Eating my words and exiting stage left

'While infertility and loss will always be a part of who I am and are crucial to my parenting journey, the version of me residing in these posts doesn't reflect where I am with life right now'.

'This space has become like any other mommy blog, and that's not who I am/the world doesn't really need another one of those'.

'I always felt compelled to write from a place of sadness/grief/anger/<fill-in-the-negative-emotion>, and with things going well, I struggle to find the motivation to record meaningful thoughts'.

'Life is so full, busy and happy, that I simply don't find the time to write, and even if I do, I worry that my posts are trite or frivolous'. 

'I'm not sure how maintaining this space can be a source of support to others still actively pursuing treatment/living children/resolution'.

'I feel like almost everyone from my 'cohort' of ALI folks, those who supported me in the depths of my struggle, has (happily!) graduated to parenting living children'.

In two year of lurking on ALI blogs, and nearly three (!) of keeping this space myself, I have heard variations of all the above, the inevitable soul-searching and musing on wither the ALI blog after living kids.

And here's a confession: reading any of those, in days past, used to make my stomach constrict and then lurch. I felt abandoned, betrayed even. Left behind. When I was stuck knee deep in my own misery, I wanted only the company referenced in that the old chestnut. I needed an invite to the grand pity party. I didn't want and wasn't able to hear about your full lives, your happy babies and growing children, your peace with your current selves.

But now? Now, I get it. In the cycle of things that sees us all pass through numerous seasons, I've become that blogger who used to make me cringe with pain to behold.

And so, this blog has reached (some while ago, in truth) the end of its natural existence, or perhaps it's fair to say I've grown beyond this blog. That growing was hard, it was often horrible, it was some of the most arduous emotional work of my adult life. In fact, only a fraction of that devastation even made it onto the blog.

But now, here we are. I'm ready to eat my words and bow out gracefully, happily, if belatedly.

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There's another point, a small vanity that has kept me from this space in recent months: while I began writing simply to pour out the emotions that roiled within me, quite soon it allowed me to experience the catharsis that came with a well-worded description. When I found a resonant or beautiful phrase to describe my pain, when I landed on an apt analogy to articulate my emotions, it calmed and healed me. When others said that my writing gave them that catharsis, resonated, or validated what they were experiencing, I felt a sense of pride in my ability to abide with you. Pride and accomplishment in the person that this admittedly often shitty journey forced me to become.

Right now, I simply don't have the time or headspace to write in a way that gives me that sense of calm or pride or accomplishment. (I've written exactly one post in all of 2015 that I feel meets these standards.) And truth be told, maybe I derive those things elsewhere right now.

So yeah, things have gotten quiet here, not only in terms of my posting, but also with visitor traffic. I can't blame you; what reason is there to visit, really?

I still have many things to say - about motherhood after loss, about what Girl Wonder is teaching me every day, about parenting, disability, and advocacy, but also, again, about things which fired my passions long before babies were a blip on my radar: politics and social justice and travel and global living. And of course, tea and Star Trek and finding my bliss. But I think all that's for another day and another space. (If you'd like to keep following my meanderings on that journey, or just want to keep in touch, leave a comment or drop me an email. I'd hate to lose these connections!)

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After S died, I remember reading somewhere that the two most comforting words in the English language are me too.

Blogging showed me the truth of that sentiment. Like a beacon in the darkest of hours, you reached out to me. You were there too. You understood. And so we commiserated, simultaneously drinking in, from the tiniest, far-flung corners of the earth, our respective cups of tea/wine/tears. Our paths crossed and diverged and crossed again. 

Blogging, reaching out to others and having them reciprocate, made me feel less alone. It - and you - helped me to laugh and cry and remember and forget. Made me brave. Made me grateful. Made me smile. Made me, in part, the woman I am right now.

To all the sentiments you've shared; all the pieces of your hearts; your deepest secrets; your inner crazy and your outer coping; your anger, your fear, your hope; your gestures of friendship and compassion; the lessons you've learned; your insecurities and affirmations; the resilience you've built and the joys you've discovered; your love.

To all these things you've shared, I say only this: Thank you friends. Me too.

So right

So yes, I am totally that cliché. My communications post-baby have faltered, and I no longer feel like I have the time to post regularly, never mind constructing lovely sentences to adequately convey our here and now. I marvel at those mamas who continue to post with regularity through early parenthood. There are posts I write in my head several times a week. Things I want to say, or record for posterity, or share. The thoughts come, sometimes even the words, but I struggle to find the time and space for such pursuits. Part of me still feels attached to this space and the outlet it has provided, while another part feels it is inextricably linked to a past from which I've been wrenched by these momentous past months. Months that were sometimes horrendous, but which have become filled with delights large and small with increasingly regularity.

And so I find myself back in this space to update on one such of the larger variety. Girl Wonder had her first long-term follow-up appointments last week, at a new hospital, to review both the situation with her ventriculomegaly and the possible consequences of the CMV. We knew this was coming but in the final delight at having her home, have tried to leave it to one side as we enjoyed family life for the first time.

