Overwhelmed, negative and positive

You may have noticed in recent days that my blog was re-set to private.

It's not that I actually wanted privacy per se, or that I've even updated. On the contrary, I have had little time or energy to post blow-by-blow updates, and even if I did, I wouldn't know where to begin. Girl Wonder has been back in hospital for going on a month now, and is struggling. We are struggling with fear, watching her suffer with so little complaint. She deserves a babyhood free from all this pain and illness.

Also, there comes a point when it becomes a special kind of overwhelming just to see how overwhelmed others are by the sheer volume of your misfortune. And at the same time, I don't want to come across as all woe-is-me, because however hellish things are, we continue to know and celebrate how blessed we are. There continue to be moments of happiness. My daughter makes me laugh out loud with surprising regularity, given our current situation.

So, not knowing what to do or say in the face of all this, I just stepped away.

And then, as I wailed my sense of fear and injustice to a small group of amazing parents who have carried me through many a disappointment and triumph, something amazing happened: they poured out support and strength for our Girl Wonder. From the four corners of the globe, they enfolded me in their nurturing love. They offered to fly here to just sit with us and cry. They researched medical journals and sought expertise on our behalf, as we battle the many diagnoses we're dealing with. They offered to feed us, literally and metaphorically. The incomparable soul, the generous heart that is le petit soleil, (who is herself facing no insignificant measure of heartache and stress and fear in these days), has taken the un-expected step of drawing together all this love and support to give us some concrete help at a time when we would otherwise feel very alone.

And now I'm overwhelmed for a whole other reason. There are no words of gratitude sufficient enough to repay this kindness. The gesture is so welcome, but it is the spirit behind it and the feeling of being embraced, overwhelmed by loving kindness, that are really a balm to our weary spirits right now.

I so hope to be back soon, with the time and energy to be giving you a happy update. In the meantime, Girl Wonder draws on your care and good wishes, and H and I continue to be oh so thankful for your thoughts, prayers and actions.

(**I have continued to be active on internet fora where I have shared personal details first put down in writing long before it occurred to me to be cautious about my identity, long before even the birth of this blog. That space seemed like such an intimate family context, while I guess I've always viewed this blog as a lot more public, but given the uniqueness of our situation right now, it wouldn't be difficult to trace those personal details back to here...If you should happen upon them, or know me in that other context, I'd appreciate you not referring to our names or that other space here.**)

 

Not out of the woods (or the hospital, as it happens...)

After several days in which she did so well she surprised her care team, Girl Wonder has been (re)hospitalized for sudden, rapid weight loss, low temperature and suspected now confirmed sepsis. She's being given an aggressive course of antibiotics, put under heaters, and we're supplementing my breast milk with high calorie formula.

When the doctors mentioned meningitis (though probably unlikely), I finally lost my shit once and for all.

My resilience and reserves of energy are at their lowest ebb yet. We've had to be so strong through one blow after another. Girl Wonder has had to be so strong. Why does this shit keep happening to us? I'm so so scared and can't stop crying. Infection in a pre-term infant (let alone one with all her complications) can be life-threatening. I just want her to have the chance to be a happy baby already. Our hopes are so simple, yet so seemingly unachievable. I can't help but feel we failed her somehow.

I'm confused and afraid and sleepless, not because of the poopy diapers and late night feeds and colic that are supposed to be the cause.

How we're even putting one foot in front of the other I have no idea, except, I suppose, for her. H said it best today, after we watched in awe as she endured a painful spinal tap procedure with no fuss and was all smiles 10 minutes later: at less than six weeks of life, Girl Wonder is the most impressive, inspiring human being we have ever met.

On the eve of our genetic anomaly scan

Tomorrow is our long-awaited level II anatomy scan. For the past more-than-a-month I've done a good job of putting it out of mind, because really, there was nothing else to do, and I was damned if I was going to let this worry rob me of the hard won but ever increasing joy and trust we have in this pregnancy.

But for the last few days I have been irritable and sleeping poorly and easy to well up with tears. I chalked it up to ongoing pregnancy weirdness and unprocessed grief (which are doubtless also to blame), but then I remembered...

I keep coming to this space, thinking of things I want to say, to share. I have half-written several posts, but they always languish in my drafts folder. I feel mute in a way, shifting between this wild hopefulness and swinging back around to fear. Fear, irrational as it may seem, that there is something much worse than markers for Downs syndrome. And then, excitement and anticipation that we will find out the sex of our little seedling, who wriggles and somersaults wildly now on a daily basis, as if offering reassurance.

