun-filled! weeks.

I am acutely aware that a lot can happen in two weeks in our corner of the blogosphere. It seems like a long time to be gone. And the very words "two weeks" can, in themselves, be of great import to many of us. When I hear those words, I often also hear distant but relentless drumbeats, a low and ancient rhythm, measuring that time between not knowing and knowing. It's a sound which carries near water, reaching those waiting for a ticket off the island, and for others already on the ferry, pulling from shore.

So, if possible, and assuming the alleged internet connection actually exists, I may be checking in (though unlikely to be blogging), at least during the first week. After that, I shall be too busy trying to prevent our boat from crashing into rocks/sandbars/local sea life.

I am optimistic about this sailing lark. In my head, I picture myself in a pose not unlike that adopted by Russell Crowe in the film Master and Commander- you know the scene I mean? High in the rigging, wind in hair, exuberantly facing the sea spray as the mighty ship plows its way through the waters. Except in my version, without the five o'clock shadow and greasy ponytail. Plus, my clothes are a lot cuter. And, of course our boat will be quite a bit, um, smaller. And Russell wasn't gulping from a large vat of wine in that particular shot, as I will almost certainly be doing when not tying bowlines or whatever.

Speaking of yachts, E. has rung and texted me dozens of times since he went his obstinant way on the stupid trip down south. Apparently, the weather has been grim, the seas rough, and the food full of weevils. Well, I exaggerate, but not by much. He says he doesn't even need me to say "I told you so", because he can hear my dulcet voice telling him at every turn. That's either good, or worrying- not sure which yet.

While I am away, I hope some of you will stop in at the barn from time to time, maybe water the plants and just keep an eye on things. Should you be so inclined, you could always play on the rope swing I have rigged up from the hayloft for your amusement. Or, choose from the following activities:

1. Write me a Haiku. I've been playing around with this poetic form for a couple months now, and feel it is a perfect medium to capture those little infertility moments we all so treasure. For example:

Early morning panic
Sperm in cup, warm in my bra
Red light, green light, red.

2. Laugh at badly dressed celebrities with more money than sense at Fugging It Up.

3. Frustrated? Whack endless penguins at this ultimately pointless but completely addictive site.

4. Whatever your political leanings, view the internet hit satire This Land at JibJab.com.

5. Read one of the very excellent blogs listed on the lower right hand side of the page.

See you on Wednesday, 6 October.

Looking the Gift Horse in the Mouth*

2004-09-17T18:14:00.000+01:00

I have two stories to tell you- the first is what E. gave me for my birthday, and the second is why he wasn't here on the actual birthday itself. Originally I was going to split the telling into two separate posts. But when I began thinking about it, I realised that the events are more like interlocking puzzle pieces than discrete chapters. The resulting post is a bit longer than usual. So before you begin, go get a cup of tea, some snacky cakes or whatever it is you choose to dribble on your keyboard whilst reading.

OK?

Part One: The Birthday Present
______________________________

I begin with the gift, since I know you'll be chomping at the bit to hear about that. (A little equine pun there for you).

By way of background, you must understand that, like many families, mine has some specific ideas about gift-giving and receiving. When I was growing up, my parents were always extremely generous- but not in the sense that it was a constant bounty of instant gratification. No, no- there were only two occasions of the year where the giving was a no- holds barred, lavish affair. Christmas, and to a lesser extent, birthdays. You saved up all your requests for those two dates, and as long as what you asked for was within reason, the wishes were, where possible, honored.

Consequently, as a child I learned that the way to get what I wanted was to either hoard my allowance until I could afford the "whatever it was", or to ask for it as a Christmas/birthday present. From a young age, I became extremely focused, discerning and...particular.

I mean, if you only had two shots a year at getting a certain item, you made damn sure that you didn't squander the opportunity by demanding a lot of useless shit. Stuff which might distract from the main event. Surprises were, for the most part, frowned upon. You made sure that the present giver was completely clear about what you wanted. It would not do to leave it up to chance. Because then you might get a lesser or undesirable alternate version, such as the Sunshine Family Dollhouse when your whole being cried out for Pole-Dancing Stripper Barbie. Because whatever you got, you were then pretty much stuck with it.

I appreciate this might sound hopelessly weird to some of you. It is, in some respects, a little odd to me- it smacks of something rather mercenary and rote in terms of the experience of giving. But it works for the Mare Family. We think it saves time, money, energy and disappointment all around if everyone is clear from the outset as to exactly what to buy. And you must understand that it's really not about being materialistic or grasping. Quite the opposite. It's a minimalist approach, about giving less in terms of actual quantity , but making sure that the thing chosen, while not necessarily the biggest or most expensive, is the thing most truly desired. It's reached the point where nowadays, we skip the whole charade at birthdays and my parents just give me money. Perfection.

Of course, E. didn't grow up in my family (which is good, because otherwise trying to conceive would not only be futile, but twisted and illegal). He has his own ideas about how to give presents. He more or less humours me about being told what to buy. Where we run into trouble is when he deviates from that strategy.

Case in point. A couple years ago, I asked him for a particular radio for Christmas. I don't know if you'll have seen these in the States? One of those groovy vintage-looking Roberts Revival radios. A red one.

Now, I don't really listen to the radio all that much, but I thought when I did, it would be cool to do so by means of such a deliciously cute device. And it would look great on the kitchen counter.

E. nodded when I told him this. Then he started asking questions about the specification. What the sound was like, the battery life, was it stereo or mono, etc, etc.? I told him I didn't give a shit. I wanted it because it was cute, not because for the sound quality. He went away and thought about it, and still the questions came. He did some research and began talking about a different type of radio, one with far better sound for an equivalent price.

I got a bad feeling.

"Listen," I said, "Just so we are clear. I really only want the Roberts. If you don't get me that, don't get me a different radio. I don't want any other radio."

"But the Tivoli is so much better."

"I don't care, " I snapped. "I only. want. the. Roberts."

I went on to make a big stroppy noise about it, halfway hating myself as I did it, but you know, not wanting him to spend his hard earned cash on something I would hate, when I soooo coveted the Roberts.

Christmas Day rolls around. I reach for the radio-sized box with glee. Rip, rip, rip paper off and...oh sweet Jesus gay, he bought me the other radio. Argggh! Noooooo! Deviation! Error! Error! You have deviated from the list!

Turns out, after a little convincing, I absolutely love the Tivoli, which in its own right is an extremely groovy piece of kit and yes, a great radio. He was right. I was wrong. But it was one of those moments when you look at each other, and realise how complicated being with somebody can be. I sat there in my jammies on Christmas morning with the box in my hand, confused. Struggling to overcome every ingrained pattern, every notion of what it meant to give and receive that I had carried with me since I was old enough to say "I want".

OK, so, let's talk about last night. (Thank God, finally, I hear you say).

He shows up with food, and a box containing my gift. He was very late because he had only just been to the store to buy dinner and the present (another key difference is our approach to time management, but we won't go there). He is all excited about how much I am going to love this cool thing he has bought me. I open it.

It is a pair of ugly casual hiking-type sandals.

Now, I am not a casual sandal wearing kind of girl. I love shoes, but I hate my feet- I have awful feet and disgusting deformed toenails. So I tend to limit sandal wearing to one high end designer pair for those occasions where anything else would look wrong with an outfit.

E. knows all this. He knows very well of my footwear proclivities.

What pops out of my mouth is: "What are these supposed to be?"

He turns away, starts putting away the groceries. He says quietly,

"I just can't do anything right, can I?"

Now. Before we twist the knife that statement drove into my heart and start concluding that I am a shrew-bitch from hell for treating my sweetie pie like this, I need to tell you Part Two.

Part Two- The Trip
-------------------

Early next week, we are going on vacation. We have planned this for months. After much discussion, we decided that this year, rather than the usual "fly and flop", we would do an "activity-based" holiday. I might as well tell you, it's sailing- like, on a yacht.

E. was the primary instigator for this. Sailing is a hobby he would like to get more heavily into. I have resisted for several reasons, not least of which is that I have a pathological fear of drowning, and so perhaps understandably not so sure water based activities are my thing. But the trip is a compromise- a way for us to experiment with some beginner sailing in a warm, sunny location.

Now. We are going to be spending two entire weeks doing this activity, to the exclusion of most everything else. All sailing, all the time. Bit of a risk for me, if I hate it, but I'm cool with that.

But I was somewhat less than amused when E. announced to me that he wanted to spend this weekend in the south of England with a friend of his...on a sailing trip. The very thing we are about to spend two weeks doing on our vacation. Instead of us packing and getting ready and organized together for a trip, the nature of which I am a tad anxious about, he wanted to go off sailing all weekend. I was to fly down on my own next week to rendez-vous with him at Gatwick airport.

It's not that I am trying to keep E. from going off to do something he enjoys, where the opportunity presents itself. It's just that every single time we travel, something goes pear-shaped. Lost tickets, wrong passport, forgot the driver's license, flights cancelled or delayed due to terrorist threat/hurricane/drunken pilot. I mean, c'mon. Getting from point A to point B is not as easy as it used to be. And I am going to worry the whole weekend that he will get injured on this other sailing trip, or lost at sea, or delayed. In which case, apart from anything else, our vacation together is fucked. Our vacation, the prospect of which, apart from this blog has been the one thing keeping me from completely losing my sanity over the last several months.

I said I'd rather he didn't go. He said he would rather he did. We argued about it on and off for weeks, and then he went dangerously quiet. I was distracted by the wedding, and the idea I might finally be pregnant.