In brief: everything looks wonderful. Her heart scan showed only minor anomalies (all of which are resolving as they should), and her brain scan found no signs of calcification, while her ventricals are measuring at the right size and growth rate for a baby of her size and age. We were thrilled. Prosecco was consumed at yet another chance to celebrate our amazing wonder of a daughter.

On leaving the hospital, having arrived with the first light of day for an early appointment and spent many long and anxious hours into the afternoon awaiting procedures, transferring clinics, and then waiting again for meetings with specialists who would interpret all the results for us, we were exhausted and elated. There was the briefest of moments when we looked at one another and felt a strange kind of disorientation.

H turned to me and said: 'Do you realize this is the first time in what feels like forever that we came to the hospital and received nothing but good news?  

It's true. Almost from the start, hospital visits kept throwing us for one loop after another. I think part of us both expected someone to say: 'I'm sorry, but we're going to have to admit her again'.

But they didn't. And she's doing awesome. The experience did indeed feel a bit (delightfully, intoxicatingly, ecstatically) strange.

I was reminded of that Paul Simon song. To paraphrase: getting used to something so right is going to take some getting used to.

And that's an endeavour - short as we are on time these days - that we will joyfully run towards.

 

What happened in between

Thank you for all your beautiful comments on my last post; many brought tears to my eyes, and all gave me courage and strength and further insight into just how much I have to be appreciative of in these surreal and magical days in which we find ourselves. 28w5d here; so much is going on around us that I have to make an effort to focus on what’s going on inside me (both physically and philosophically), and to stay in this place of quiet bliss that is the third trimester of pregnancy and the wondrous growth of our little seedling. And on that score, things may even be settling a bit.

I know I have always been a staunch resistor of that normative trope that is the chronological timeline so beloved of infertility blogs, but in the interest of filling you in on some of the chaotic, complicated background to the here and now, it seems the least strenuous option...

Week 20 – Doctors rule out the possibility of Down syndrome after discovering in little seedling’s brain that the lateral ventricles are enlarged, an amorphous condition known as ventriculomegaly, which can be linked to a range of developmental delays and medical needs. Totally left field. We are confused and terrified. We’d happily take the knowable issue of Down syndrome over this vague diagnosis.

Week 21 – We are sent to the big city hospital for a fetal MRI with one of the country’s top specialists (who will later, for reasons to become apparent, become known as the Dickhead Doctor). This test shows a rapid increase in the levels of fluid accumulating in little seedlings ventricles, suggesting ‘a dynamic process of the condition I have never come across’. Dickhead doctor also says there are indicators of hydrops fetalis. Both conditions possibly fatal. The possibility of (need for?) termination is raised. Total devastation, rage, more terror.

Back home that weekend, we rush to the hospital after I wake up gushing red blood. Sure she is dying. Examinations reveal placental hematoma; not in any way life threatening. Unless you count the further palpitations that my already over-stretched heart cannot really take right now. Return home to a week of bedrest.     

Week 22 – The fetal medicine radiologist we’ve been seeing up until now (and who we’ve come to love) reviews the report sent by Dickhead Doctor and disagrees with his findings. Firstly, no evidence of hydrops fetalis, but rather a mild thickening of the nuchal fold which she sees as no cause for serious concern. Secondly and more importantly, although the ventricles remain enlarged, she doesn’t think there is anything to support the idea of a rapid increase; MRI and u/s will always have discrepancies in measurement, and in this instance, each method used a different side of the brain to reach their findings, reflecting not increase but asymmetry in the measurement of each ventricle. Obviously a fact that Dickhead Doctor, with all his years of expertise, should have also know and offered, instead of regaling us with horror stories.

But relief if momentary; u/s with Lovely Doctor finds that the connective tissue at the centre of the corpus callosum (joining the two hemispheres of the brain) is not altogether absent but far too thin to support normal brain function. Her liver is also slightly enlarged. Nothing for it but – yes, again – to wait.

Week 24 – Our next bi-weekly monitoring appointment is a mixed bag. Firstly, it appears that the enlargement of the ventricles and issues with her liver have stabilised; YAY! Then, Lovely Doctor finds another, newer anomaly; little seedling is diagnosed with duodenal atresia, a blockage of the intestine that will require corrective surgery at birth. BOO! This discovery leads our team to reconsider the initial probably-not-Down-syndrome-but-something-else prognosis. Now we’re at probably-Down-syndrome-and-something-else. This brings with it a strange kind of relief, since Down as an explanation for any of these other anomalies is far less scary (or potentially life threatening) than idiopathic diagnoses would have been.

In happier news, we also learn at this u/s that little seedling has ‘a mop of hair’, and get all the more excited thinking about who she is, what she’ll look like and who she'll become. One thing's for sure, life will never be dull with her along for the ride. On the train ride home, she fortuitously kicks me several times vigorously, allowing H his first real feel of her presence. He melts.

Week 25 – Nothing in particular happens. Normal week! No problems! Heady days!

