The new keys have been collected, the boxes arrived and the unpacking and settling in begins again.
I've hinted that changes were afoot, and now here they are upon us.
And so, farewell to England.
More than a decade after I first set out for these shores as an eager young graduate student, through all my sojourns elsewhere, I always returned to you; you were the closest thing I had to a home outside the country where I grew up.
You instilled in me an unshakable appreciation for an orderly qeue, and a lifelong confusion over the use of words like qeue vs line, lift vs elevator, pushchair vs stroller. You made me love chocolate. Your quirky neighbourhoods and streets taught me valuable life lessons, took me on many adventures, and consoled and distracted me through ill-advised romantic entanglements.
On your soils, I gained a PhD, a soulmate and life partner, and the most beautiful daughter imaginable; you answered prayers I didn't even know my heart was saying, beginning all those years ago. Here too I experienced the most profound of losses, the most harrowing days of my adult life. In all these, a part of you will rest in my being forever. I cannot look on your gentle countryside without imagining S lingering there in your beauty. This brings me great comfort.
I guess it's fair to say, I grew up under your watchful eye.
Girl Wonder is home, we hope this time for good. She is resilient and strong and brave beyond anything we could have imagined and we are fiercely proud of her. I can't describe the elation, wonderment and good fortune that we feel as we adjust to this new reality.
More than that, I’m not sure how to adequately recount the harrowing
experience of the last weeks months. How to tell you about the events that rocked us
to our very core so soon after we believed we had found respite from the fear
and uncertainty.
About the days of watching Girl Wonder deteriorate
physically, knowing there was something dreadfully wrong and not being able to
do anything about it as the doctors poked and prodded and wondered for a long
time without being able to provide answers.
About the eventual diagnosis of cytomegalovirus, another
condition, like the ventriculomegaly before it, that has a
might-be-nothing-might-be-life-long-devastation prognosis; the initial
confusion followed by the stomach-churning fear.
About my rage at the god damned doctor who broke the news to
us, saying in the same breath that ‘because she has Down syndrome it doesn’t
matter that much’ if the CMV were to cause cognitive delays that could put her
in a wheelchair, unable to speak or feed herself, as though her quality of life were an afterthought simply because she carries an extra chromosome.
About all the ‘minor’ symptoms of her CMV sepsis, including
a terrible gastroenteritis that had her writhing in pain for days, after which
she ended up being put on nil by mouth and losing even more weight; the terrible edema that swelled her little legs and her tiny face until she was unrecognisable as our baby.
About how my heart broke right in two the day we realised that
this awful hospital experience, practically the only life she had ever known, stole
her smile, the one that had been so open and ready only weeks before.
About how excruciating and awkward and necessary it is to
maintain some semblance of a family life - reading her stories, giving her bathes - as first time parents in the fishbowl
that is intensive care, with a gazillion doctors meetings and hourly monitoring
and visits from umpteen therapists every day, none of whom seemed able to help her.
About how I wanted to punch in the face the nurse who
chirpily and dismissively told us, as we were reeling from yet another random
diagnosis and seeking some concrete answers, not to worry, that love was all a child needed
to be healthy; because obviously Girl Wonder is loved beyond measure by so
many, but clearly that hasn’t spared her. And because my impotent, helpless rage had to go somewhere.
About how H and I looked like zombies, became shadows of our former selves, functioning on little to no sleep for so many weeks on end, no longer looking after ourselves or caring what we ate or wore as long as we could be by her side and present for every crucial meeting with doctors, there to comfort her after every painful test.
About how the little face that had only shortly before been
growing pink and chubby became so ashen and drawn, and how helpless it made us feel
to watch that process.
About the day when I was so mad with fear and sadness and sleeplessness that I imagined
seriously thought about stealing her away from her hospital bed, taking
her off all her machines, putting her in the car and just driving,
because I just wanted her pain to end and I thought surely we could find a better way, somehow, anywhere.