Last week, without telling me, he changed his flights, and arranged to go on the weekend trip. I found out when I got a confirmation e-mail from the airline.

I was incandescent with rage. It was, I told him, a twofold blow. Not only the fact that he was going when I really didn't want him to, but he had lied to me and gone behind my back as well. His excuse?

"I didn't want to upset you before the wedding ."

Eventually, after some bitter bloodletting and non-specific groveling for forgiveness on his part, I decided I may was well to make the best of it, and go with the flow. But, to cut what is turning into a very long story short, the change in plans led to a very mundane re-organising of things in our already complicated two-flat, two city existence, like where we leave the car and when and blah blah blah. All of which had a knock-on effect into when he would be logistically be able to come here to do all that- that date being not my birthday, but the following day.

Turgid, no?

The point, which I have, in a very long-winded fashion, finally reached is this:

His birthday present to me, while sweet and generous and all the rest, was sort of underpinned by the sailing fandango. It wasn't just that I am an ungrateful bitch. It's just that I had that feeling of not being heard, not being understood. It was that childish pang of opening the box, and it being the wrong thing, after you had so painstakingly explained what it was you did want. It was that feeling of having what I want for us together come second to what he wants to do off on his own, a relic from the early wars in our relationship. So, I hope you see, it wasn't as straightforward as me spurning his gift of ugly sandals.

Finale:
________

In conclusion, I can tell you this. It's completely OK. Our relationship is not always perfect, no big revelation there. There's always work to be done, and we're always doing it. Those lessons will no doubt prove valuable when we return from this last break, ready at last to enter the infertility treatment fray.

Oh, and the ugly sandals? Helluva comfy. I've been wearing them since I got home from work, and you know what? Maybe they are kind of cool after all.

* With thanks to Marla for inspiring the post title.

Moi, birthday

2004-09-15T22:27:00.000+01:00

There's a rumour going around that today is my birthday. After some deliberation, I have decided to confess. Yes, it's true. Today is, in fact, my birthday.

One of the reasons I wasn't gonna say anything is because the whole day has been such a complete non-event. The big treat of the day was a foofy coffee from *insert Huge Corporate Conglomerate Coffee Franchise here*, not the cheap filter coffee I usually make for myself. I went to work, went to the gym and came home. I had a shower. I ate two cold leftover sausages and a bowl of cornflakes, which is the only food in the house at the moment. I called my mother and scraped her down from the ceiling about all things Ivan related.

Now, I can hear you all, with a collective gasp of astonishment saying: where is E.? How could E., whose treatment of small ponies is usually so exemplary, be absent? Today of all days? Well. We'll come onto to the detail of that in another post later. It's a long story, but (more or less), it's cool.

However, I did suggest that it would be a grand gesture for him to send flowers to me at work today. You know, the kind of overblown romantic display which might be expected on the birthday of one's beloved partner, particularly when said partner is a little down.

The subsequent conversation, conducted by e-mail, went something like this:

M: It's my birthday. Where the fuck are my flowers?

E: Do you have any idea how much it costs to send flowers?

M: No, because you never send them.

E: To get a nice bunch costs £XX. For £XX I could buy you [insert number of desirable covetable items of a more permanent nature].

M: Mmm. I note I don't have any of those things either.

E: Oh. Well. Yes. Mmm.

Anyway. I'll see him tomorrow, and so I will postpone my childlike giddiness at the prospect of presents until then.

In the meantime, it may interest you to know that in horse years I am 10 years and 4 months old.

Skin care for the infertile

2004-09-15T13:16:00.000+01:00

I am a little preoccupied with all things skin care right now. You see, to accompany the period pains, bloated body and general crapitude of another failed cycle, there is now a gigantic red spot above my right eye.

I say "spot" because that's what British people say when they refer to acne. To my mind this has always been rather less jarring and inoffensive than the word "zit". Spot can mean anything from a minor blemish to a more glaring defect. Whereas zit just seems to lump the whole spectrum of skin problems into one unpleasant category.

I always had pretty good skin as a teenager, but that changed when I hit thirty. Suddenly, my face was spot central. In an effort to combat what seemed like nigh on daily eruptions, I tried every wash, cleanser, blemish stick, oil remover, concealer and over the counter medicated goop known to womankind. I did everything right- never went to bed with make-up on, cleansed twice a day, gave myself gentle facials with soothing aromatherapy products, drank two litres of water a day, blah blah blah. And still the spots cropped up.

However, it wasn't so bad that I felt I had to go see a dermatologist. Except that one time.

Right around my final exams, I began to seriously wonder if I had accidentally contracted a case of facial leprosy. I covered it up as best I could, but it was really repulsive. I probably made it worse by the heavy layer of slap coating the scourge, but that was necessary, since short of placing a bag over my head, I felt I couldn't be seen in public without some camouflage. As it was, small children shrieked in horror at the sight of my visage. Grown men screamed, "My God, what the fuck is that?!" when they saw me coming.

It was therefore unfortunate that at the height of the outbreak, I chose to go out for a brisk run on my day off, wearing only the bare minimum of concealer. My keys fell out of my pocket somewhere along the way, and I had to go into the office for the spares- looking like a sweaty, oozing Swamp Thing. For added entertainment value, my then-boyfriend was at work that day, and he took one look at me before running to alert the Atlanta Center for Disease Control.

Some months later, I finally got a grip on the acne situation and it's never been as bad since. But any added stress still tends to make my skin flare up. Needless to say, infertility has not exactly been a boost in helping me keep my complexion dewy fresh. The problem is, I get a "starter spot", and then I agitate it by prodding it.

I know, I know, I know, I know, I knnnnnoooow- it's the worst thing you can do. You should leave it alone. Or, if you must deal with it, you should wait until it comes to a head and then gently, wearing new gloves made from the finest baby seal pup skin, do something with an extractor. (Not that I own one of those).

I know you should not go in, with oily fingers, touching it and under no circumstances should you squeeze it because that causes more trauma and possible scarring and....Look, for the love of Jesus Gay, can we just not talk about it. I can only moderate so much of my behaviour, and when I am stressed, I simply can't control myself on that front.

The result is typically a total mess. I spend an extra half hour in the morning doing artful things with my make-up to try to hide it. Apart from when I get really carried away, and then I am left with, for example, the thing currently above my right eye. It's so bright and glaring that if the runway flares at Heathrow airport fail at any time in the next few days, they know who to call.

So, I was sitting on the sofa last night, flicking through the channels, and a commercial came on for a new line of wrinkle cream. I don't know if they show this ad in the States, or if this is just a British version. It features a particular model whom I happen to detest for no reason other than she strikes me as even more useless and vacuous than other models, most of whom inspire me to no more than something akin to a vague dislike.

In this ad, the camera is angled up and the Model is sort of bending over, making cooing noises and playing peek-a-boo. The idea is that it is shot from the perspective of an infant in a crib. Annoying Voice Over Person proclaims that these kind of facial movements, i.e. "hello baby scrunchy giggles", can gives you lines and wrinkles! But wait! The new product, Botoxuloxo or whatever the fuck they have called it is meant to REDUCE YOUR LINES BY 454%. Thus removing the need to maintain a complete po-faced expression throughout your child's life . The ad finishes by Vacuous Model chirping, "Surgery can wait!"

This commerical offends me on so many levels. Arguably, the little subliminal plug for surgery irks me the most- the implication being since we're all going to end up looking like haggard old bitches one day, cosmetic surgery is inevitable. Particularly if we don't avail ourselves of Botulismlox as soon as possible. The message that making cute faces at your baby is going to do irreparable damage to your skin is also irritating.

But lastly, the notion that the wonderful benefits of Burpolox should be bestowed women with small babies seems to miss the mark somewhat. Clearly, the marketing people have never spent time in the company of an infertile woman! I mean, dear Loward, just think of the range of expressions infertile faces go through.

For example:

- The "we're only having sex tonight because I am ovulating, but I know that would hurt your feelings so I am pretending to enjoy it and have an orgasm" face.

- Teeth clenching, having just received assvice from someone who should know better.

- Squinting of eyes and craning of neck whilst holding negative HPT up to the light to inspect for the phantom second line.

- The plastered on fake smile when a colleague announces the news of her latest happy "accident".

- The open mouthed gawp disbelief when the hospital call to reschedule your appointment for the sixth time.

And there are so many more I have yet to experience. Yee gads, I'll be wrinkletastic at the rate I am going.

If there is a market for Browfreezerlox for those women whose faces are really showing some wear and tear, surely infertiles are a much better bet?

For better and for worse

2004-09-13T13:25:00.000+01:00

I'm back from my weekend at the wedding. In this entry, as promised, the answer to several questions, (including, am I pregnant yet?) will be revealed.

Saturday morning rolls around. I wake from a disturbing dream of giving myself injections. This does not bode well, I think. But it seems my period has not arrived. So, sticking with the earlier plan, I convince E. to drive over to Boots the chemist with me to buy a pregnancy test.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks.

"Sure, why not?"

"Because," he says gently, "I am afraid it will ruin your day if you are not pregnant."

"It'll ruin my whole month if it turns out that I am not pregnant. But it'll be even worse if that is the case, and I have deliberately avoided the champagne!"

He sees my point. He needs shaving foam anyway, so off we go. We get the stuff, and stand in line behind a couple with a two day old infant as they argue with the check-out girl about the price of whatever New Infant care item they were wanting to buy. The HPT packages (buy two get one free) suddenly feel slippery in my sweaty palm.

Back at the flat, I put my make-up on, change into my wedding attire. I struggle with my strapless bra and my strappy sandals. E. and I discuss his under-kilt strategy.