Week 26 – Our little seedling is making miraculous progress in leaps and bounds. Not only are no new anomalies discovered (what feels like a first for us in this whole process), but there are astonishing findings in her neurodevelopment: the ventricles are not only stable this time, but have slightly reduced in size, and the connective tissue of the corpus callosum has thickened to the point where they think it probably won’t be an issue. Lovely Doctor says she is impressed by little seedling’s fighting spirit and ability to turn these conditions around, the likes of which she has never seen. Amazement, relief and pride in our courageous daughter. We feel positively jubilant.

We are also told that my amniotic fluid levels are slightly high, a common side effect of the duodenal atresia, since babies with this condition can’t make the swallowing movements required that normally keep fluid levels in check. Higher fluid levels carry a risk of preterm labour, and we may need to consider an amniotic reduction procedure at some point. Super close monitoring is not likely to end any time soon. Sigh.

Week 28 – Status quo! No changes, everything continues to look good. We get to see up close that huge crop of fluffy duckling hair she’s sporting. Lovely Doctor makes the rather obvious comment that ‘12 weeks is the longest now you’ll be waiting for this little girl’, and I am suddenly, inexplicably stunned. It’s really real.

OK, because I am overly verbose and apparently incapable of abandoning narrative style when I write that wasn’t actually the most effective use of bullet-point-style chronology, was it? So for anyone with blog reading ADHD, here’s the summary: we still don’t have an official diagnosis because we refused the invasive testing, but expect little seedling to be born with Down syndrome, and are grateful and excited to start the adventure of life with this amazing, unique baby girl. We know because of her duodenal atresia she’ll require surgical intervention in the hours after birth, and will have a NICU stay of (hopefully not more than) 3-4 weeks to get her healed and feeding normally. It now (fingers crossed) looks as though the issues with ventriculomegaly and corpus callosum will probably not require any intervention beyond occasional monitoring. <Phew!> Somehow abdominal surgery sounds so much less scary and overwhelming than neurosurgery.

Basically, we’re just rolling with the punches and taking things one day at a time.  It's been an insane amount to process. At the same time, we have so many reasons to be optimistic about little seedling’s future, not least her evidently badass baby nature. H’s words really were prophetic: she's a little barricade stormer.

With all this monitoring, (and because it seems Lovely Doctor is a sucker for a photogenic fetus) I am also pretty sure she may already be one of THE most photographed children in the history of the British Isles. To that effect, I leave you with one of my favourite recent images, highlighting her already chubby cheeks and pouty lips at just 24 weeks.

One beautiful baby. Not that I'm biased or anything.

How could you not love that face?

The flood and after

The long, grey winter that is finally, slowly receding from these shores was the wettest since 1766, so they say. No beautiful snow for us this year (though we’re now too far south to have enjoyed it anyway). Temperatures were relatively warm, but for weeks on end, there was nothing more than sheets of downpour seemingly intent on scarring the landscape. Gale force winds. Flooding of biblical proportions. Destructive deluge. Many people lost power and homes and livelihoods. Entire regions of the country were isolated by caved in roads and rail lines.

We were always just on the edge of it. That lovely park just two doors from our flat? It was submerged, cut off, its beautiful lawns becoming a sodden, grey mess of clay, its gates locked against visitors for weeks on end. The pools of water crept ever closer to our door, but we were spared.

We couldn’t take our usual strolls or shortcuts to work through the park (or anywhere). It became an epic task to get to the nearest supermarkets (we don’t own a car, and even those accessible by motor vehicle experienced flooding and periodically had to shut their doors), so we used creative means to clear out the cupboards, and then ate a lot of crap take-away when we had exhausted that supply. We hibernated and instead occupied ourselves with all the simple pleasures one is supposed to enjoy as the rains pummel the windows from the leaden sky, while you watch the drops trickle down the glass, tucked up cosy inside and grateful for your shelter.

We drank cups of tea and hot cocoa and re-visited long abandoned projects of writing and artwork and compiling music playlists. H stuck in and worked like a demon on his thesis, now only weeks from completion. We became avid Olympics watchers and mock rivals as we cheered our respective teams, the apex of which was a face-off between the Austrian and Canadian men’s hockey teams on Valentine’s Day. I made multi-themed red and white, heart-shaped cookies incorporating a kind of amalgam of the Austrian and Canadian flags – the perfect emblem of trans-cultural love rather than rivalry. (H, being a realist, gamely cheered Canada to their 6-0 victory. Naturally.)

And we continued to indulge in our relish of this miraculous pregnancy, trying to enjoy what one beautiful friend (a fellow babyloss mom) called ‘all the earthy loveliness of being pregnant in the winter’.  We watched my belly expand. I began to strain under the last of my winter coats that still fit around my increasing girth, and was happy to notice when the chill wind was able to make its way up to my gradually more exposed baby bump.  H felt kicks for the first time. We discussed and contemplated the weighty decision of names for this little girl. We continued with our nightly ritual of reading up on little seedling’s development, and added a few more little traditions to the routine. As the storms raged, we cuddled and loved like crazy on our feisty miracle girl.