About how we gushed our thanks, never with adequate passion or gratitude, at the amazing consultant who finally pushed for the right tests, the answers we needed, the treatment that would make her symptoms disappear and send her home to us.
About the ongoing uncertainty we now have to absorb because we
don’t know whether her CMV infection is congenital or contracted post-birth,
and thus could advance at a later date. She might be fine now but suffer significant
brain damage at eight months or fourteen months or four years.
About how terrifying it is to admit that to myself.
About our tired resignation at the many, many hospital
appointments that will be necessitated in order to monitor this situation when
all we want for her is a normal, happy childhood and for us to be a family.
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I'm not sure how I can tell you about any of those things, because to look at the happy, growing girl - three months old on Friday - playing on the floor next to me as I type this, it all feels so reassuringly unreal.
If what we've experienced until now has been a horrible nightmare, this must surely be a dream. This girl, she truly is a wonder. A dream come true.
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.**)
Well, insofar as we ever had a plan anyway, and if you
consider a ‘plan’ to be: having gotten pregnant, hope and pray to all the gods
of fertility that baby grows and stays; deliver baby on or near due date.
For us, June 4thwas meant to be the magic
number. I had even fully convinced myself – in flagrant disregard of just how
many unforeseen loops this whole journey has thrown us – that we had something
like eight weeks still to plan and prepare and freak out a little at the
massive, mind-bending, life altering change-in-the-form-of-tiny-human that is
about to befall us.
We won’t be making it that far, it seems, or anywhere near,
unless we’re very lucky.
But let me backtrack a bit.
This week has been a big one for us, full of important
milestones passed and happy news in the world of little seedling’s development.
First and foremost, her ventricles seem to have stabilised at their slightly
reduced measurements, and after 30 weeks they tend to feel that those
measurements are likely to hold steady. So we’ve kind of allowed ourselves to
exhale on that one. Then, at our request (because our medical team is
thoughtful and awesome and takes our concerns seriously), we were sent to
another city and another clinic to undergo a fetal echocardiogram. Strictly as
a precaution; 40% of Down syndrome babes experience some kind of heart
abnormality, and this is by far the scariest and most sever complication that
comes with a diagnosis. I can happily report that the cardiologist saw what
looks like a normal heart and no cause for concern, though further tests will
be carried out on little seedling’s arrival. Yay for happy news on scans!
But because this is life, and ours never seems to want to
sail a straight course, opting instead for the adventure and uncertainty (and
because, well, every baby comes when it damned well pleases and isn’t that just
a part of the crazy euphoric, terrifying adventure?) that comes with really being alive, there
are some new logistical issues to navigate.
My amniotic fluid levels are stable for the moment, but it’s
something they want to keep a close eye on, given the risk of preterm labour.
And on our u/s, we learned that the diastolic flow through the umbilicus is
reducing. This is not entirely a surprise, as we know that with a Down syndrome
pregnancy, the placenta carries the same trisomy, and therefore a likelihood of
placental insufficiency at some point. We were kind of prepared. And yet, we
were spectacularly unprepared, in the sense that I hadn’t thought, not seriously, about what it might mean. As
in, like, delivery only weeks away.
We’re at 31w4d now, and the new goal is to make it to 36
weeks. June 4th will certainly not
be our magic number, but as long as she gets here safe and grows healthy,
everything else is frills, really. There will be an upsurge in the monitoring
from here on in, probably every other day, just to keep a close eye on the flow
within the umbilical cord and make sure she’s getting all the nutrients she
needs. She’s always been a tiny one, measuring on the bottom end of normal
range since about 22weeks, (while I’ve had trouble gaining weight myself) and I
so want her to be in the best possible shape to face and overcome all the
challenges she has in store. Our medical team don’t seem worried about the
possible medical implications of a delivery in the coming weeks, since her
progression in terms of weight gain has been steady, and I have a lot of trust
in them, so I’m trying not to panic either.