"I wasn't going to wear anything," he says, "I usually don't." (Answer one, part one- usually, nothing).

"It's gonna be gale forces winds today, sweetie," I reply. "Maybe you better put something on. Just in case of unexpected...gusts. "

"Good point," he agrees, and slips on a pair of blue brushed cotton Calvin Klein boxers. (Answer one, part two- depends on the weather.)

It is nearly time to leave. I go into the bathroom on my own. I take the test. My hands are shaking. I sit on the edge of the bath for the alloted minutes, watching the control line darken on its lonely ownsome. Coming out of the bathroom, I put the test down on the kitchen counter, under the light.

"Do you see a second line?" I ask.

E. looks at it. "No. Should there be one?"

(Answer two- no, I am not pregnant.)

We throw the test in the trash, and I put my coat on. We get in the car. We drive to the wedding, without saying much.

It is a lovely day, despite the wind. The bride is beautiful, radiant- even more so than brides usually are. At the reception, the tables are set with candles and very tall vases of white lilies. We sit with two single women and a gay couple (whom I shall call Alex and Joe). It's a nice mix, especially since they are cool and groovy people. We eat and we drink. We toast the happy couple again and again. The bride's father mentions the families with new babies, who have made a special effort to get to the wedding. My champagne glass is soon empty.

It turns out that one of the women at the table has recently finished an eight month relationship with a guy E. knows rather well, a funny coincedence, so they gossip about it. Further proof of what a small country this is. The couples with the small babies (three of them) are sitting elsewhere. The babies sleep, even when passed around to admiring friends.

The band plays jazz. The bride and groom twirl around the floor, kissing. One of the couples with a newborn stand nearby, cuddling their little person, bouncing her in their arms.

"Stop staring," E. whispers. My hand convulses around the stem of my wine glass.

"I was wondering what the baby's head smells like," I whisper back. E. takes my hand off the glass, holds it for a minute.

Alex comes around the table and sits next to me. He is pale, bald and smiling.

"I haven't been able to talk to you yet," he says, pointing to the tall vase, "you've been obscured by foliage."

Alex, it turns out, has been very ill. The lump in his groin, the one his doctors told him "not to worry about" for five years, was in fact very worriesome indeed. The cancer had spread throughout his body. He had a bone marrow transplant last year. Joe comes over to join us. I get the impression they have told the story many times before.

"It must have been very hard for you, " I say to him, "hard for you both."

"The thing is," Joe tells me, "is when it is happening, you don't know at first how bad it will be. And then it's happening, and you take it one day at a time. One treatment at a time. Part of you is looking on, wondering how you got to the point of this procedure, or that procedure. And you keep hoping."

I know, I think to myself, inside my head. I know. Out loud I say, "I am so sorry you had to go through that." They nod.

A heavily pregnant woman passes by our table, smoking. She stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray near E. His hand convulses on the stem of his wine glass.

I take E. to the dance floor, and we spin around. We dance the night away.

At 1am, the disco finishes. I kiss the bride goodbye, and tell them to have a wonderful honeymoon. E. and I leave the venue, heading out into drizzling rain and lashing wind. The queue at the taxi stand is a mile long. We decide to walk. I wrap my thin coat around me. The water gets on my suede sandals, my painted toes. It is cold.

"Tell me something nice," I beg E. as we struggle down the street. E. thinks a minute.

"I never knew before tonight that you are such a good dancer. You looked great, dancing. You looked so pretty tonight."

I thank him. "Tell me something too," he says, holding onto my arm.

So I tell him- how, when we came back to the table between songs, flushed and smiling, Alex had said to me how good we look together. How happy we look, how we glow.

There is rain on my face, and in our eyes. When I look up, I see we are almost home. I know again a simple truth- that we are really happy. What is not so simple is that at the same time, we are also a little bewildered. We are becoming more than a little sad.

And for better, for worse, we are in this together.

Semper ubi sub ubi

2004-09-10T12:30:00.000+01:00

It may be quiet here at the Barn for the next couple days, as I will be away at the wedding this weekend.

I am reminded, as always, in reading all your lovely comments about my boredom how many warm, big-hearted women are out there, including that cheeky monkey Soper, albeit for her impertinence, I must gently hurl a chunk of haggis at her snottery head. She has a cold, so maybe ducking will help loosen the phlegm.

In return for your kindness, I may, upon my return, share with you an insight into that age old question. Namely, what does a Scotsman wear under his kilt? Of course, I already know the answer, but want to make sure on behalf of my readers that my knowledge is up-to-date and completely accurate. Perfect timing, as many men wear kilts as formal wear, for example, at a wedding. And E. will be donning his on Saturday.

This will give me an opportunity to conduct all the necessary investigations- strictly in the name of research, you understand. I'll let you know what I find out.

Bored

2004-09-08T18:13:00.000+01:00

Bore (v.)

Weary by tedious talk, dullness or monotony.

-The Oxford Shorter English Dictionary

My primary emotion, as we turn down the home stretch of this cycle's two week wait, is not hope, fear or anticipation. No. What I feel at the moment is mostly... boredom.

I hate confessing that I am bored, because immediately that inner voice starts up. The voice that routinely and on cue, chimes out all the things your mother ever told you, taking up the chant,

"Bored people are boring to be with! Bored people are booooooring".

The implication of that saying is that: if I had enough inner resources to make the experience of waiting unsuccessfully to get pregnant into something interesting and positive, well, then I wouldn't be bored. So in other words, I feel dull, because I am dull. Well, OK, whatever. I am too bored to worry about how boring I might be. Really. I am too bored to care about the fact that I can't turn the soul-destroying siege of yet another cycle into something illuminating and entertaining for myself.

I recognise that infertility is not the sole cause of my boredom. If I subject the state of my life to a cool, clinical analysis, I can readily admit that many aspects of my life, even before we started trying, are/were boring. When I was younger, I traveled a lot and tried out several different career avenues, and those journeys took me some rather strange and unexpected places. Eventually though, I got sick of having no money, no stability and no security. So I opted for what was ultimately a rather safer & more conventional path. I got a job, I got a mortgage, I got responsibilities. And sometimes those bore me in a general sense, the way we all sometimes get tired of the usual drill.

One of the reasons we decided it was time to have a family is that we looked around at what we had. Though we agreed our situation was nice in many ways, we felt unfulfilled. We thought that having a child would be an enhancement on so many levels. We welcomed the challenge of parenthood. We felt that we would be better people for being parents, and we looked forward to having the opportunity to love and nuture a child. To think about something beyond ourselves, and what we had already created. It wasn't so much as we were bored with what we had- it was just that we wanted to move on to something that we both saw as a deeply enriching and fundamentally important experience.

Sometimes when we talk about the options, we discuss living child-free. I know for some people, child-free is really is not an option. In this house, however, we feel like we must keep all avenues open. Because the bottom line is that for us, it may turn out not to be so much an "option" as the default position. The status quo.

So while we start out agreeing that we like our lives just fine, we always come back, full circle. We've looked at where we are now, and decided it's not enough. That our careers, our hobbies, our properties, hot sex*, our holidays together- not enough. And not because it isn't good- it is. But because we've already looked past that and realised that we don't want to retain the status quo. We've become more and more sure of that over time, because unlike people who simply get pregnant as soon as they decide they want a family, we have to keep re-visiting what motivates us in that direction.

But I think it does become harder to keep re-evaluating a major life decision, one which we may, ultimately, never have the opportunity to make real. It just that it gets exhausting, every month, having to come back to that starting block. To work up the nerve, to conquer our fear of falling and throw ourselves off that high cliff, into the great unknown again and again. To keep asking the same questions that must, on some level, be asked yet again. Do we still want this? How much do we want this? Are we right to want this? How long can we carry on wanting if it never happens?

This is where we are right now. All we can do is hang on and wait for the point where we can add the extra questions. And I am extremely bored with being in that state. I am bored of waiting, bored of disappointment, bored of sex on schedule, bored of listening to other fertile types talk about their kids, bored of my life without baby. That doesn't mean I don't have all the other emotions mixed in there too- it's that today, like so many other days, the boredom is overwhelming. It cancels out everything else. It turns me into somebody I don't like- someone who is bored. Someone who is boring.

*just checking to see if you were paying attention, or if you were too bored by my boringness to notice.

Flashback

2004-09-06T20:39:00.000+01:00

We are going to a wedding this weekend, a couple who I have known and liked tremendously for about five years. They've been together for a long time, and it's one of those events that seems more a celebration of the life they already have together rather than the start of something completely new.

I am really looking forward to it, since it is sure to be a groovy party. This couple, they aren't just cool and trendy- no, they are jaw-achingly hip. Anything they have planned is bound to be so stylish that it should be featured in one of those wedding magazines, where said cool couple shows just how it is done. I imagine the food will be good, the music excellent and the booze a-flowin'.

The thought of a boozy event brings me back, (as does everything) to my current obsession- namely, will I get to test this month? Will I even get as far as buying a test, which for me would be unusual behaviour ? Dammit, I thought to myself plodding home from work on Friday, I really want to have an excuse to at least buy a test. How is it I approach my 34th birthday, and I have never so much as bought a HPT, never mind actually getting pregnant.

And that it where it gets a little strange. Because over the weekend, I kept getting this not entirely pleasant mental image in my head every time I thought of buying a test. An image of a very small, dark and narrow room, with a single bed and one small window. A wooden desk rammed up under the weekend, stacks of books on the floor. A closet at the end of the room, by the doorway. Of me, lying on the bed with my hands folded over my stomach, eyes open, mouth pursed tight.