And we waited for each new monitoring appointment, (after that dreadful MRI) with a strange and tenuous mixture of anxiety and hope. The doctors continued to locate anomalies in her development, so that the list grew longer and the appointments an exercise in parental torture. And she continued to surprise and delight; not only us but her medical team. She grew and thrived. She kicked and wriggled. She faced each and every challenge with a gutsy defiance.

All those things, she did and she does.

And slowly, the clouds began to clear and the spring is upon us, once again.

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Last week, I walked out the door to head to work, and the gate to the park was, astonishingly, cast open. The waters that once threatened to submerge us had receded. And as I strolled past that beautiful but for now scarred scenery, suddenly they caught my eye: daffodils, snowdrops and crocuses. Bright splashes of purple and yellow amid the still mucky soil.

Invincible spring

They survived. How did they survive?  I thought they would cower from the gale force, wither in the face of winter’s ferocity. I thought that they would rot and die beneath the weight of water that submerged them for so long under merciless torrents. 

I was wrong. Spring is invincible.

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When I first left this space to retreat into my own little world it was in a burst of anger and injustice driven by fear and sadness.  But while I was there, in my own little world, something happened: life found me. When I stopped thinking about what others had, and instead looked around at the space I occupied, I realized it’s pretty damned awesome.  Are the challenges ahead still scary and overwhelming? Totally. We are not out of the woods, and little seedling still has a lot to battle against. But she is so strong, this little fighter of ours, and already she is teaching us so much. About the beauty and power of singularity. About miracles. About being in the present.  About the joy of the unexpected. This is our journey and although it may not look as we imagined it to, we are blessed beyond measure to be here, taking it. After all that we lost, after how hardened I became, I never imagined getting here.  Getting her, or the intensity of the feelings that would accompany the experience.  

After meeting H, during those first tentative talks about The Future and family and all that we wanted, I remember having the distinct feeling that what I wanted more than anything was to grow the intensity of love and discovery and goodness that we shared. To physically expand it, to extend it to another human being. I was never one of those ‘all I’ve ever wanted is to be a mother’ people. H made me want that. S made me a mother. And after a period of such darkness it feels...unfathomable, actually; to be reminded of all that goodness, all that wonder, all that belief in the promise of possibility that we once held and can hold again. Perhaps you can understand when I say that in the midst of the fear and the challenges, there is laughter and joy.

Right now, it’s a joy I find difficult to share with a computer screen. Life feels full. And so I may continue to post only sporadically for the time being. Selfishly, I still want and need the incredible waves of support that you all have and continue to offer during these scary, uncertain times. It is wonderful to have a sense of that huge, global cheering section little seedling has backing her. Selflessly, I think I want to keep recording all the twists and turns because I truly believe we will get our positive outcome and I want to be able to share that hope with others who may be facing these realities somewhere down the road, or right now, silently and alone. 

So posting will continue, however irregularly, as and when I find time for it. And I hope you’ll continue following, as I want to continue following and cheering all of you. You are an amazing bunch whose compassion, love and respect continue to dispel my sometimes pessimistic beliefs in human kindness.

In this very moment though, I think I’ll go take this little girl who is so vigorously kicking me in the ribs out for a stroll. Maybe we’ll walk past the crocuses and breathe the spring air.

Waves of light

Today is international Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. A global 'wave of light' will be created as those remembering the souls of little lives ended too quickly light candles in windows across the world, from 7pm to 8pm in each time zone. I love the symbolism of the candle and its flame as a memorial to S, whose soft, flickering presence continues to gently light and warm so many of our days.

Remembering

H recently read somewhere that the Inuit of Greenland believe the dancing, multi-coloured lights of the Aurora Borealis to be the souls of lost babies playing together in the heavens. I don't know if that's true, but I absolutely love the beautiful and playful image that it conjures. The idea that their waves of light are not just symbolic gestures that we as babylost parents make to memorialise our babies, but that those babies are the very filaments of the cosmos itself, colouring our skies, warming our lives and enveloping us in wonders.

It feels strange, but also appropriate, that just as fluttering hope and burgeoning love is developing for this new life inside me, there comes a special moment for remembering what came before, what brought us to this place. This juxtaposition will always be hard, but it will also always be my reality. Joy and grief and love are all wrapped up in each day and how we live them. I feel like this juxtaposition shapes my experience as a parent and as a human being. It isn't the first time I've been confronted with these inherent, messy, life-affirming contradictions.

This evening, as I do my best to nurture new life, I'll also be thinking of all those who grieve for the babies they never got to know. I'll think of their babies, but instead of just remembering them, I'll be imagining their ongoing presence and the beauty they bestow, up there whirling happily among the colours and the clouds.

How's that for a brag-worthy baby pic? Source.

Realizing, again

This week while out shopping, one of my favorite Flaming Lips songs, Do You Realize? came over the radio. It's a song that's always held meaning for me, and which brought particular comfort after S died; there is a beautiful and powerful truth in the starkness of the lyrics. A call to live life to the fullest, to fully inhabit every moment you have.  A wonder at the beauty of it all.

Do you realize 
That you have the most beautiful face?
Do you realize 
We're floating in space?
Do you realize 
That happiness makes you cry?
Do you realize 
That everyone you know someday will die?