Anxious, fearful, hopeful, excited, confused.

Send some vibes our way tomorrow, won't you friends?

Spotting

I started spotting this morning. Fuck.

Actually, it was just the once, and it was very light and pink when I wiped. I know it could be nothing. I need it to be nothing.

But it's so very hard to keep my mind from going back, to the last time when the end began just like this, and at exactly the same age of gestation. Or forward, to what I deeply fear (what I have feared since the moment of first seeing that second line) could be the inevitable end to this pregnancy as well.

I'm struggling so hard every day to stay positive during this time, often feeling guilt when I can't. I've put all my energy into that end, and this sucks and it's so unfair. Can't a mother who has lost three babies just have a straightforward, unscary pregnancy when the chance finally comes again?

I have to go to work now and we're supposed to be going away tonight to visit friends.

I'm really scared.

If you have any encouraging stories of this happening and it being nothing, I'd love to hear. Even if you're just reiterating the very obvious advice that I could find myself online....I need your encouragement more than ever. If you can spare more thoughts and vibes to send to this little life, I'd love those too. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do right now. 

Same road, different bend

It's been one heck of a week; I've been a crappy blogger and a crappier commenter throughout my participation in September's ICLW. I tried to keep up and I did often read, in the flash of an eye; but, one month into my new job as things really heat up with the workload and several new high-needs clients, as well as prepping for and attending what was intended to be our final pre-IVF consult, commenting got the better of me.

Yes, I did say was intended. We walked into that room yesterday with our carefully cultivated, fragile hope, ready to be told the date for our mandatory information evening, sometime in mid-October, and be given instructions on who to call with what in order to announce the start of my cycle (in late October) - the one that would finally be a realistic shot at a baby. Our IVF cycle.

Turns out, there's yet another twist in this long and winding road. In fact, it seems to wind ever onward.

It's not that any of our test results were anything other than stellar; we're still very much 'unexplained' in terms of our inability to conceive a healthy pregnancy. Our test results look great. No, it's my medical history, ancient at that, that's the snag this time.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you might know that I'm a cancer survivor. Throughout my adolescence I was treated for a rare form of bone cancer, which recurred several times in my lungs until I was given a terminal prognosis, after which I...sort of just kept on living, really. I'm a freak of nature. A medical miracle. It's not something I dwell on a lot these days, simply because it never defined me and doesn't much effect me now. Or so I assumed.

What it does apparently mean is that my adult eggs, even all these years later, may be at a higher-than-normal risk of susceptibility the the tiniest viruses that might be present in normal laboratory conditions. There are likely only two IVF labs in the country, so we were told, that will deal with them. We're going to be referred again. Which may mean another, yet longer wait, but will certainly mean all the pre-IVF tests we've already completed will have to be redone at the new laboratory, since according to our current doctor each likes to have its own baseline. And because the labs are so specialised, there's a good chance that the wait for the procedure will be that much longer.

They've done one last slew of bloodwork yesterday, the results of which should be available in a few weeks. If these prove that my system has in fact recovered from its years of chemotherapy and invasive surgeries, there might still be a chance that we can stay at our current clinic.

Of course this begs the question (the first on our lips, leaving the office), WHY DIDN'T THEY THINK OF THIS BEFORE? Have they not actually read my charts? My cancer history is not a secret, and should be common knowledge among my care providers.

But what's done is done, the time for those questions to have any relevance is past. Yes, the road winds ever on. And so we wait. And wonder.  

Will we ever reach the end? When will it be our turn?

Keepin' it real?

Here we sit, in the waning days of summer, (and perhaps for the first time in the history of ever, this country has produced a season worthy of that moniker, though not without some considerable and pretty laughable fanfare, I can tell you. Listen people of the British Isles: 33˚C is kind of, uh...normal where I come from.) And here I sit, trying to just be in the moment, and soak up every last ray of sun and enjoyment and not think ahead to the scary, uncertain cooler days to come. I really am trying. We're sitting on the terrace every night until well after the sun sets and we need extra layers, taking languid walks along the coast, and - this being that self-indulgent five days at the beginning of my cycle when nothing feels off limits and my self-imposed alcohol sanctions don't resemble Sharia law - enjoying plenty of these and these.