This image was accompanied by a low, not entirely soothing voice, whispering "This won't be the first time, you know. It's not the first time.".

Finally, I realised what it was. Here's the story.

My university/college education was, for a number of reasons which I won't go into, a little erratic. I went to one school for two years and then transfered somewhere else for the remainder, but then took half a year off in my senior year, and then came back the following year to finish up. Because of all the coming and going, I had lots of different dorm rooms.

Almost all the students at my college lived on campus. The range of student housing ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous- varying from a cinder block cell in the big square monolith, to a palatial room with en suite bathroom in one of the graceful houses set back along the tree lined streets next to the library. The system for allocating rooms was based on a sort of lottery, with points awarded to students who were most senior. So the more points you had, the higher up you were in the lottery pick, and more likely to get your first choice of room.

Of course in order to get the exact room you wanted, you had to know where it was- i.e. which building, and the room number. So it was fairly common, if you had a nice room in one of the nice houses, to have underclasspersons come knocking on your door for a quick peek, in hopes they could score it during next year's lottery. If you didn't know a particular room number, you could just opt for any room in a particular house and hope it was nice. The first half of my senior year, I got the house I wanted, but one of the worst rooms. It was extremely narrow, and the small window barely let in any light.

And that is where the aforementioned creepy image comes in. I now remember lying in my bed in that room. There was a pregnancy test in a box in the closet, and I had lain awake all night, waiting for enough hours to have passed from my last trip to the bathroom in accordance with the instructions on the packet, so that I could get up, pee, and find out if I was pregnant.

The funny thing is, I have absolutely no recollection of buying the test. I have this vague, fuzzy recollection of daisies on the box-but I don't remember the brand, or where I got it, or anything. And even worse, I barely remember who was the boyfriend at the time. I know, based on the room, that it must have been the first half of the senior year, therefore it was P. But I can't really remember worrying about getting pregnant with P., or the events leading up to that moment, lying in that narrow bed, in the narrow room, waiting.

I was halfway convinced I had made this up in my head, so tonight, I climbed up on the stepladder to reach the back of my closet. I pulled down the boxes with all my old journals. I kept a journal for years and years, and really only stopped last year when I felt like there wasn't anything to say. Hah- who knew the trials of infertility lay ahead?

Oddly enough, I didn't write very much at all that semester, but halfway through the month of September, a chunk of pages had been torn out. And I suddenly had this flashback, of writing over and over, where is my period? I'm late, I'm late, where o where is it, o dear God, I'm pregnant, what will I do, what will I do. Of not wanting anyone to know, of feeling ashamed.

At last, the final piece fell into place. In my mind's eye, I see myself get out of bed at last, and take the box to the bathroom. Sit down on the toilet with my knickers round my ankles, and...oh look. My period. I didn't need the test. Sweet sweet relief, I wasn't pregnant. I tore the pages out of my diary, and never wrote of it again. I never told anyone. I don't know whatever became of the HPT and the box. I think I threw it away eventually, when I finally moved out that room.

I don't know quite what the point of this story is. It is, in the big scheme of things, almost entirely unremarkable. College girl, age twenty, worried about late period, buys HPT, gets period before using test, throws HPT away. Not exactly headline news.

But I think there are two things about this memory that bother me. The first is, I thought I knew myself so well. I thought that I had such a clear picture of how I had become the woman I am today, of my history, of all the events leading up to this point, to how I feel now. Now I wonder if perhaps there are other things like this buried inside me somewhere, things I have hidden away. Things that I thought I was done with forever, the pages torn out and thrown away, like the memory of that scared girl alone in that awful dorm room. Things that will continue to rise to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged and given a voice.

Secondly, I feel very strongly about the idea that one sad and scary experience all those years ago is the closest I will come to an HPT. And for that reason alone, I am determined that this month, I will buy a test. If my period hasn't arrived by this weekend, as scheduled, I will use it. And if it's negative, I will have a short weep if I want to, wash my face, put my gladrags on, kiss the love of my life, and go drink some champagne to celebrate the marriage of my friends. If it's positive- well, we'll just have to reserve thoughts on that one for now.

That way, if nothing else, the first time I bought an HPT won't be the last time.

Better time management

2004-09-05T15:20:00.000+01:00

If like me, you feel that there is just never enough time in the day, take heart. Now it is possible to blog and track extraterrestrial intelligence at the same time!

If only they would invent a similar program for, say, my laundry.

Gee, I just looooove your accent

2004-09-03T18:06:00.002+01:00

In case you haven't picked this up already from reading my blog, I am American by birth, but moved to Scotland about 10 years ago when I got married to the person who would one day have the distinction of being my ex-husband.

One of the stranger things about living in a different country is that because my accent sets me apart from the native Scots from the minute I open my mouth, I have to do a lot of explaining to do. If only I had a £ for every time I had been asked to explain how I ended up here- well, it'd be enough to pay for a round of IVF! It can be a little disconcerting. See, I was married. Yes, he was/is Scottish. Yes, we decided to live in Scotland, funnily enough. No, I'm no longer married. We got divorced, but I stayed. He re-married, I didn't, but I have a lovely boyfriend partner thingee.

Sometimes, depending on who I am talking to, this is just a little more information than I would otherwise prefer to give away. I try, wherever possible to limit it, but it's hard, because people are naturally nosey, I mean, curious.

The solution to all this of course would be to develop a Scottish accent so authentic that nobody would be able to tell that I am not "from here." Except that I never wanted to become one of those people who walked around pretending really hard all the time, dropping little Scottish-isms like "aye" and "aw right?" into my daily patter. It's too wearing, and frankly, I have better things to do with my time that practicing rolling my RRRRs and gargling out expressions like, "It's a braw brecht moonlit nicht, ye ken?"

It is true that over time, and as you might expect, my accent has changed. The Scottish people think I am Scottish, but maybe lived in America for awhile. The Americans think I am Scottish, or they aren't quite sure what the dealie-o is.

It is a common misconception in other countries, that all Scots sound like something out of Trainspotting, or like Billy Connelly. Or, worse, like Mike Myers. People here have many different types of accents, which is sort of remarkable, given that it is such a small country. You can sometimes tell a lot about a person from their accent, in particular, what part of the country they are from but also where they went to school. It's a generalisation, and not in anyway intended as class snobbery, but quite often I notice that people with more formal education or "upper class" Scots sound much more English, or just have less of an accent. The "working classes" on the other hand tend to have much thicker, much broader accents, laced with dialect expressions like, "Away an bile yer heid ya numpty,ye dinnae ken whit yer talkin aboot."

Translation: shut up, you stupid person. Visiting infertiles, take note, it may come in handy when warding off bouts of assvice from the locals.

That's another thing, nobody here refers to an accent as a "brogue". They don't describe it as "a lilt". Those seem to be peculiarly American inventions. No, here it's framed in terms of being "broad". The broader the accent, the harder it can be to understand. Though I don't usually have any trouble, except when I go to Glasgow. But I don't feel too bad, cause even the Glaswegians can't understand each other.

When I first came here, I did find it quite hard, especially when I worked in noisy bars. I once had a job in a pub that specialised in Scottish malt whiskys. They had the whisky bottles, about a hundred of them, lined up on a shelf above the bar, in alphabetical order. Someone would come in, and ask for a nip of Glenfiddich or Lagavulin or whatever, and you'd race over to that letter of the alphabet and pull down the bottle. Assuming you could work out what that first letter was meant to be. There were some whiskys with spellings quite different to the pronunciation. For example, Bunnahabhain, I always had trouble with that one, especially when the punter in question was slurring.

"I'sh like ah, ah ah. Voonahanone, pleashe".

At which point I would stand there with my thumb up my ass until somebody who spoke Drunken Scot would come along to rescue me. Another time, when I was working in a restaurant, a woman came up to me and said, " Canape?"

Canape, I thought. How odd. You've already eaten. Is this some funny custom whereby you finish off your meal with an additional tasty morsel?

"Canape?" I replied. "Mmm, no, I don't think we serve those."

"No, canape," she repeated.

"Look, I already told you," I sniffed.

"NO!" she shouted at me, "CAN. AH. PAY." This was accompanied by waving money in my face. Oh. Can I pay? Of course you can, thanks. What, no tip?

E. has a beautiful accent. The first time I ever spoke to him was on the phone, and I remember wondering if the person attached to that voice could be as delicious as he sounded. Wasn't I pleased to find out that, yes, this was the case. The funny thing, I am so used to his accent now that I almost don't even hear it anymore.

Except the other night, when we were having dinner with a side dish of infertility chat. You know, I got my period, blah blah, pass the potatoes, blah blah, shall we adopt if I can't get pregnant, blah blah is there any more wine and what is your opinion about donor sperm? At which point he said it. I practically dropped my second helping of meatballs.

"I think a lot about what my baby will be like," he said.

"Wait, say that again," I begged him.

"Which part?"

"My baby. Say "my baby" again."

"My baby?" he repeated.

Gasp, swoon. Utterly delicious. I wish I could capture it for all of you on an MP3 or something. He says it very quickly, and comes out sounding roughly like "ma bee-bee" with equal emphasis on the first and second syllable. Ma bebe. Our bebe.

No matter what the accent, coming out of his mouth, it sounds so beautiful to me.

All you can eat exclusion

2004-08-30T19:36:00.000+01:00

One of my all time favourite books is The Magician's Assistant by Ann Patchett. I first read it years ago, when I was involved in an unhappy love triangle. The story of love, loss, exclusion and redemption resonated so strongly for me that, as I was reading it, I had to stop occasionally and put my head down, it was almost too much. It's the book I most wish I had written, and it's a book I re-read every year, each time finding something fresh.