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes 
Let them know you realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

But on this most recent listening, those last two lines somehow caught me in a new way, a way I had never considered before.

the sun doesn't go down/it's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.

Just as we have to really fiercely live the beautiful and fleeting moments of happiness so intense it can reduce us to tears of bewildered joy, equally the dark moments when we think all sun and all goodness have gone from our lives are momentary too. And yes, there will be moments when that dark seems so deep and impenetrable as to be unending; when in fact, it's just an illusion, a trick of spinning planetary bodies. This too shall pass.

It was a welcome reminder.

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Last month I attended a conference that is one of the largest gatherings of its kind for people in my erstwhile profession. While there, I had the lovely opportunity to catch up with some former colleagues and in one such conversation, received an invitation to do some teaching in Botswana in early 2014. It was an intriguing offer, affirmation of my standing in a profession I no longer inhabit, and more than a little enticing. This was not the first such instance: in a similar encounter last year, I was asked to join full-time a project in China which I had been working on as a consultant for several years.

In a former life, these would have been the kinds of projects - and the kinds of adventures - that I would have jumped at, and I must confess that I was a little wistful in giving my answer that, at least for the time being, these undertakings wouldn't be in the cards for me. The reality is, such work and the travel it necessitates are hugely incompatible with ttc and particularly with infertility treatments. I would be required to take anti-malarials regularly, expose myself to questionable water sources, travel to post-conflict areas where infrastructure is minimal, if not non-existent. Over time, I have become mistrustful enough of my body's reproductive capacities and ability to deal with routine 'risks' like a glass of red wine thoughtlessly sipped during a two week wait, or accidental inhalation of mould or cat litter; throwing those extra (and very real) risks into the mix was not an option.

This whole babymaking rollercoaster has almost been enough to entirely erase from memory the knowledge of how stupid? adventurous my former self was, and what very different rollercoasters I once rode. 

But when I left it behind, I suppose there was always some notion that we'd see where life took us, that I might possibly return to the work in some time, even with children. In reality, my marriage is no impediment to such work because my flexible, travel-loving husband is ready and willing to join me in such far-flung locales, and we envisaged a future in which we could introduce our child to the wonders of the world so loved by two travel-addicted parents. We both view travel as an exciting and vital form of education, and exposure to otherness, learning to negotiate differences of materiality and culture are more than just passionately held ideals for us. The cultures in which we have lived tend to place a high value on children, who are at the centre of community life, and we imagined our child benefitting from that atmosphere too. Learning to pump water from a well, to speak other languages; tasting and seeing and hearing new things; meeting other children and playing with the kind of freedom that is all but impossible in many western countries today. We (naively, foolishly) built an entire future for our little family - complete with sights and sounds and many an adventure - before understanding what sacrifices would have to be made, what challenges we would face, in getting the very part of the equation we thought would be the simplest: the babies. (And it was this approach to life that also made us drawn very early on to the possibility of international adoption; not instead of, but alongside biological children. It's something we'd still like to pursue, at a later date.) 

Fast forward three years - through all the failures and pain and loss and false starts, not to mention the drastic change in living conditions and career paths - and here we are, about to begin IVF. We are oh-so-fortunate to be looked after at a clinic where we can expect two fully funded rounds of IVF, (including as many FETs as would be feasible after retrieval of my crappy eggs). We're so grateful for this chance, and also aware that This. Is. It: The Final Frontier. We'll either manage a healthy pregnancy or we won't. There really isn't any in-between, is there? A year from now, our life could and probably will look so very different than it does now, but we won't know for some time exactly which different we're getting. In any case, we both know we don't want to be doing this for much longer, whatever the outcome. It's hard to draw a line in the sand when it involves something you've worked so hard for, committed so much of yourself to, dreamed of with such intensity; so although we haven't set a hard and fast deadline for ourselves, we both know we're nearing the end of this particular journey. I need a fresh start, to devote my energies to something else for a change. I need the chance to be excited about things that might just work. I owe that to myself and I owe it to my marriage.

So why am I mentioning this in the context of my erratic career trajectory? I guess it's nice, and somehow reassuring, to be reminded of all that's waiting out there for me, for us, when we finally have cause to call it a day, baby or no baby. I'm reaching a place where all the possible what ifs hold not so much fear, but possibility. We have many an adventure still to undertake, whatever our family ends up looking like.

As dark as things may seem right now, there is movement, even if it's imperceptible in this particular moment. Things are happening. And there is so much waiting out there for us. H is close to completing his thesis, and then we won't need to be here anymore. We might finally make the move 'back home', to Canada, or to Austria. Maybe we'll move to that little alpine farm and raise goats, as we've daydreamed about. Maybe we'll find ourselves in more far-flung, less prosaic surroundings altogether. Maybe I'll return to the work for which I once held so much passion, or take up that offer in Botswana. Maybe we'll buy an old jalopy and spend three months driving through the Balkans, like we've always talked about. (Of course, all of these things would be stellar experiences with a tiny, curious and open-minded companion to occupy our time; this would be the best case scenario.) Who knows? The thing is, I think I'm getting to a place where all those possibilities, and even the unknown-ness of it all, can - one day soon - hold as much excitement as trepidation. And even though the world keeps spinning round, and will doubtless continue to throw us for a loop here and there, right now that's an okay place to be.