Still, suddenly it feels there is a lot to do and arrange
(the practicalities of which are also huge, and warrant a post of their own, soon to
follow). I think we just lost approximately four weeks of processing time,
and as anxious as we are to meet her, our heads are spinning as we try to take
in yet more new twists and turns. A month
from now...I can’t even finish that sentence, not yet. The possibilities
are scary and exciting and unknowable. And I'm trying my best to trust in the process, to trust in our caregivers, trust in her, in my own body. Deep breathes.
Has it only been three weeks since we left the hospital after that MRI, dazed and afraid? Has it been three weeks already? In that time, we have careened from one scary and confusing diagnosis to another. So much to process, while trying to balance the need for joy and love and hope. For just staying in the moment. Perhaps I'll find the time and energy soon to update you all, though this absence has been nourishing. We are keenly focused on the essentials, on letting bliss triumph. There is a lot of it.
For now, I just wanted to let you all know how grateful we are for your continued thoughts and energy sent this way. To tell you that we are hanging in there, H and I; that we are doing more in fact. We are laughing and savouring; there is much excitement and anticipation amid the tears. This kid is a rockstar, she is determined, and she is on her way! At 24 weeks today, we've entered that mystical land of viability. It feels kind of like a milestone worth celebrating.
I am touched by your kindness friends, and especially by those who continue to reach out to me during my self-imposed silence. My thanks also to the kind, unknown soul who recently included my blog on LFCA. Each day when I have flagged in my strength, when my optimism has
wearied, one of you has been there to lift me a little, to encourage me
onward, to make me feel less alone and to remind me of the beauty that surrounds us.
If the sheer strength of collective goodwill streaming from across the globe might be enough to heal and nurture, this little girl will soar with flying colours. She will.
I've never been big on lavish New Years celebrations. When I was young,
and liked to pretend I was more seasoned than my years, I was fond of
this one quote (attributed to Frank Sinatra, I think?): New Years Eve is for amateurs. I
guess I took it to mean that you only got worked up about stuff like
that if you were too naive to really know how to live your life the
other 364 days of the year. You don't need an excuse (least of all one born of chronology) for a party.
Later on, the very
idea that a flip of the calendar could be anything other than a random
date change began to feel like yet another bitter joke in life's plan for us. Losing S was (and continues to be) the most difficult, painful thing I have ever experienced. I remember December 31st, 2010, after surviving our first
holidays as childless parents, H and I looking at each other with determination as we stated: this yearwill be our year. Things have to get better. It wasn't and they didn't. But in each year that followed, we dutifully repeated the mantra while our determination became more grim and our conviction more shaky. The closing weeks of 2011 - during which we continued to mourn, and adjust to that feeling of being invisible in a world that refused to acknowledge our son or the pain that came with our childless status - brought our second pregnancy loss. 2012 brought serious illness for H, months of testing that confirmed (without explanation) our subfertile status thankyouverymuch, a surprise conception in August followed with a by-then unsurprising miscarriage a week later, and by year's end, the darkest, most all-consuming depression I have ever experienced.
Of course there were lots of happier moments in there too; laughter and adventure and flickers of hope. It's just that in the context of those years, none of that stands out in memory as starkly as the sea of crap through which we waded for so long. And then, while attempting to pull myself up for air, I sat down and wrote this. That simple act of writing not only led me to all of you - all your support and encouragement and compassion and tears and anger and humour and understanding - but helped me to see those flickers of hope for what they were, to somehow more easily embrace them when they came along.
And it occurs to me that this is what movement, healing, change, growth are all about; a series of tiny things, none of which seem particularly momentous at the time (and almost certainly accompanied by laughter and tears in equal measure), that once accumulated can lead us to the most profound realizations and discoveries. Good or bad, you never know what's around the next corner. And I for one can think of no better reason for a party, whatever form that takes. Maybe it's quiet contemplation. Maybe it's filled with angst and red wine and self-soothing. Maybe it's more conventionally recognizable as a party, time spent laughing with the kind of family we all long to have and hold.