 Last weekend was the final long weekend of the season, and so we took ourselves off to Notting Hill Carnival along with one million other Londoners. We soaked up all the pleasures the event has to offer: a colourful kaleidoscope of sequins and feathers, the best jerk chicken this side of the Caribbean, ginger beer and steel drums and salsa and that distinctive brand of listless/audacious gyrating amid millions of sweaty bodies that can only be described as 'pleasurable' in the context of carnival.

 And it was a sublime, childless couple-y thing to do. We even managed genuine smiles at all the adorable families out with their adorable offspring.  So there are definite moments.

But then, well...there are other moments.

We're in the process of undergoing numerous humiliating and/or invasive procedures gathering all the necessary body data in anticipation of our upcoming IVF. H has undergone yet another sperm analysis, this time (for the first time) in the confines of the clinic itself, so as to insure 'optimal freshness'. (My dear, slightly OCD husband returned insisting he'd developed a rash as a result of sitting 'on that couch'. I saw nothing.) Bright and early next Monday I'll be in for my first ever antral follicle count. Our appointment to review all this stuff is not until the end of Sept; the clinic offered us the 4th, but that was impossible since it's also the day I start my new job, and anyway it seemed scarily close when we booked. I naively thought a few extra weeks might help us process all this. After that, there is a mandatory information session that we're expected to attend, and by the time we get through all the hoops, realistically we're looking at an IVF cycle by late October/early November. A long way off still, but nonetheless, very real and getting moreso all the time. (Suddenly, I feel like we're hurtling, headlong without helmets, along that long and winding road.)

The other day, as the impending signs of my period's arrival were hitting me particularly hard, I told H: 'I don't want to do this anymore. I just want it to be finished'. And it's true.

I don't feel particularly optimistic about IVF. And I know it's already a bad sign that we're both so exhausted before we even hop on that crazy train, where the best of the invasive, mind-bending, hormone-altering procedures and processes are yet to come. This is not how I would have chosen to approach all this you guys. It's not even that I'm afraid of all that stuff, though I know I have reason to be. But the fact is, even if this were to work, there's nothing to say it wouldn't just end in yet another loss. IVF provides absolutely no assurance, (particularly given my dismal track record), of a healthy, viable pregnancy. And I don't know if I have the reserves to face that right now.

I just want it to be finished.

Confession: I really wanted to be one of those people who, on the eve of getting all down and dirty with an RE's office, syringes and catheters, was just all of a sudden like, 'We conceived spontaneously! No need for IVF after all!' I wanted that to be our narrative arc. 

Those people exist, right? It's not just an urban legend.

I don't think this is a case of denial though. On the contrary, I feel like lately, when I can't help but let my mind wander from the here and now to the what's-to-come, I'm all realist. And sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't just conserve our energy, stop fighting, and accept a life made up of sublime, childless couple-y things. Would that be so bad? Would it be enough?

If I can't have it all, I'd settle for the chance to pick just one

I just got an offer of an interview for a really excellent, potentially exciting job opportunity. It's with an organization whose work I have long known and admired. I've been hopelessly unemployed a lady of leisure for three months now, which hasn't done wonders for my already battered self esteem: can't make babies, can't make a living either. No one can accuse me of being an over-achiever.

The interview (in a city at the opposite end of the country) has been scheduled in such a way that would necessitate an overnight stay, and  falls the day before our long awaited clinic appointment to discuss plans to move forward with IVF. We've waited three months for this day at the clinic, which is marked with a bright red, excited circle on my calendar, and which looks increasingly like our best shot at a biological child. It certainly can't be rescheduled without us losing our coveted spot on the waiting list. There's no way I can humanly travel for the interview and make it back in time for the clinic appointment.

Seriously, Universe? Why can't something, anything, just be easy for once?

I am going to email the organization and plead my case to see if they can reschedule for the following week, but if they're not amenable, I'm going to have to make a choice. Again. And again, it's not even a choice as to which of these you-can-have-it-all!-or-if-not-you're-pretty-redundant options I want. It's a choice between which feeble attempt to make. (Okay, that's hugely hyperbolic; I actually give good interview, so I'm told, and I suspect I'd have a solid chance at the job. But still, you get the idea...)