The long version

I feel a tiny bit like a dickhead since publishing my last post, which I'm aware probably made me sound both ungrateful and capable of finding a complaint about any (potentially wonderful) scenario that life throws at me. Each of your comments gently reminded me though that, despite my own inability to recognize them as such, recent events have been hopeful. Celebration-worthy even. Thank you for feeling excited for me even as I can't seem to muster the energy to do it myself. Thank you for sticking with this dickhead.

As anyone who has been reading for a while will know, I am prone to emotional and physiological oversharing in this space; the ugly as well as the uplifting. Not only did I envision this space from the outset as a record of sorts, one that might help me process and look back on developments as they happened, but I definitely also think that sometimes just the act of getting it out there can limit the corrosive effects of all the negativity rattling around in my brain as a consequence of this crazy train.

So it's in that spirit, as much as for the, erm...entertainment of the interwebs, that I post the following. It was written right in the midst of the chaotic events of the last week of July, when I was juggling all the future possibilities and feeling especially overwhelmed by it all. And then I kind of lost my will and my voice and climbed into that grey track suit and never finished or posted it. Until now.

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It's been one hell of a week, and a lot of stuff has happened since I last found time to update. My head's still spinning, so I apologize in advance for the meandering course I'm sure this post will take. But I still feel I need to write it if for no other reason than to make sense of things myself.

It kind of started late last week, while I was still trying to renegotiate the interview time and felt a bit like my prospective employers were leaving me to do all the flexing. (This was not the best way to start a working relationship; it did not exactly endear me to said employers, but a job's a job, right?) There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing in emails, me calling the fertility clinic to see how late in the day our appointment could be pushed, checking and re-checking to see how feasible a certain train journey would be against a proposed schedule... It was stressful guys, and with H's contract due to expire in September, and no clear plans on what we'd do next, it felt like a lot was riding on this. On me.

I kind of lost it a bit then and there, broke down and cried about how random and unfair it all was, got in one of the first of what turned out to be a whole series of fights with H for 'not being supportive enough', after which we had slightly resentful, let's-just-do-this sex what a turn on! because, well, we were still just maybe in the 48hr window indicated by my positive OPK and didn't want to screw up a chance because of total emotional exhaustion petty squabbling. (And then thought to ourselves, 'I can't wait for IVF to come along and divorce this whole process entirely from baby-making so that maybe one day we'll have sex again because we just want to', and then felt awful for thinking that.)

And then I got my shit together and got on a train and gave an awesome interview on Monday. Within an hour of leaving the office, I got a call with an offer of the job, which I accepted. I called H to share the good news, and then I went for dinner with my mom. All perfectly lovely and anti-climactic and low key (and I managed to live happily for a whole 24hrs blissfully unaware that this had finally occurred). But I think H was disappointed with the detached way in which I greeted the news.

Now I should probably state for the record here, in my defence, that this has been a protective mechanism (one I'm far from happy with) that has only recently become fully manifest; my increasing callousness toward and detachment from a world full of wonderful things and good news stories. Like the thick skin that develops on your hands and feet over time, through exposure after exposure to painful elements, stinging barbs, intense heat, it's come layer by layer, and only now do I realize how much I have to cut away to get back to the tender heart of my being.

For the last three years, we've had more bad luck than good. It's sometimes hard not to feel like when S died, not just our hope, but all possibility for the future left with him. It's been a constant and continuous uphill climb, and I'm exhausted. In that time, we've lost two more pregnancies and had the rug pulled out from under us more times than I care to itemize. On several occasions, when we thought finally we have some good coming our way! it all turned out to be a big, cruel, cosmic joke. Not just the babies dying (though obviously that's the big one, the one that's left the deepest scars). On other occasions our hopes and plans for a stable home, a good job offer, were ultimately yanked away from us, once because of a stupid immigration technicality and once because H's Crohn's disease unexpectedly landed him in hospital for five scary weeks during which we thought he'd need to have his bowel resected (which in itself was pretty daunting). I don't know if this is because we somehow unwittingly manage to make really bad life choices or the gods have chosen us for target practice because of now unknown transgressions in a past life, or if we just have had a string of really. bad. luck.

But in short (though not really, given the length of this post): I don't trust good stuff anymore. I don't trust that I'm anything more than the butt end of that cruel cosmic joke.  Hence my hesitation with embracing the good, even when it comes, try as I might. Oh, I'm quite ok with celebrating the little moments; you could even say I have a talent for that (which I am aware is an important life skill to cultivate, and helps to explain my resilience). But the big stuff? The stuff that's supposed to lift you up and, before you even realize it, change the direction of your lifecourse? Profound yet commonplace stuff like bringing new life into the world? Nu uh. Truthfully, I think I've stopped being able to believe in those big, life altering events. I don't believe in epiphanies. I think maybe it's all just a slow shuffle, and some days you manage to bring it and make everything feel shiny and promising, while some days all you really can do is shuffle your feet. So this was all stuff I was contemplating, darting through my brain as I made my return journey to the excited arms of my dear husband.