But the strength and hope and perseverance and giving-the-middle-finger to an unfair, indifferent universe? It's all worth celebrating.
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And that brings me to Google +.
Urging me to click on the highlighted little notification
button when I logged onto blogger today, Google + announced that, thanks to
their annoyingly titled new feature Auto Awesome, they had a gift waiting for me.
(As
an aside, I'm pretty hopeless when it comes to techy stuff. I don't
really have a clue what the purpose of Google + actually is. If
you've ever 'added me to your circle' on Google + and I haven't
reciprocated, it's because a) I don't know how and b) even if I did, I
wouldn't see the point. I'm not being rude, I swear! I want to be
friends! I am just not at all social media-y. I actually kind of loathe
that stuff. There is nothing you can say to convince me that it's not
kind of...well, superficial and narcissistic, instead of the cure for
all ills of postmodern ennui from which we suffer, as it is too often
touted to be. And yes, I am fully aware of the irony of my recording
that statement on a blog. I never claimed to be consistent.)
Anyway, it seems Auto Awesome was so sweet as to prepare a 'personalized' 2013 Movie! for me, based on all the albums I have (apparently? I'm not techy, remember?) created while keeping this here blog.
It started off with those beautiful shots of the snowy day I sat down to start this blog. It continued on to that whimsical memory tree
I found one day while practicing laughter yoga and missing my son, then
went on to some of the photos we took while marking his third birthday. It threw in several lovely slides of our glorious holiday, as well as the disappointment that followed. A beautiful hike which made me again feel close to S, an impromptu, pre-new-job trip to France, a hot, boozy, day of dancing at Notting Hill Carnival. Next was a shot of the candles lit to mark Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and all the tiny lives that never got to live. And the slideshow concluded (as though Auto Awesome somehow knew what it was looking at?), with the most amazing sight we've seen all year for a very very long time: that little grey blob, beating, growing, living. (Not that we dared hope we'd get this far at the time.) And then, blame pregnancy hormones I teared up.
And there you have it. Happy/sad/scary/fun all mixed up messily together. A year in the life, as well as in this blog.
So yeah, it appears it's not just an urban legend. Those people who get pregnant on the eve of IVF? Looks like I might be one of them after all (though in our case it's not so much 11th hour before treatment as it is undetermined hour).
This morning - four tense, nauseous, skirting-around-the-issue, anticipatory-yet-slyly-optimistic days after a missed period - there was this:
Obligatory pee stick shot
And suddenly the world feels more brightly coloured and more rife with hazards than it has for a very long time. I'm anxious and ecstatic and, and, and....I just don't know how I'm going to do this.
I think I don't so much need your congratulations at this point, as your strength and hope and calming presence.
Every moment feels like it's crawling along. This is going to be a long wait. Hopefully really long; like, eight months long.
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.
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.
So, after leaving you all hanging with the mother of all scheduling dilemmas (and I just know you've been on tenterhooks waiting for news on both fronts), followed by my long radio silence, it would probably be easy for you to assume everything went disastrously belly up, nothing worked out, and that's why I've been so quiet and sad.
Not so. The short version (and fair warning - I'll get to a longer version at some point): the scheduling conflict got resolved. I went for the interview and got the job. And we're approved and headed for IVF.
Holy shit.
And also, what gives Sadie? Right? But the crux of the problem is, I can't seem to bring myself to care much about any of it.
Needless to say, there are big -- no, huge things in the works. This accounts in part for my absence - things have just been crazy busy in the midst of yet another move, and as I plan for this new role - but does not entirely account for the feelings of apathy I just can't seem to shake lately. I'm still untangling that one, so I guess you could say there's also a lot going on in Sadie Land emotionally and cognitively too.