It was the theme of exclusion running through the novel with which I most connected. Of mattering, but not mattering, in all the most important ways. During that awful relationship, I was left out in all the ways that counted to me. It was a time when each day I felt like I was standing outside of happiness, looking in. I could see good things played out in front of me, and I didn't know how to get to a place where I could have those things for myself.

In the end, I decided I was sick to death of staring through the window, kicked a big fucking hole in the glass with my steel toed Doc Marten boots like the bad ass I so essentially am, and walked through.

I never thought I would be back to feeling so excluded in another area of my life, but I hadn't bargained on infertility.

At first, when it became a feature, I didn't feel too lost. I just accepted that it was going to take time, and more time, and still more time. But somewhere during all the waiting, the sense of exclusion arrived.

Part of it is that I am at a funny place in the process. I've never been pregnant, so have no frame of reference there. We haven't started treatment yet, so I can't claim my spot on Team ART. We don't know what's wrong, so I can't move on to making decisions about all the options- to keep trying, to adopt, to live childfree. I can't play along with the happy bouncing optimists newly into the "TTC journey" since I have lost any enthusiasm I ever had for cute acronym filled message board and babydust. (Note: Camp CF members, this does not mean you.)

And obviously, I have no children, so cannot take place in all that this entails. Out there, in a world full of parents, I feel it most keenly- because at least among fellow infertiles, there is a sense of community, of understanding.

But I feel stuck, in a general, overwhelming way. I'm in limbo, with my heart sighing and drooping, with my daemon left behind on shore while I drift off to an unknown fate.

Today I went out to lunch with the people in my office branch. Somebody decided the "all-you-can-eat Chinese lunch buffet" was a good notion, so we ended up there. As soon as I sat down, I realised I had made a grave error. A table full of mothers, five of whom have kids under the age of five. The pregnant colleague next to me. The other two, parents as well.

Along with the first round of wontons, cue endless discussion of more back-to-school adventures, of stern teachers, of playground politics.

I took refuge in my heaping plate of egg fried rice and spring rolls. As the talk progressed, I found myself making repeated trips to the noodle bar. One of my colleagues raised her eyebrows at the prodigious amount of food I was hoovering into my mouth.

"Running a lot," I said weakly, though a gob full of lemon chicken. "Always hungry."

Thing was, the talk. didn't. stop. Who knew there was so much to say about the care and feeding of five year olds. An hour and half later, I was slumped in my chair, distended belly groaning, still reaching for more prawn crackers with both hands. And still they went on and on. And on. And on. And...

Look, I am not saying I have to be the centre of attention. I'm not saying that people with something in common, like kids, shouldn't talk about it. But I have absolutely nothing I can contribute to those conversations right now. And sometimes recently, the sense of being so left out, so left behind- when I so much want to be a part of it- is sickeningly, gut churningly intense. There are downright bad moments, like that lunch, where I actually find myself experiencing an urge to stand up and scream.

But no. I couldn't have screamed, my mouth was too full of spare rib. And they continued on, oblivious

"Well, I guess you'll have all that to look forward to,' exclaimed the Big Boss to Pregnant Colleague. Oh, how they all laughed. Ho ho ho.

Fortunately for him, I was too bloated to reach over and stab him in the eye with my chopstick.

You must have me confused with someone who gives a shit

2004-08-29T15:30:00.000+01:00

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.

Souvenir Migraine

2004-08-27T13:45:00.000+01:00

Public service announcement: This post will contain repeated and occasionally graphic references to vomiting.

It may also take me awhile to get to a point in any way related to infertility. If any of this bothers you, I urge you to skip it, moving swiftly along to any one of the excellent blogs, links located on the lower right hand side of the page. Thank you for your attention.

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If you've been watching the news or reading the paper recently, you may have noticed that the famous painting The Screamby Edvard Munch was stolen at gunpoint from a museum in Oslo on Sunday.

The painting is famous for the sense of torment, panic, desperation and anguish it evokes. At the same time, it's quite quirky, and I find something almost cutely humorous about the way the little guy's head sort of looks like it is melting. I keep a little fridge magnet of it on my desk at work.

Until recently, the Scream was my close to my heart, because it was able to sum up, in a single image, the way I feel when I am suffering from a migraine. I am certainly not the first person to make that observation, so I think this is something to which others who experience migraines relate.

Migraines have been a regular occurence in my life since the onset of puberty. The symptoms, intensity and duration of migraine vary for different people, as do the triggers. Some people get flashing lights and sound sensitivity. My migraines occur by stealth, like a poisonous goblin tiptoeing up behind me with gigantic comedy rubber hammer, gently tapping, tapping, until WHAM. Steel hammer.

I get migraines when I overheat, usually from overexertion when exercising, or when I am under stress. My headaches are generally characterised by a throbbing pain on one side of my head, spreading over my eye. I can feel the blood pounding in the distorted vein. And after awhile, if I don't get to the painkillers in a timeous fashion, vomiting. The worse the pain, the greater the tendency to retch.

Over the years, I have had some real doozies. I can't always remember trailers preceding the headache, but I sure do recall the feature film. Other people collect souvenirs like snow domes, kitschy ashtrays or t-shirts from places they visit- I collect migraines. So much so that I keep a list of Migraines, Best Of. It is as follows:

1. Gettysburg, 1983. Summer. Driving back from the war memorial with my parents. Dad had to pull over car to let me throw up on the side of the road.

2. New Jersey, 1987. Visiting new boyfriend's house. Tour of bedroom rudely interrupted by spectacular head pain and upchucking the chocolate ice cream he bought me earlier. (Side note: Boyfriend later dumped me when he discovered he wanted to be a "she". I shit you not.)

3. St Catherine's, Ontario. circa 1998. Visiting family of future husband-to-be. Aunt talking about how she got migraines. Cue onset of big stinker, made worse by flocked, floral wallpaper in guest bedroom.

4. Lake Ochachobee, Florida. 1989. Traveling with then boyfriend by bicycle across United States. Heat. Campsite. Noisy children next door. Tent. Barfed all over sleeping bag. Repeated at various intervals during remainder of journey. Boyfriend not amused.

5. Turkey, 2000. Summer. Walked in heat of the day from hotel 3 miles into town- no shade, no water. Yakked in taxi on way back to hotel.

6. Scotland, circa 1999. Summer. Completed Glasgow Half Marathon. Involved in car accident with soon-to-be ex husband, narrowing avoiding collision with big wall and death. Puked all over the side of the road. He left me the next day.

7. High Sierra, California, circa 1990. Climbed this. Threw up at the summit, approx. 13, 700 feet. Nice view, though.

8. Inverness, Scotland. 1986. The bus drove right by, leaving me stranded at ruined castle on Loch Ness with my brother. It was January, and snowing. We hitched a lift back to the youth hostel in town with a lorry driver. When we reached the hostel, I went to the girls' bathroom, and threw up so hard, I passed out and nearly cracked my skull open on the toilet seat.

I could go on and on, but I think that gives you some highlights. A lot of roadside puking, to be sure. The list reminds me that, although I have had some truly terrible headaches over the years, I've also done some interesting things.

Since my rendez-vous with infertility, Munch's painting has also become an apt symbol of the way I feel every month when my period arrives, or I hear someone say something insensitive about infertility. I love its tangible expression of my inner turmoil. I hope the Scream is eventually restored safely to the museum where it rightly belongs.

But I don't really want to store up the same sort of memory trinkets from infertility, from failed cycles, or from loss. I'll live with the migraines, but I think those take up enough quite enough space on the shelf.

Nice girls sit at the crappy desk

2004-08-26T04:38:00.000+01:00

The kids' schools started back in Scotland today. I've never been to school in this country, but I guess the summer break must be slightly shorter than it is in America, because somehow it seems like the holiday only just started not so long ago. How do I know all this, since I have no children, you ask?

Well, because the woman who sits across me, and the woman at the desk next to her were talking to another woman who sits on the other side of the room, who came over to talk about the school run. It was little Johnny's first day, you know and how did little Mary react this morning, it's her first day too, and oh, her brother Tommy looked so cute in his uniform. And the woman from the typing pool came past and said she couldn't believe her son was in primary eight now, and the pregnant woman, just back from maternity leave chimed in with a discussion about how fast they all grow up.

Don't they just.

Meanwhile, I sat at my desk, alone, quietly gnawing off my left arm.

Yes, my desk. My same old crappy desk. For those of you who followed the saga, I didn't get the Good Desk. I normally wouldn't bore you with something as banal as the outcome of that little incident, but I was touched that so many of you got it, and were rooting for me.

What happened was this:

Eventually, I chivvied the other two colleagues into "formally discussing it". If you are rolling your eyes at that, think how I felt.

Colleague A said she wasn't that "bothered", as we say here, and she dropped out it. Colleague B said he wasn't that bothered either, but that "it would be nice." He kept repeating that.

I finally said I was bothered, that I really wanted it, and if he didn't stake his claim, I was gonna move in. And all he continued to say was, "well, OK, you have it....yeah, go on, you have it.....pause..... even though I really would like it."

At that, I should have said, fine, I'm having it. Moved in, that would have been the end of it. But you know, I have to work closely with these people, and I wanted to play nice, be decent and fair. I am trying to put the kibosh on a certain me-me-me tendency, which I know could result from the infertility saga. And karmically speaking, I somehow just didn't feel too good about trampling over this guy to get it.