We've been waiting months (years, even), for the slightest break in the cloud cover; for something to give already and show us a little cosmic goodwill on the job front, or the baby front, to show us that our dopey, feel-good faith in the universe might just be well founded after all. And now, after treading water for months upon months and flailing about in often fruitless attempts to stay hopeful, when we can juuust barely glimpse a possible ray of sun through that cover....Haha, psyche!

Forget the age-old, at times contentious question of whether it's possible for women to have it all (your advice is laughably moot here, Sheryl Sandberg. Yours too, Anne-Marie Slaughter): I can't even make it to the try-outs.

Yeah, they lied about a lot more than work/life balance and the New Superwoman.

Believe me, I already know I can't have it all. To tell the truth, I don't want it, not really. But still, it would be nice to have at least the illusion of some options.

Does not apply. Source.

The other wait which has been making me anxious

H and I used to travel. A lot. In fact, for a transatlantic couple whose very courtship spanned North America and Europe, by way of Colombia and the Middle East, you could say that not only has travel been a shared passion, but a defining feature of our love story.

But all that was in the before.

And then as we embarked on what we hoped would be the road to a globe trekker junior, and the spectre of infertility loomed over our lives, all that stopped. In in the beginning it was 'I might be...months pregnant by then' (ha! The foolish optimism!), meaning I wouldn't be able to safely fly/eat the street food/make that challenging hike that a particular holiday would entail. Then it was because of doctor's appointments and procedures. Or, because our travel choices have always tended to be to more off-the-beaten-path, less developed destinations, there was the fact that malaria tablets or vaccines - none of which are safe or compatible with ttc - would be involved. And so like many couples who are struggling in the ways we are struggling, an important aspect of life was temporarily lost. And it's something we miss.

So when H returned from work about a month ago with news that he'd have to travel to Estonia for a workshop, I glanced at the map and I imagined.

I've always wanted to go to Saint Petersburg, I said in an offhand way.

H looked at me and said, we could get a ferry from Tallin to Saint Petersburg. We'd be there during the White Nights, which would be amazing. (The White Nights being the midsummer period in Russia during which the midnight sun illuminates an apparently fabulous range of street festivities, picnics, parties and concerts that run through the night like a kind of two-week movable night feast. How H possesses this encyclopedic local knowledge from across the globe, I don't know, but I'm regularly delighted by it.)

After all, that particular corner of the continent, while perhaps not as intrepid as other possible destinations, is rather off the beaten path, and who knows when we might next get the chance? And before we knew it, we were thinking about itineraries and researching the best beaches in the Baltic and booking flights. How exciting! Without really having an impact our baby making efforts, an adventure presented itself. We're doing this old school people: with backpacks and budget hotels and train passes. We'll relive our wayward actually pretty tame youth. This is my kind of travel.

But then.

Then we found out about the Russian visa application process. Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, we realized we'd both need visas but found out very little about the actual process thanks to nearly useless and impossible-to-navigate Russian Embassy webpages. Well ok, let me clarify; for Canadian citizens like myself, it's pretty straightforward really. But for Austrian nationals - due in part, I suspect, to some  historical my-empire-is-bigger-than-yours! sparring between the Russians and the Austro-Hungarians (fact: these kids haven't always played nice in the sandbox) - there was a series of seemingly interminable hoops through which to jump. There were very specifically (but actually also confusingly ill-defined) proof of address documents to supply. There were questionnaires to complete (blood type, boxers or briefs, etc, etc). There was Russian-approved, designated health insurance to obtain. And then there was a mixup with our payment. And the weeks ticked by and we waited. And waited, worrying that the impending date of departure would arrive before our travel documents ever did...It was all a little nerve wracking, let me tell ya.

But the story has a happy ending, because you guys, today they have arrived! One fruitless visit to the Russian Consular Service in London, many phone calls and contradictory email instructions later, we - finally! - are the proud owners of two Russian visas. Yes, we get to see our full names spelled out in Cyrillic script in our passports. 

(As an aside, this has been a much more satisfying wait than my usual monthly anticipations, not least because it resulted in the desired outcome. For another thing, I could yell at the Russian visa officials when they gave me crap information. There is no such outlet, beyond random outbursts at my poor husband, which will relieve the tension of a two week wait. What am I supposed to do, start punching my ovaries? I've already tried that.)

We leave this weekend, for three weeks of hiking and train riding and city exploring, taking in Helsinki, Estonia, Latvia and Saint Petersburg. I could not possibly be more excited. We need this holiday. (Bonus: the next time I find out I'm not pregnant, I'll be in a foreign country!)