I'm struggling to pull myself up yet again from a very low place. The calendar's slow progression into August is partly responsible. August is the month in which we lost two pregnancies, and was the never achieved due date for the third. Not a great month in the annals of my sad reproductive history.
It's not only the sadness though; that's always a little bit there, and honestly can be a huge source of motivation in my more ass-kicking, energetic moments. Instead, recently I feel like my ability to believe has become ever more compromised. I've been having trouble caring too. Metaphorically, I'm walking around in an over-sized grey track suit, like this, sort of meeting everything in my path with a meh attitude. It's not fun.
I know it doesn't make sense, at the precise moment when many of the things for which I have been lamenting seem to have fallen into place. I'll come back to that; for now all I can say is, it can get really exhausting to always look on the bright side, to stay positive, to find the stuff worth celebrating. I know it's there, but maybe I just needed some time to stop trying so hard. To crash and burn and then rebuild in order to find renewed energy. I dunno.
I am trying though, to rebuild, to tear off that track suit and climb back up again. I want to get back to blogging, because that's been such a source of catharsis and self-insight for me in the past. (Well, for a while there even that was making me feel worse - the happy news would make me feel lonely, and the bad news just made me feel sad, and so I'd go silent.) So I'm reaching up and out again.
I think I'm on my way back. Watch this space.
Bright colours and all, sometimes it's just hard. Source.
I'm just checking in quickly to let you all know that yes, I'm still alive. (I'm kind of amazed that this space, which has been dead and boring for so many days now, still receives so many daily hits. I'm kind of touched that so many of you have reached out with your emails to see how I'm doing and what I'm up to.)
While I've not been around much in here lately, a lot has been going on out there. But also, in a way, not really very much at all. I do have updates (Surprise! I'm totally not pregnant!), and I hope I'll be back to blogging soon. Although I haven't been commenting either, you are all regularly in my thoughts, and I hope I'll soon shrug off my confused funk, (re)find my voice and return to being a contributing member of community life. Thanks for hanging out in the meantime.
Apropos of nothing in particular*, I leave you with this image, simply because it made me smile last week.
* Except that maybe the torrential rain, the unstoppable water currents, and the smallness of this adorable beast in the midst of it all is somehow familiar. Perhaps. Just a little bit. But mostly, how the heck can a frog be so cute? Muse on that.
Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration; it's not really like I ceased to see the point altogether, more that it was momentarily dislodged by a particularly emotional week, culminating in an otherwise innocuous email exchange which tipped me over the edge and set me to raging reflecting on the general obliviousness of people who seem to walk around in their entitled little always-shiny-happy-forward-moving! bubbles of good fortune. I have to keep reminding myself, in my own moments of self-absorption, that while some lives may look pristine, and those living them may seem to be a tad too comfortable in a take-things-for-granted way that is anything but comfortable for some of us, well...we really never know what anyone is facing behind closed doors, or why they feel the need to reject any minute possibility that Bad Things can and do happen. It may not be my coping strategy of choice, (I may not even think it's particularly helpful), but you do what you gotta do to keep going, and far be it from me to offer up judgement on any of it. All the more reason I am particularly grateful for this space, where I can let the ugly out and not feel like a social pariah as a consequence. Once again, thank you.
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But maybe a little background is in order. In recent months, I've stopped the weekly blow-by-blow updates on my cycles (I know, you really miss those) because it has seemed to become so laughably, peremptorily obvious that Nothing Was Ever Happening other than my monthly bloodletting, that, well, it was kinda boring even me. It just seemed safer as well: as soon as I articulate the very desire that we all know full well is the core reason for my rantings here, it seems all the more fragile, tenuous.
Which is why I was particularly angry with myself for the feelings and thoughts I allowed myself to have during this last failed cycle.
I took a pregnancy test last Monday. Yes, my fourth anniversary. A full two days before my period was due to arrive (and did). No sooner had the pee dried and I regretted the moments of insane optimism that had brought me to that point, because now I would associate the day with yet another failure rather than the amazing triumph of love that it should actually represent.