And my strange, ambiguous emotional state was not helped by what turned out to be a horrific journey. For the last forty minutes on the train, me and the entire train car I was riding in were witness to a vitriolic and aggressive domestic altercation courtesy of a couple who were hepped up on who knows what kind of (probably illegal) mood altering substances and didn't care who knew it. Horrific verbal abuse and expletives were hurled from both sides. In. A. Crowded. Train. What was much, much worse, they had two sweet, small boys with them; the younger was about three, and clearly found a defense mechanism in zoning it all out and focussing as hard as his little self could muster on a pull toy he was vrooming up and down the carriage, finding far too early in life his own necessary means of reaching oblivion as his parents clearly had with drugs or alcohol. But the older one, about five I'd say, was clearly totally cognizant of exactly what was going on, and tried to play (what seemed to me, as a feeling of nausea crept in with the realization), his probably customary role of peace-maker, interjecting plaintively, again and again: Please Daddy. To which one or the other parent invariably replied: Shut the f*%$ up! No one intervened, not even the train staff, because I think they were afraid of the parents. (After stepping off the train at my designated stop, I managed to alert some transport police who then boarded the train to investigate).

Frankly, it was harrowing. It was enough that it triggered one of those (admittedly selfish) 'Really? These people can have kids??' reactions and reminded me of the random unfairness of it all. But to be forced to witness the neglect, verbal and emotional abuse of small children like that, their humiliation at the hands of their own parents, was heartbreaking. I mean chest-constricting, painful-to-breath, kind of heartbreak. It effected me profoundly.

So when I stepped off the train to be greeted by my dear husband, whose arms, as it turned out, were not ready to receive me because of the gargantuan bouquet of exotic flowers he carried to bestow on me...Well, I wasn't really all there. I was overwhelmed and exhausted. And really, as I'm learning just now, my inability to receive and acknowledge good news is clearly becoming something of a problem I need to work harder at. I stiffened as I saw the joy on his face, and knew I wouldn't be able to convincingly play along. And yes, (naturally!) I then picked a fight with him. I am a terrible person, I know. Tuesday was not one of my prouder moments.

But the exact source of all this became clarified for me as we prepared for yesterday morning's appointment at the clinic. We were both edgy and hadn't, thanks to my in-progress meltdown, had the time to compose the careful list of what ifs? and what's next? with which we are typically armed for discussion during a doctor's visit. We fully expected, in light of clinical encounters both more and less recent, to have to cajole a bit, to plead our case, stand our ground against lethargic and disinterested medical professionals who would keep telling us that, thanks to our three 'successful' conceptions, we 'just needed to give it more time'.Truly, we were ready for a fight.

So when we entered the exam room and, within minutes of reviewing our fruitless attempts over the last several months, the consultant asked straighforwardly, How do you feel about moving forward with IVF?...

Well, we were flabbergasted. We were totally unprepared. We were clumsy and sputtering and far-too-grateful in our responses. But the long and short of it is this: we'll have some more detailed investigations done in prepartion for our final intake appointment, we'll attend a mandatory information session run by the IVF Unit at the hospital, and after that, my next cycle will be It. In sum, the appointment was great. Helpful, hopeful, informative. Everything we could have wished for.

And yet, I can't quite bring myself to feel happy or excited about this right now either. I know, I know...it's what we've been impatiently waiting months to be told. The best I can explain it is with what I said to H as we walked home from the clinic in a daze, disbelieving of the good fortune that might finally be coming our way:

You come up against a door that you realize, when you try to open it and walk through, has been locked and bolted. But you really, really want to get through that door, there's something you need on the other side, that your sanity and future happiness depend on. So you fling yourself feebly against it and you kick and you bang your fists, growing weak and tired and developing quite a few bruises and scratches in the process. And all of a sudden, just when you're tired and on the verge of giving up altogether, without any warning, the door gives without struggle, and instead of walking through cool, calm and collected, you fall flat on your face, right there on the threshold, with the extertion of its refusal that in the end, never came. You're momentarily shocked and bewildered, sitting there on the threshold.

That's how I felt this morning as we walked home. I want to, but I can't seem to bring myself to believe in good news anymore. Not yet. Actually, we were both so dazed that, despite having piles of work waiting for us at home and office as we now have to troubleshoot quite a big move in the coming weeks, we stopped for a cider at one of the sidewalk cafes that were teeming with life in the midst of an uncharacteristically hot, sunny summer. We sipped our drinks and squinted against the bright, warming, soothing sunlight which has become so unaccustomed to our ghostly white, pasty selves. And held hands, and just kind of stared into space.

I'm still having trouble dealing

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And there, good readerfolk, it ended. That last sentence hanging in the balance just like my befuddled brain, mid-completion, bereft of an ending.