I plan to enjoy the hell outta this trip. Because if there's one thing we've learned in all this time, it's the following: while we continue to wait, that doesn't mean we just have to sit around and wait.

Documented and ready to go!

When the sun came out, so did they (along with an onslaught of self-pity)

I'd forgotten how sheltering the icy embrace of winter could feel. We had a long, cold, and in many ways miserable winter this year; which meant that except for the intrepid dog walkers in our neighbourhood, everyone pretty much stayed indoors.

But this last week has been beautiful, sunshiny, balmy.

And with that lovely weather, an army of happy young families have emerged from hibernation. Beautiful little children squeal as they learn to ride their bikes. Soft, mewling, wide-eyed infants discover the world outside as they are wheeled past in strollers pushed by laughing moms. Heavy winter coats are discarded to reveal swollen, mesmerising pregnant bellies.

And here we sit. Watching it all go by.

Spring is in full swing and today I am feeling further than ever from our hoped-for changes in 2013. I'm tired. Isn't spring supposed to be rejuvenating?

S's anniversary is fast approaching, and as with previous years, I suspect the anticipation will be worse than the actual day itself ( the 17th, when we always try to find something special and peaceful to do). Still, the grief is weighing heavy on me right now. It's hard not to take stock, look back over the last three years, and wonder what they have brought. Some things are better, clearer, but mostly we have the same uncertainties as before. The same feeling of being stalled while everyone else goes on with their lives. I'm fairly certain that, as far as S goes, we are amongst the only ones who even remember anymore.

And what about project sibling? Well, we are (finally) really happy with our current care, and have pretty much decided that we'll move forward with this clinic. Obviously that's a good thing in and of itself, but it also means that we'll be left in limbo with everything else that much longer. H can't actively pursue any of the job leads he's been feeling out, each of which which would surely involve a big move (out of region, or even out of country). Not that there are so many leads to be had these days. We don't seem to have much luck in that department either. That likely means that come September, we'll have to take whatever jobs come our way and put the career advancement, (not to say the putting down roots somewhere), on hold indefinitely. 

Something funny also happened to me psychologically once we got on the ART train: I think I gave up any hope (illusion?) I had previously held that our bodies might ever do this on their own. Even though accepting a doctor's advice - starting with medicated cycles and then moving straight to IVF - has in no way altered the brute biology that we've been dealing with all along, I feel like in acknowledging the situation, my very organs have closed shop and left the building. (Perhaps now is the time to find reassurance in the doctor's oh-so-heartening opinion of my multiple conceptions/losses?). Totally, wildly irrational, I know. But there you have it. Though on the plus side, I'm not even thinking in terms of a two week wait anymore, and there is a certain liberation in that I guess.

So. yeah. Everyone seems to be thrilled that this fine weather has at last arrived. I don't blame them, I just don't much feel a part of their forward looking ebullience right now.

I am well aware of the narcissistic depths of my self-pity here, but....When  is anything good going to happen for us? Don't we get a turn? It just feels like no matter how hard we work to make things better, no matter how much we try to go on being optimistic and hoping our big break is around the next corner (a pregnancy to hope for, a career break, the resolution of our immigration issues) nothing much changes.

I'm sorry I'm being such a Debbie Downer. I know it's just a bad week day (please let it only be a day). It'll pass and I'll be back to my usual sass, finding something to be excited and hopeful about. 

But now? As the sun shines, I'll be wearing my sunglasses. Not just to keep out the glare of the sun, (or to disguise the rogue crying jags that seem to strike from nowhere), but also that of all those shiny happy people who seem to have come out of the woodwork.

Spring is in the air, if not in my step.

Prescription: a long and winding road

That kind of sums up how I feel about our appointment at the subfertility clinic yesterday.

Starting off with the good stuff, I liked the feel of this clinic very much. When we were called in to see the doctor, having hardly waited at all, she had all the relevant information (including my misplaced bloodwork) to hand. She has already been in contact with the lovely OB/GYN regarding his investigations, and they appear to be genuinely well coordinated and organised here (unlike the nightmare that is my GP's office, and I am oh-so-relieved to not have to get further investigations handled there but at the subfetility clinic itself). Unlike our horrible experience with the last subfertility clinic we consulted, these guys will continue to monitor me closely with each new cycle, and develop a protocol accordingly. All good.