I lost my composure and peed on the stick last Monday because I thought it would make an amazing, prefect anniversary gift. Because there were just too many good omens for this cycle, and because it just felt different.
I ovulated on the day we left Saint Petersburg, which would have meant that we conceived a child, a little water baby, on the gentle waves of the Baltic Sea, where we had enjoyed so many happy days, as we slowly and gently sailed our way from Russia to Helsinki to catch our departure flight. It would have been the cherry on top of an incredible three weeks. It would have defied all that ttc advice we often chain ourselves to.
We would have found out on our anniversary, and spent the day in the warm, romantic glow of the knowledge that our love has survived some terrible hardship in its fledgling years, but that our luck just might be turning.
My dream-child-water-baby would have been due just weeks before my birthday, an early, unimaginably perfect birthday present. (In fact, my last chance to have a baby before turning 39 has now come and gone.)
It was all too good to be true. Of course it was. Unimaginable, but imagine I did, as though I was your average, garden variety fertile with nothing but excitement and gleeful anticipation of what is to come.
And with all those lovely little omens I managed to convince myself that yes, I felt different. Then the pee stick; it's empty white expanse laughed at me mockingly. It screeched at my foolishness, as if to say Ha! Got you! Sucker!! Did you really think you were in for such a perfect, wonderfulsurprise? Your life doesn't work like that anymore, and you know it! For my part, I have wavered between being angry with myself for my brazen hopefulness and proud that somewhere in the recesses of my bruised psyche I still can conjure that much hope. That my spirit can still write itself fairy tales.
But by the time Thursday rolled around and I had put myself through the emotional wringer, and this whole cycle had felt like a deeper level of failure and I knew I had nobody but myself to blame for it, it all kind of feel apart.
I wrote that ranting post, and I resolved to drown my sorrows with stiff drinks and fiery chilis.
And then, something happened. Somewhere between me angrily pounding the limes and mint for my Dark and Stormy - no, I wasn't kidding about the stiff drinks and yes, that particular concoction seemed perfect for my mood, though it was actually prompted by the discovery of an old bottle of gingerbeer in the back of the cupboard - and my dinner preparations, the drinks ceased to be bitter-infertile-raging-at-the-fucking-unfair-fertile-world-around-her-through-inappropriate-consumption-of-booze drinks and instead became bona fide celebration cocktails. It was sunny outside, and all the windows were open. H came home and we danced salsa in the kitchen while preparing fresh mango salsa for our pulled pork nachos (and let me tell ya, those nachos are reason for celebration in themselves).
And he reminded me that regardless of timing or circumstances, when we do finally see that second line, it will be perfect, the stuff that fairy tales are made of.
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And the weekend came and it was uncharacteristically bright and sunny and hot. There was an arts festival at our local park, with live music and spoken word acts and painting and sculpture and everyone lazed on the lawn all afternoon.
But my favourite tent was from an arts group that run workshops in local schools on making carnival costumes. They had all these amazing masks and dress up stuff and it was very hands on.
And who says that stuff's just for kids?
Me as a garden gnome
H as a friendly troll
And so we lay there on the grass and basked in the sun and watched the kids gleefully whirling their homemade suncatchers and listening to the music and just generally thought, Yeah...life's not so bad after all.
Each time I have one of my meltdowns, I know it'll be fleeting, that something else will grab me by the wrist and pull me forward, reminding me what's good regardless. Last week it was cocktails, a kitchen dance party and carnival masks that helped me see the point again.
Bright and early tomorrow we'll be on a plane bound for Helsinki, from where we catch a ferry to Tallinn, and the adventure begins. All I can say is: bring it.
H and I have made a promise that for these weeks, there will be no discussion of babies, or jobs or The Future. (And if we manage to pull that off for three whole weeks, I'll be sure to let you all in on the secret on our return.) We've been talking and planning and researching, and now it's time for a rest. And lots of play.