So, fast-forward three odd weeks and I think I'm beginning to process it all. Inevitably, forward we go. I think at heart, at least for now, I'm still not super optimistic about IVF. Right now, I don't feel like I'll ever join that magic, select club who get their healthy pregnancy or happy adoption story and the take home baby that comes with it. I have doubts that IVF will be the magic bullet for us. Maybe (hopefully?) some of that will change as we progress through actual treatments and it becomes more real. Or maybe I still just need more time to process.

I'm still having trouble dealing... 

But yeah, it's getting better. The door has been opened, and though we haven't walked through yet - we're still peering around, trying to get our bearings from the threshold - it's only a matter of time.

Travel essentials and learning to let go

Ordnance survey maps marking the trail we've laid out: check

Guidebook for exploring small villages and historic points of interest encountered along the way: check

Nuts and dried fruits as energy-supplying provisions for the trail: check

Sunglasses for keeping out the glare of this unusually, sublimely sunny summer day: check

Daypack: check

Mobile phone: check

Ovulation test for surreptitious use in whatever public bathroom might be encountered en route (purpose obvious): check

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Yesterday, on what has surely been one of the warmest, loveliest days of that mythical beast that is the English summer, H and I decided on an impromptu away day. I was getting myself in a knot about job prospects and baby making and The Future and how they all fit together. None of which will find any resolution through my worrying; so okay, why not get outside my own head for a while? And what a wise suggestion H's was. We went here:

Starting the hike

Through the perfect sunny day we walked twelve kilometres, keeping the sea on our right and the gentle rolling farm fields to our left. And the sun shone and warmed our stiffened bones and the soft sea breeze blew up from the coast, cooling us down and emptying our heads of all their anxious contents. After the first few kilometres our feet began to tingle with that pleasant ache. It was a day full of small gifts. We foraged marsh samphire that will become tonight's dinner. At a bird sanctuary near our final destination we were lucky enough to see not only puffins (I've always wanted to see wild puffins), but dolphins and even a glimpse of a whale.

It was one of those rare, random days of utter bliss. I felt insignificant and calm and very, very fortunate. I felt deep gratitude. As always in such surroundings, I felt very close to S, as though his presence was everywhere, interwoven with the warmth of the sun and the vibrant colours of the wildflowers and the lapping of the waves.

And with all this filling my heart and my lungs and my head, I didn't think of appointments or interviews once. It's hard to when you have views like this:

Starting to feel the burn

We encountered one beautiful, secluded cove...

...after another...

...after another.

Here be pirates!: Smuggler's Cove

Whenever I see one of these, I think of S

Lunch time: a bench with a view

Unlike it's cousin the public footpath, the one on the right will let you eat chocolate cake for breakfast and stay up past your bedtime

The trail

Friendly faces along the way.

A well-earned rest

The end!

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So much of life is about learning to let go, and we often assume that this process can only be a painful one; that letting go is tantamount to quitting.

But there are so many ways in which this process is brave and fertile and creative and healing. Letting go of expectation to make room for possibility. Letting go of fear to make room for hope. It's an expansive gesture about flinging your arms wide open to receive whatever the universe has in store. 

The entire journey of grieving the loss of S has been one of letting go for me: letting go of the grief/rage to make room for the grief/love. Letting go of the dreams I had for him as a child who would grown as our family did, to make room for an acceptance of the fact that while he'll never grown physically, he's become a part of our family in ways we never imagined; his brief life a source of inspiration, a reconnection to the spiritual and the magical in life.

It's never an easy process and I don't have any answers as to how it can or should happen. But I do know that when all those why?why?how?when? questions are running circles in my brain, building into ever tighter coils of tension until I lose sight of any of the reasons for why I am seeking something in the first place, there is no better antidote than to leave myself for a bit, to place myself in something much bigger, that makes me and my problems feel small, the worrying seem futile. That makes me breath deeper and just know: things are unfolding as they will. And yes, you are going to be ok. 

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On Monday afternoon, after discussing it with H and allowing your gentle support and encouragement to rest with me, I emailed the organization who offered me the interview. I explained that I had a prior, unavoidable appointment which had been scheduled well in advance and which would prevent me from attending the time they had initially set, and wondered whether we could discuss alternate times/dates for the meeting. Then we went on our walk, getting up very early yesterday morning to catch the sun and then, (partly because we wanted to preserve the natural endorphin high of the day and partly [ahem!] because that ovulation test came back positive) we went straight to bed on our return. As of writing this morning, they still haven't come back to me, either to say they're not amenable or that they're looking into it. Although it would have been nice (and one would have thought professional) to receive an acknowledgement either way, I'm hoping that silence means it's the latter.

But for right now, I'm going to keep the spirit of those turquoise waters and crashing waves with me. I have to keep learning to let go of the things that I can't change, in order to make room for all the good that I don't even realize can happen yet. And I can think of no better place to do that (metaphorically or otherwise), than such paradisaical surroundings that remind me in the simplest and deepest possible ways just why it is I keep trying at all. Whether or not I can accurately predict what it is right now, something good is on it's way. I'm continuing to let go so that I can make room for a recognition of how much more there is out there, and the belief that I belong in that more and better as much as anyone.