And his body language was....well, let's just say it would be the Seventh Level of Passive Aggressive Hell from him for the rest of my working days.

In retrospect, we probably should have flipped a coin, giving us both an even chance. But I really didn't want to do that. I couldn't face the possibility of further proof that fate hates me right now.

So we finally asked the Big Boss to decide. Turns out the "only equitable way for him to decide was in terms of who was most senior". That would not be me, then.

D'you know, I went in the bathroom and cried afterwards. Because it's not just the desk. It's so not just the desk.

Hospital go appointment bus needle surreal

2004-08-24T10:35:00.000+01:00

Today was my three month follow-up appointment at the hospital with Dr Endocrine. I was looking forward to seeing him again- I had all my best gags lined up and waiting. Since, after all, it is my duty to entertain medical professionals during these little consultations.

But for some reason, as soon as I left the office to begin the first leg of my three bus jaunt across town, the afternoon took on a really peculiar slant. Everything seemed kind of...surreal. And so it persisted for the rest of the trip.

In psychological terms, I have a slightly higher tendency than most to exhibit mild "dissociative" behaviour . This basically means my brain is prone to taking little vacations from my body, going off on field trips on its own, even though I carry on whatever it is I am doing. It's actually quite common for eveyone to do this sometimes. For example, when driving. You go onto autopilot on long boring trips, and sort of "wake up" without quite remembering taking that exit, even though you are still going the correct route. Dissociation usually happens to me whenever I am tired, distracted, or under stress.

The first part of my trip to the hospital was pure dissociation. For some reason I decided to leave work ridiculously early, which meant by the time I got to journey leg two, there was an hour to kill. I'm pretty sure that I wandered around a department store for awhile, and then the next thing I knew I was sitting on the top floor of a double decker bus. A woman with the hairiest mole I have ever seen was in the seat in front of me, and behind me a teenager of indeterminate sex was rocking back and forth and crooning,

"Chickeeeennn. Lovely yummy chicken. Gotta get me some fried chiccccckeeeen."

It was a little disturbing.

I was still early when I got to the hospital. My odd mood persisted. I sat in the main concourse for 45 minutes, thinking to myself it really was just like an airport departure lounge. There was a crummy cafe and a shop selling nuts, of all things. A florist with a bunch of wilted daisies. A hair salon. And a constant stream of people, mainly the most pregnant women in the universe. I have never seen so many ginormous bellies in all my life. One woman was so big I wouldn't have been remotely surprised if her waters had burst right there at gate number 3.

I sat and sat and sat. People came and went. A small child did an impromptu Highland fling in the centre of the waiting area, then when the crowd applauded, had a screaming tantrum. Her pregnant mother fed her a KitKat.

Finally, I decided to go wait in the Endocrine clinic area, a smart move since they had magazines. Mostly with pictures of pregnant celebrities.

The nurse called me to get weighed. I clambered on the scales and watched the digital numbers bouncing.

"OK," she said. "You're Fat Ass Five. You were Fat Ass Nine before, so you've dropped a bit."

I gawped at her. No way am I Fat Ass Five. NO WAY was I ever Fat Ass Nine. I mean, if I was Fat Ass Five, how could I fit into my jeans. I might be Fat Ass Two, but Five? NINE? No, no, no. These must be the scales from Surreal Hospital.

When I at last saw the doctor, it was not my beloved Dr Endocrine. It was Dr Other, who clearly had spent all of 11.2 seconds scrutinising my file.

"So, ah, what did you and Dr Endocrine talk about last time? I see you from your history that you had no symptoms of underactive thyroid, and this was only discovered when you, ah. Ah. Ah....the um."

"Pregnancy thing. Lack thereof." I added helpfully.

He blushed. Dr Other blushed! Then he decided to take revenge by unwrapping a needle.

"I hope you are as good as Dr Best Friend with the needles," I squeaked, my right hand already clenching the chair in a vice like grip. " 'cause she's the best!"

"We only have the big needles here, I am afraid, " he said, cinching the tourniquet thing tighter around my arm.

GAH! GAH!

I woke up on the bus home. We had stalled outside the same department store, on the street with a window display of cribs and buggies. Everything you need for your NEW BABY*, it said.

I leaned against the glass, rubbing my eyes. Was I dreaming, or was I really seeing that fine print at the bottom of the shop poster, reading,

"*Actual baby not included.

P.S. And if your name is B. Mare, you might as well just forget about it."

The Promise Gap

2004-08-22T12:30:00.000+01:00

It's the silly season in Edinburgh. It's Fringe time.

For those of you not familiar with the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, it's the biggest arts festival in the world. A panoply of theatre, music, dance, comedy, and fire-eating juggling street performers. There are shows where people perform naked, doing unbelievable things with certain body parts. There are plays that last 11 hours. There are parades and concerts and fireworks every night.

The population of the city doubles as people arrive from all over the world to partake in the extravaganza of entertainment. This is all great fun, of course, and the atmosphere in town is lively. Plus, it's a real boon to the tourist industry. For locals though, I think it becomes slightly tedious at times. It's impossible to go about daily business without being bombarded with Fringe stuff, including people performing (read: obstructing) your way as you try get on with earning your daily crust. But it's only for a few weeeks.

Tickets are expensive, and if you want to see popular shows, you have to be decisive about it, and book early. The difficulty with this is that often times, you have no idea of whether the show in question is actually any good. It's really the ultimate potluck. Over the years I have seen some wonderful shows. I've also seen some that are utter crap. You pays your money, you takes your chances.

A few days ago, E. and I braved the crowds in town to see a show that we had picked at random from the lengthy brochure of events on offer. The description of the performer made it sound as if this was going to be the most moving, earth-shattering, stunning, evocative, soul-shaking experience of our life. OK, we're not totally stupid, we know that a little hype is in order. But this made it sound as if this particular singer was a sensation that we simply Could! not! Miss!.

Maybe it was because we were both tired and cranky after a hard week at work and other assorted disappointments, but we were less than impressed. Whilst the crowd was undeniably enthusiastic, we thought it...sucked, basically. Hackneyed lyrics, and a phoned-in performance.

Afterwards, I complained to E. that the show hadn't lived up to the expectation I had developed from the description in the brochure. Far from it.

"Ah," he said, taking my hand in his, warm palm to palm. "It's the promise gap."

"Which is?" I asked

The promise gap, he explained is a concept commonly used in business to illustrate the extent to which the reputation of a product or brand lives up to the level of customer expectation.

Take Mercedes, for example. On the whole, Mercedes Benz is noted for quality, class, reliability- great cars. But recently, according to E., customers have been disappointed with what they get for their money. The end product is not living up to the expectation. The promise of something great, on which the consumer relies, is not met. On the other hand, another lesser known, less reputable brands may outpeform expectations by a mile, delivering a fantastic result.

That's the promise gap. The gap between expectation and reality.

Like all things in my life at the moment, I relate this to infertility. I don't think I am alone in that part of this experience has been feeling utterly betrayed by my body. The idea, held for so many years, that all I had to do in order to have children was one simple, natural act. The idea that pregnancy would so easily be achieved that I must go to great lengths to avoid it until I was ready.

Cautionary tales abounded in my youth- that girl in college, who was on the Pill, and still got pregnant! The couple that hadn't even had proper sex- the sperm swam from her underwear, from her thigh, from thin air! Getting knocked up was so easy apparently a guy would have to LOOK at me with come-hither eyes and I would be buying maternity clothes.

Even knowing the reality- that it can be harder for a woman in her thirties to get pregnant, that fertilty declines as we get older- it's still hard to shake off the expectation that it can, or should, happen so easily. A colleague, just back from maternity leave is pregnant again. Oops, she said. Another friend, pregnant the first month they started trying.

I read an article in the paper today of a well-known athlete, who after competing in this Olympics is thinking of taking time off to start a family. I wonder if she thinks, like I once did, that it would simply be a matter saying, OK, we're ready now? Are they prepared for the reality that it may take months and months? That they may need help? That it may never happen at all?

I'm having to close the promise gap for myself. My expectations of conceiving naturally are now officially lowered- I no longer believe it will be that simple. And I'm now pretty much OK with that, much more so than I would have been even six months ago. But I worry a whole new promise gap may be opening- the expectation that the medical profession can help us. That it won't take another year to just to start treatment. That what is wrong can be explained.

Maybe the trick is to have no expectations at all. That way, I won't be disappointed. But it's so hard to approach the future, as if it is a blank page, no map to follow, no beliefs about what is to come and how to feel about that. Not knowing if the show will be as wonderful as the poster says- or something else altogether.

What we did on our summer vacation

2004-08-19T18:14:00.000+01:00

Irony n.

Discrepancy between the expected and the actual state of affairs, a contradictory or ill-timed outcome of events, as if in mockery of the fitness of things.

- The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary

The month we started "formally" trying, the cycle where we made a conscious choice that it was time to start the process of conception, of our journey towards parenthood....we were on vacation.

We had talked about it before then, of course. But there were reasons why we needed to wait- all of them in retrospect the kind of silly but utterly pragmatic things that keep people from leaping headlong into starting a family. There was my professional life, which until last year was very unstable. There was the whole two cities, two flats, two jobs issue to contend with- not that we have resolved that one.

But mostly, we weren't "at a place" in our relationship where we were ready. I was in one place, E. was in another. I tried to talk him into starting sooner. I begged, I cajoled, I threw hissy fits, I hid the condoms, I muttered darkly under my breath about my waning youth. But in my heart of hearts, I knew if he didn't really want to, we weren't ready.