It's the current protocol they're suggesting that leaves me feeling a little deflated. In sum, she believes that my odd pre-menstrual spotting and general weirdness these past few cycles may indicate they have been anovulatory. On the one hand, I'm glad someone is finally paying attention to my concerns over this (shocker: I may know my own body as well as any doctor!), rather than fobbing me off with the usual 'these things can happen' auto response. But this also means that she wants me to complete two cycles with closely monitored bloodwork to first decide if I'm ovulating at all. If, from my progesterone levels, it appears as though I may not be, she then wants me to start three rounds of clomid. And then if, after three cycles, we haven't yet conceived, she'll refer us on for IVF. Once that referral is made, they promise a maximum wait of 18 weeks before an actual IVF cycle would go ahead.

This feels like a long and circuitous route to what I increasingly fear will be our only shot at a biological child. With this protocol, we're looking at four + cycles before even getting on the wait list. That means I'll be approaching my 39th birthday before we can even think about moving forward with IVF.

And then there's the rationale for this course of action: You've had three pregnancies, so you can actually conceive quite easily. (Easy obviously being very much in the eye of the beholder here).

I know it's terribly sulky and irrational, but right now it's hard not to feel like we're being penalized for having had three losses. Although I do realize that we're lucky to be able to conceive, to even ever have the chance to try on our own, (and although I know some women who have never had the experience of seeing a positive pregnancy test may find it difficult to relate), I would hardly call three miscarriages a spate of good fortune; yet, in terms of assisted reproduction, that's how the medical profession sees it. In terms of making babies that are too fragile or poorly built to even survive in the comfort of my perhaps openly hostile and not at all comfortable womb, as we all know, I am actually quite talented.

Logically, I know this makes some sense, this wait-and-see approach. (Doesn't it? Feel free to jump in if you have other ideas; I'd actually be grateful for the insight.) But there are so many things for us to have to process with this. I'm worried terrified about my age being an increasing factor with each passing cycle, so there's that. H's 'good' sperm analysis results have always been borderline good, so we know we don't have ideal conditions in any case. I admit that I continue to have substantial reservations about crazy juice medicated cycles; about the havoc they could wreak on my already wonky system, about their sperm killing properties (c'mon, we all know Yahoo answers is a perfectly reliable source of medical information). Also, seriously...we've been trying for three years. There comes a point when no amount of humour or prosecco can sustain a truly fulfilling sex life - or our sanity - through an indefinite period of super sexy no pressure let's have fun! timed intercourse. Our marriage, our emotional wellbeing and our psychological integrity need a break already. Please?

H and I are still thinking through how we feel about this, and whether we want to take any further steps in another direction; we have the time to contemplate these possibilities, it would seem. I also think this doctor is quite cautious in terms of wanting to go the least invasive route, which I can understand. However, with our history I don't think we really feel in a position to err on the side of caution with our timelines. Is it totally insane that my brain already calculates that, even should a pregnancy occur for us, we'd also have to factor in the time for another loss and the recovery that would entail? Well, yes it is insane, clearly; but there you have it. A serious mindf*ck

***************************************

I thought of using this picture to illustrate (all too literally because I'm lazy and uncreative with my metaphors) what it feels like - today at least - to be looking into our baby-making future:

It was taken several years ago on a summer hiking holiday we took in one of our favorite corners of Austria, a small town on a crystalline alpine lake, nestled in the countryside between Salzburg and Innsbruck. The area is home to an infamous stretch of circuitous, thrill-and-vertigo-inducing alpine road. The road is winding and you never know when the next curve will fly at you, seemingly out of nowhere, so you've gotta keep your whits about you. You're way high up, it's scary, and occasionally nausea inducing. Frankly, it's sometimes downright dangerous. Apropos, no?

Well anyway, then in the course of sifting through folders of old holiday albums on my laptop to get to this, I was reminded that about thirty minutes after the photo of the road was taken, as we reached our destination, there was another image. This is the view that greeted us:

Will the view at the end of the road make it all worthwhile?

OK, I'll give you a moment to groan inwardly at the schmaltzy, juvenile sentiment of this photo montage. Just go with it people; I'm trying hard to look on the bright side right now. I need to keep nurturing my invincible spring. Or, uhhm...maybe move to the Alps? I'll figure it out and get back to you.

Fuming (and swearing)

Twice.