E. placed more stock in the pragmatic things- mainly wanting to see me safely into a job which I could then give up to go on maternity leave- (yeah, didn't make much sense to me either). And that job had certain timescales attached to it.

But at last, we arrived together with a mutually agreeable plan- namely, have lots of sex and make a baby. Happily, we were going on holiday at the same time. I remember looking out of the plane window, giddy with joy. Two weeks of sun, relaxation and the beginning of motherhood. Yay! Double Yay!

We went to Spain, and rented this for a week. It's now a guesthouse, but at the time you could rent the whole place for a family, or if you wanted privacy, for two. It was expensive, and it was a special treat.

The house was at the end of a winding dirt road, the navigation of which was a little hairy, but once you reached it, you didn't want to leave anyway. It was beautiful. From the balcony in the front of the house, the vista before us was of a long valley, bathed in light. Completely peaceful and serene, the only sound was the distant jangling of bells from the goats as they were herded along the river in the evening.

In the morning, we would sleep late, then wander down to the old kitchen with the long scrubbed wooden table. E. would make big cups of cafe au lait while I fed the house cats. We would sit on the terrace under the grape covered arches, reading our books, until it was time to go for a swim in the mountain fed pool. Afterwards, I would perch on the edge of the water, dangle my feet over the side, eating ripe figs from the overhanging tree.

In the evenings, if we could be bothered leaving the house, we would drive up into the High Alpujarras to a really good restaurant run by a vegetarian Frenchman, which we discovered on another trip several years ago. But mostly we would linger right where we were, with the late afternoon sun shimmering across the hot flagstones. Drinking cool bottles of beer as the sun went down. When it got dark, we would turn on the tiny lights found in a solar-powered house like this one. We played cards, Scrabble, chess, read some more, listened to Dave Brubeck.

I have never been so relaxed in the last ten years as I was on that trip. It was perfect, it was bliss, it was a golden moment out of time, where we were able to give in to the simple pleasures of the sun, the valley, the sound of the river and the bells. By the end of the week the owners had to pour us into the car, we were so floppy.

And in terms of my cycle, it was perfect timing for conceiving a baby. We weren't hung up on the whole "will I get pregnant?" thing yet. It was the first try, and we were both at ease with the notion it could take "a little while". I wasn't yet charting, I wasn't yet monitoring every bodily secretion for signs of fertility. I was relaxed.

So I find it ironic when people say "Go on vacation! Just relax and go on holiday- you'll get pregnant right away!".

Ironic that relaxing on a trip in the sun is supposed to help. Because we did just that. If I couldn't get pregnant in that glorious house in Spain, I fail to see how a subsequent vacation is somehow going to be the magic cure. I didn't expect to get pregnant on the first try, but if I was going to conceive easily, I have always thought every month since- it should have been then. It wasn't.

We're not going back to Spain this year, since the house went up for sale over the winter, and even though it still seems to be open for guests, we weren't sure it was a good idea to try to repeat the experience. And while I will always cherish the memories of that week, I don't could will ever quite as relaxed and carefree as I was then.

Remembering, I am glad we didn't even really consider going back to that beautiful and special place. Because now it seems like innocence lost.

The Good Desk

2004-08-19T01:10:00.000+01:00

A couple months ago, I wrote about how my boss was being transferred, leaving me with more work but also with one less reason to contemplate throwing myself off the Forth Road Bridge.

Among the many fringe benefits of her leaving was the possibility of getting "The Good Desk". This being the best seat in the entire office space. An end desk with the privacy of a filing cupboard/wall at your back instead of the chattering admin staff. A desk next to the window with a view of the...parking lot. Well, OK, you can't have everything. Compared to my present desk situation, which is a veal crate in the middle of corridor, it's positively palatial.

It's been two months now since Wheeze went, and still the desk is vacant. Why should this be so is, I think, partly due to the inability of the three contenders (myself included) to be pushy enough to try to claim it for their own. This is such a weird British thing- the need to appear polite while meanwhile behind the scenes all sorts of Machiavellian machinations are taking place.

Anyway, so I was sitting in my dark hole the other day, looking longingly over at the dappled wood, the sunlight plains of the Good Desk, and I thought to myself,

"Maybe if I tell them I am infertile, they will give me the desk."

Immediately thereafter, my brain recoiled in horror and repulsion. Ugh! Ugh! Abhorrent notion in every way! How could brain think such a thing!

Then I promptly switched into therapy mode, where I try to work through my impulses in a calm and reasonable fashion, despite the intense feeling of mental uncleanliness. I came to the following conclusions:

1. We live in a compensation culture. Something bad happens, somebody is meant to pay. Or something good is meant to come out of it. Or if you suffer bravely and valiantly, one day, you will get your reward. Or be given a "quick fix". Having a bad day/week/year? Have a cookie. Have three cookies. Have the afternoon off. Have the good desk. My brain was simply repeating a pattern that I see going on around me day after day.

2. It's decidedly weird to be spending the better part of my waking hours experiencing something so intense and heartrending alongside colleagues who haven't got the foggiest idea of what I am going through.

I mean, I spend on average 8 or 9 hours a day in an office space with these people. Not a single one knows how difficult it is for me to get out of bed some mornings. None of them knows how many times I have sat in front of my computer pretending to work but really staring into space, wondering in anguish when it will be my turn to send round the digital photos of the new baby, to talk about car seats and paddling pools.

Nobody knows that yesterday I walked back from the cafe with my lunch, thinking I am so sad. I am so sad. I look like everybody else- I turn up for work on time, I smile, I make conversation. But I am dying inside with this sadness, and month by month it gets worse.

I am entirely aware that in the big scheme of the universe, my plight is not uniquely or even particularly deserving of sympathy. But part of me nonetheless wants them to know, for them to acknowledge, however superficially, that this is happening and I am struggling. Much as I fear the asshat advice and cutting comments, sometimes I just find it so wearing to pretend I am not pissed off, unhappy and sad about not getting pregnant. Who knows, maybe I would find out they have secret griefs of their own, and we can all stop pretending so hard that everything is OK all the time.

I know I won't tell. Because as much as I sometimes want people to know, I more often than not do not want all the side effects of disclosure. So all my feelings just continue to bubble under, producing brain farts like the one I mentioned earlier.

3. It's a really good desk.

Quite contrary

2004-08-18T01:56:00.000+01:00

The good news is that the tomato plants are finally pregnant. The bad news is that I am not.

Prescription Misdescription

2004-08-16T13:23:00.000+01:00

I was half-heartedly toying with the idea of buying a HPT this weekend. Partly because all my Mind Control action has convinced me, the Arch Sceptic, that I could possibly be pregnant. Plus, we were going grocery shopping, which means E. would be paying for it. And I kind of liked the idea of the box going through the electric scanner while the check-out person remains completely po-faced, even though she is thinking:

Pregnancy test. They are buying an HPT! Maybe she's pregnant! She certainly has the child-bearing hips for it. That reminds me of the time when I missed my period and...oooh, look, donuts.

But before I could slink off to the aisles to study those tempting little boxes, I figured that I better get my thyroxine prescription filled at the pharmacy counter in the store. Especially since the choice of test was apt to be a complicated decision for a novice like me, and could potentially take up a lot of the designated shopping time.

As an aside, I should point out that the designated shopping time is usually eight or nine hours, on average. E. loves grocery shopping. He's never happier than when he is strolling the aisles, studying the comparative merits of Big Dawg Extra Spicee Chili Mix as opposed to Wild West Ranchero Chili Powder. He adores pausing at the deli counter to peruse the cheese and meats. He delights in fondling every single melon, whilst complaining endlessly about the fresh fruit & veg selection in Scotland.

I, on the other hand, if given the option would rather stick needles in my eyes than go to to the supermarket. I don't know why, maybe it raises some childhood trauma, like being lassoed to the seat of the shopping trolley with my mother's handbag strap. But more likely I just find it grindingly dull.

I made my way over to the pharmacy counter, slip in hand. This is only the second time I have had the prescription filled, and I find it all a little confusing. This time even more so than last.

"Hi!" I chirped to the lady behind the counter. "I need this filled, please, and I need a Form B9872 MED-EX5 in order to send off for my S-CHARGE U20490, please. That's because my SCRIPREP 209-X hasn't returned from the Health Board yet, even though it has been a month since I sent it.

Translation- here's the prescription, please fill it, and give me the thing I need to get the £6.90 refunded later.

The lady at the counter studied the form and shook her head. Then she wandered off to speak to the pharmacist for two or three hours.

He came back holding the bit of paper.

"This is the wrong form. This isn't a prescription."

"Oh," I said, "I was just at the doctor last week and that is all she gave me."

"No, no," he said, "You need the NHSDR-7X5 part of the form. Do you have that?"

Did I? I wondered. What is NHSDR-7X5 and where is it, if have? In desk? At home in cupboard? Where the fucking fuck?

"Ermmmm," I said. "I dunno. I thought that was all I needed. It kinda looks like a prescription to me."

Cue long-winded explanation as if I was five years old. Complete with cross-referencing of other, real prescriptions handed in by people who clearly knew how this prescription-filling lark was done.

"I do this every day," he said, a touch pompously. "I know what I am talking about."

In retrospect, I don't know why I felt like such a doofus. Maybe it was his stern Headmasterly tone, as if I was trying to score illicit thyroxine with an incomplete prescription. Or maybe it was just the realisation that I can't seem to figure out how to do something so basic as get a scrip filled. But seeing how I will be taking this medication for the rest of my life, I guess I will have time to figure it out.

I didn't really feel like looking at the HPTs after that, which were directly across the aisle from the beady-eyed stare of the lady behind the counter, who had witnessed this whole amusing exchange with a smirk on her face.