This is the number of times in a row that my GP's office has fucked up my CD 3 bloodwork.

Last month I went in on the same day as my very positive (but clearly worlds apart, experientially speaking) appointment with the specialist. I waited for the results, and I waited. I'm accustomed (by now) to having to chase my own results if I want to stay in the loop. OK, so far so usual; I called and nagged. Results still not in, they said. I waited a few days more and called again. Still no results, the receptionist said at first, but then: Oh wait! We have them here after all and I can just pop them in the mail to save you having to make an appointment. I thought this was very helpful and thanked her for the trouble. Except that when the mail arrived, it was my CD 21 bloodwork from the previous cycle. (Which means that either she hadn't listened or wasn't paying too much attention to my charts). In the end, I happened to be passing by their office to pick up a prescription for H, so while I was there I thought I'd just rectify the mistake and pick up the correct results (a full month later) in person.

When I asked for these, the receptionist looked at my chart, started acting cagey and mumbled something about having to make a phone call. Long story short: she hangs up the phone and tells me that the blood was not tested because it had clotted by the time it reached the pathology lab. Now, I'm no lab technician, but I have had literally hundreds of vials of blood taken in the course of my life, and this is the first time that it has ever misbehaved in this particular way. I'm thinking that either the samples have to be stored or transported incorrectly for them to coagulate to a point beyond testability. (Any medical types out there feel free to correct me).

Oh, and they didn't bother letting me know this because apparently they had the wrong details about which medical practice had ordered the tests in the first place and the message was never relayed. I kept my cool and put on my best ice bitch calm and collected face.  

Why it's lucky I asked then! says I. Because today just so happens to be CD 3 for this cycle, meaning you can march me straight in, drawn more of my close to boiling blood, and still get the results in time for my appointment with the subfertility clinic on the 24th. All smiles, I was. I even joked with the nurse about not losing my blood this time.

(Ha! The irony! The horrible accuracy of hindsight!)

So you can imagine that this morning when I received a text message saying that I should contact the GP's office to discuss my blood results with a nurse, a hint of oh for fuck's sake, what now?! trepidation crept in. I called and was put through to a nurse. And she proceeded to tell me that my CD 3 hormone levels (for this, the second cycle in a row) were not tested because...[wait for it!]...the vials had been labelled wrong.

They put the wrong fucking surname on my blood, and realized only too late, and had to ditch it. And now I'm at CD 8, which means too late to catch those hormone levels this cycle, in time for our upcoming appointment with the specialist. Also, given the weird variance in my last two cycles, I feel it would have been worthwhile, not to say reassuring, to catch the fluctuations at the time.

I got off the phone and was shaking with anger until H peeled me off the ceiling and soothed me. I know it's not a big deal in the larger scheme; but I can't help but wonder, if they can screw up something so simple with such frequency, what hope is there for more monumental health issues? And don't we already have enough on our plates, really? Must I always cajole, and be vigilant and harass for them just to do the jobs they're trained (we can only assume) to do? How much more blood do I have to spill?

And WHY can't I just fucking HAVE A HEALTHY BABY already, like normal people, without all these doctors visits and poking and prodding and blood letting and angry tears?!

 Because at the end of the day, that's really the crux of it.

OK, I feel a bit better now. Deep breath.

Note that second step people. Source.

Infertility: Explained

Well, mine at least, and for this cycle anyway. That's right folks, we have a winner in the where the heck did my period go? challenge. My luteinizing hormone (LH) levels were at an underachieving 0.69, well below the normal range. This means I almost certainly didn't even ovulate this cycle.

This also apparently means, since my follicle stimulating hormone (FSH) was within the normal range, that I am now at increased risk of ovarian cysts, since the stimulated follicle, once large enough to do its thing but unable to release an egg, can easily fill with fluid. 

I got the news from my favorite nurse who did nothing to endear herself yesterday, I am afraid. The honeymoon might be over. When I had gone for my Day 21 bloodwork a few weeks back, I was assured that they would review my results and call me back in for Day 3 on the basis of that. In other words, that I'd get a call which could have clarified this whole weird body limbo business and at least put my mind at rest. (Not to mention arranging for the next set of bloodwork, which will now happen only because of my initiative). But no, that never happened. As usual, my 'care' providers filed me away under the we can't figure it out so since it doesn't ensure the omnipotence ego boost we need, we don't care file and forgot about me I had to chase down the result only because I caught site of the abnormalities. If I had the energy to rant, I would.

Instead, right now I feel deflated and hopeless. That nasty cervical polyp, while not a massive health risk, has downed our chances for this last cycle and added to our already weighty load of worry. And now I have worrisome hormone levels to add to the cocktail. So much for the 'unexplained', huh? I fear I came across a little too smug; I fear I was a little too smug in my estimation that what we're really dealing with is the pregnancy loss aspect of things, because all of a sudden, it looks like a very healthy does of infertility indeed. That's what I get for thinking, even for a second, that we might get on top of the game.

And it gets better, because within thirty minutes of leaving the doctors office, my real period started (and oh, what a doozy), almost as if, once the dirty little secret was out, there was no reason to hold back. So yes, depending on how long this lasts my worry about this period threatening our regularly scheduled programming, er, polyp removal procedure, is once again valid.

This was my last cycle, my last chance of grasping at what feels like an ever-receding dream, before my 38th birthday later this month. As much as I try to release myself from expectations, those milestones still matter, and it hurts. And it's scary as all hell. Despite the fact I am awfully puerile much of the time still feel youthful in every other respect, this whole acronym-laden baby making business makes me feel like a wizened crone. In baby-making terms, the hill I've passed over is already receding in the distance.

And the icing on the sh*t cake? I got home to a message that the university is cutting the programme on which I teach, due to 'funding strictures and falling student enrollment'; so even my paltry financial contribution to this household will be gone by the end of the month. Since I work on a kind of on-call basis, they only need to give me two weeks notice.

Seriously Universe, WTF?

What I'm thinking now: Lift duvet. Insert inert self.

Brightly coloured to increase the feelgood factor.

It's these moments

Does anyone else remember and love Fraggle Rock? It stands out for me as amongst the warm-fuzziest of memories from the brightly-coloured, warmly-lit kaleidoscope that was childhood as the kid of happy hippy parents who were themselves products of the idealistic 60s. I have a certain reverence for all things Muppet, and Fraggle Rock ranks high, with its ethos of 'friendship, being true to yourself, and learning to love those who are incredibly different'. Ah, a more innocent time, for the world and I both.

Anyway, today when leaving work I happened to glance at a low brick wall near the bus shelter and this caught my eye:

It's stuff like this that makes my day.

Holy mother, it was this amazing, skillfully rendered, Banksy-esque graffitied portrait of a Doozer! Is this not one of the coolest things on which you've ever laid eyes? (If you're not an avid Muppets fan - and let's face it, there may be few who possess the ardour I do - then don't answer). Pretty much right away, I wanted to find the person who did this and give them a great big hug. Honestly, for me it's random and quirky encounters like this that make my heart sing and the world seem brighter. It was a very unexpected, happy little moment that gave me the urge to run home and watch my whole Fraggle Rock backlog in one sitting.

And then it hit me, out of the blue, sidelong, like it always does.....It is these moments, the fun, magical little stuff that, seen through a child's eyes, is all the more so.....And oh, it's these moments that I want more than anything to share with a living child. My child.

Because man, would our kid be awesome and happy and cute. And man, would we be fun and cool and fabulous parents. We'd throw on the Fraggle tunes and shake be-diapered booty. Sigh.

Oh f%#k

Right about now, I could be writing a witty post about surviving the travails from deep within the two week wait (I'm halfway through). But this is not that post.

This morning I went for a routine smear test, and while down there, the nurse found a polyp on my cervix. She said it was 'probably nothing to worry about', but I could tell by her reaction on finding it that she was a bit freaked out; she admitted never having seen one before. (Perhaps I shouldn't have asked?) I'm being referred for a colposcopy so a specialist can have a better look, and won't know anything more until then, I guess*. I'm resisting the urge to goo.gle the hell outta this thing, I know it'll only make me feel more anxious.

Come on universe, can you not just cut me some slack here? Once upon a time, I used to love and worship my body like it were a goddess temple, but nowadays I'm not so sure it deserves quasi-divine status.

It's probably nothing, they said.

But seriously, what if it's not nothing? All of a sudden, this has turned into an altogether different kind of waiting.


*Thanks to the wonders of the National Health Service here in the UK, according to my GP practice, any colposcopy referral will be treated as an 'emergency' case. Which means I have to wait only...oh, just a maximum of six weeks.



I'd totally do it, if I thought it'd work