Maybe I'll buy one later today, if there is still a need. If there's time, after tracking down the mysterious NHSDR-7X5.

Impotent

2004-08-14T20:26:00.000+01:00

For once, a post title not related to infertility, but to the way I feel, sitting at the computer, looking at the radar. Watching the chaotic swirl of the eye of the hurricane, passing over the heads of my mother and father. Knowing there is absolutely nothing I can do, except yearn for their safety.

Hang on, Florida. Hang on.

UPDATE:

They are OK, and were given the go-ahead to return home. The worst of it missed them by a hair. We are very relieved, and very grateful that it has turned out all right, but I think they are unnnerved and saddened by terrible devastation which has occurred elsewhere. Thank you for all your kind messages. I had a very sleepless night-it was odd to be so taken up with fretting about something other than my fertility woes!

Infertility, the Soundtrack

2004-08-13T23:17:00.000+01:00

I'm one of those people who firmly believes that life needs a good soundtrack. How can we underestimate the importance of music to set the stage, to convey the mood, to conjoin all our senses?

I love it when people talk about the song that was on the radio that day when they first set eyes on their husband to be, or that summer they drove across the country with the top down. The album you bought and played to death when you broke up with your first love. The tune you dance around the kitchen to with your best friend, the wooden spoon as your microphone. The song you listened to over and over, with the headphones on, lying on the living room floor in the dark, wondering what will become of you.

I love the way those certain songs, with a few chords, can evoke the most intense memories. Stop you in your tracks, seize your heart, take you back. Take you forward.

Anyway, maybe I've spent too much time on iTunes, but I started thinking it was time for my adventures in infertility to have a soundtrack. So here is mine. The links will take you to more information about the various artists, since some of them are a little obscure.

These are not "infertility-themed" songs as such (is there such a thing?). But I have found myself playing these particular tracks a lot over the last year to lift me up or soothe the soul. I hope that in the future, when I have made peace with whatever outcome is to be ours, I will listen again.

And if the music reminds me of a point in my life when I stood, trembling on the brink of choices so enormous that I could barely breathe, I will know that through it all, I was not alone.

1. "Super 8"- Mila Drumke
2. "I Got a Plan"- My Friend the Chocolate Cake
3. "Come What May"- from the film Moulin Rouge
4. "Please Forgive Me"- David Gray
5. "Don't Dream it's Over"- Crowded House
6. "Happiness"- Grant Lee Buffalo (from my all-time favourite album "Mighty Joe Moon")
7. "Classic Northern Diversion"- Jackie Leven
8. "Comfortably Numb"- Scissors Sisters
9. "Seven Nation Army"- White Stripes
10. "Chocolate"- Snow Patrol
11. "Grace"- Jeff Buckley
12. "Strange & Beautiful"- Aqualung
13. "God Give me Strength"- Elvis Costello
14. "Let's Go out Tonight"- Craig Armstrong
15. "Humble Me"- Norah Jones
16. "Diamond in the Rough"- Shawn Colvin
17. "Full of Grace"-Sarah McLachlan

UPDATE:

A couple of people have mentioned in the comments that they would like to use this idea in their own blogs. That made me realise, I should have said from the outset that I do hope people will compile and share their own soundtracks. It'll be like one big blog-o-Mix Tape! Yay!

A letter from Twoweekwait

2004-08-11T19:07:00.000+01:00

Dear Auntie,

Hi! How's it going?

I'll bet you are wondering why I am writing to you, since we usually catch up on all the news during your monthly visit. Well, it's really just that lately, I've been feeling too pissed off to talk much when we meet. And I feel that generally, I have been quite remiss in not even sending you so much as a postcard during this whole extended journey I am on with TTC Adventures Ltd.

And there is something I wanted to ask you- but we'll come to that.

At the moment, as I think you know, I am in Twoweekwait. I've been here lots of times, so I pretty much know my way around. I think I have visited all the local attractions, and frankly, I'm bored. It's not my top choice of destination.

I've been noticing some really odd changes to the landscape. The first time I came here, it seemed much lusher and greener. But now the ground looks all dry and cracked. All the trees have this peculiar gray tinge, and and even though we have had a few big thunderstorms, it never rains. I guess it must be some kind of drought. The tour guides say that happens sometimes.

It's a little worrying though, because the shops don't seem to get any fresh provisions in. I gather some of the supply roads have shut down recently, and there is a rail strike, so no freight can get through. I'm now running low on rations. I've just about used up all my patience, and hope is just about gone too. The shops do have some hope in stock, although I am guessing it's too expensive, since they keep saying I can have it, but there's a high price to pay. Fortunately, I can borrow some courage from one of other tourists, so that should see me through for the short term.

While I'm here, I've put in yet another application for a visa to Pregnancy. I am waiting to hear back from the Home Office. I guess you realise if it's granted, then we won't be seeing each for awhile? But from what they were saying, there is a good chance they'll turn me down again. In which case I'll be deported right back to where I came from. Do not pass go, do not collect baby. Fucking bureaucrats. Oops, sorry Auntie, language, heh heh heh.

Actually, while we are on the subject of requests, that brings me to the thing I wanted to ask you. The Home Office say they might be more inclined to give me a visa if there's nothing in my background check to cause concern. But I think we both know that your input could play a big part in their decision-making process. So I was wondering if you could maybe see your way to giving them the nod, and we can postpone our meeting for a few months? Like, say, nine months?

Now, please don't get insulted. It's just that I so want to move on, to visit Pregnancy. And I know there are so many girls who are actually desperate to see you. Remember when I was one of them? Your visits were such cause for celebration! Maybe you could go spend some time with someone who really wanted you around. Think how nice that would be for both of you!

Well, you can think about it. I probably won't hear back from the Home Office for another week anyway, so that will give you a little time to have that word with them.

I know the mail is a little irregular sometimes, but if we're resourceful, we can work around that. How about we'll just say that if you don't turn up at our usual meeting spot at the designated time, I'll take it that the answer is probably yes. I'll try not to think about it too much until then, since I don't want to use up that cache of hope.

OK, so gotta sign off- the tour guide is waving me over to join a group chat.

Bye for now!

Love,

Mare xxx ooo

Change of Pace

2004-08-09T18:58:00.000+01:00

The latest developments are this: short of my getting pregnant naturally, there probably won't be any more developments until we have our first consultation at the Ass Con Centre in October. We are preparing to enter hyperspace, the cryosleep chambers are waiting, and we are ready to enter suspended animation as far as any further medical treatment goes, for the next couple months.

We had thought that it would make sense, given E.'s poor morphology result, to have him do another test before we went to "Ass Con 1". We were advised by my lovely GP that this might help give a fuller picture of what we might be dealing with here- at least on his side of things. So E. went back to see his doctor with a view to getting a referral to a private hospital over in the Other City.

There were a couple reasons for going private for the second test. Firstly, it's generally much quicker to get seen on private (i.e. paying) basis. Secondly, given the last experience we don't exactly have shedloads of confidence in that particular NHS hospital lab. And we thought we might be able to get a proper consultation, with a proper report, not just some numbers printed out with nothing to indicate what any of it meant.

E.'s doctor shall henceforth be know as "Doctor Just Do It" since his response to E.'s initial queries about infertility was this:

"Oh, you can always just do IVF."

As a result of that one little comment, it has taken me some time to disabuse E. of the notion that IVF is something you sign up for casually, like a trial gym membership.

Anyway, Dr Just Do It's take on the whole "private test" was not to bother.

"He said it might come back worse and then what we would do?," E. explained as we drove over to the park for an evening run.

"That is the whole point. If it's worse, it might be helpful to know that NOW," I replied, wiping the froth from my mouth.

E. went on to say that Dr Just Do It said we'd have to do another test at the Ass Con Centre regardless. And anyway, Dr JDI didn't really rate the private hospital too much. He said the consultants there were all NHS, and they rushed you through a morning appointment so they could get to their proper jobs.

"He says that if we want the best treatment, there is a place down in X, across the border."

"And how does he know all this, exactly?"

"From personal experience, apparently," E. said, swerving to avoid the teenage mother walking out in front of the car with a baby carriage.

"I doubt that anyone who has been through this would say something like "you can just do IVF," I muttered darkly.

Eventually, we decided to wait. It's maybe not ideal, but we are trying to learn to live with uncertainty.

It's also opened the door for a lot more of those "what if?" discussions. What we will do if one or both of us can't physically deliver the goods. On one hand, those "what if" discussions seem like a pointless waste of energy- dwelling on potential avenues that we may never need to take. But on the other hand, it's good, because it helps E. understand a bit more of what is at stake here, what it might take to achieve that, and gets both of us considering how far we are willing to go. And maybe if we sit with that for the next couple months, letting it marinate, we won't be wracked with indecision when the time comes to make up our minds.

It's hard to know. Every day I wake up and feel differently. Or something will happen to change my focus. A year ago, if you told me that E. really wants his child to carry a genetic link to him (but not necessarily to me), I would have been very reluctant to even consider the options, i.e. egg donation. I might have just closed down that route, thinking among other things, that it's both of us or nothing.

But that night, we went running. We ran during that lovely hour when it's not close to being dark, but the day is finally over, and slipping towards night. We took a new route, me huffing and puffing behind E., trying to keep up. I looked ahead, and saw his strong graceful strides, his retreating back against the silver summer sky.

I thought, he is so beautiful when he runs.

And I suddenly realised that if it did come to that, I don't know how I would be able to let that end with him.

So beautiful.