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But first, just to get it all out of my system, I was able to arrange an impromptu update appointment with the RE yesterday when we went to pick up copies of test results and kind of strategically and annoyingly positioned ourselves in the line of oncoming traffic at the clinic reception until the nurse forced the doctor to make time for us. We have to wait almost until the end of July for the real, What's Next? appointment (I sort of feel like they think maybe if they just don't mention it, we'll, like, forget about the IVF stuff or something. Frustrating). Still, I guess this briefest of briefings was informative in its way. To wit: we are both still perfectly normal, perfectly healthy; still can't make babies though.
H was disappointed with his 'entirely normal' semen analysis, hoping that it might provide the means for us to jump the queue, as it were. No such luck. (As an aside, while the results of my bloodwork and ultrasounds are always just a phone call away, and I always ask for specific numbers when calling, SA results appear to be highly classified. We must have called five times, given the run-around, before finally being told H could pick up printed copies, so long as he came in person and with ID; and in the end we still don't have the actual numbers. Just cursory - and condescending, if you ask me - note saying 'entirely normal'. Why is this? I ask myself. Are these results a national secret? Do they play a role in MI5's future counter-terrorism strategy? Do they hold the answer to the climate crisis? Seriously, what gives?). So yes, entirely normal. Still can't make babies though.
I, apparently, 'ovulated beautifully' this month. Your Day 21 progesterone was 69 this cycle!, the doctor said in a more-enthusiastic-than-strictly-necessary, whoa-ho-ho get a load of those numbers! way that was slightly disconcerting. So I'm a stellar ovulator with beautiful ovaries. Good for me, I guess...? Still can't make babies though.
He also had an explanation for the weird, pre-cycle bleeding I've been having the last few months. He thinks it's the low dose aspirin that Dr B prescribed (with the aim of both facilitating potential implantation and reducing the risk of miscarriage should we conceive). Seems reasonable, and puts my thoughts at rest. That's something at least.
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On Wednesday, after returning to the kitchen for secondthird helpings of dinner, having already stuffed my face with a (highly uncharacteristic) bacon sandwich at breakfast, H confessed his hopefulness. Maybe you're...?
Uh, no...just gluttonous and indulging in mood eating, methinks.
Still, it's nice to have an occasional excuse and yet have the behaviour indulgently, lovingly gazed at, all dewy eyed, by my husband.
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I may get a chance to pop in and catch up with all your blogs during the time H is at his workshop, even if I don't get time to post or comment. Please watch this space!
Now if you'll excuse me, my beautifully ovulating ovaries and I have a plane to catch.
I have always been a huge fan of the films of Wes Anderson. I know others find their quirkiness cloying and the characters too full of affectation, but for me there's just something about the offbeat amalgam of the absurd and the angsty that speaks to my heart. The comedy is often not very comical, and it strikes me that it is in those same awkward moments of being human where, in real life, we find not just comedy, but real humour. His stories are almost never about what they say they're about; a lot like life, I think.
There is a particularly hilarious scene towards the beginning of Bottle Rocket in which Owen Wilson's character Dignan unveils a 75 year plan, just after springing his friend from a prolonged stay in an institution where he was hospitalized after having suffered an emotional breakdown. This will be the manifesto that will launch the characters as new men headed on a new trajectory, and they seem to embrace it whole-heartedly. It's a scene I've always loved. The 75 Year Plan is a regular off-hand, jokey reference point in our household. I used to cite it a lot to tease my husband about his Germanic penchant for planning (as in, obviously, you can't really plan for all eventualities, especially not that far in advance). I found it hi-larious.
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We've been talking through and re-talking and brain-storming and deconstructing a lot of potential plans in these parts the last few weeks. There is a need for it; for some kind of plan, or at least contingency, to be in place for us. With H's contract ending in August, being the anchor that has kept us here, in this particular spot, we need to figure out a way to scrape together a living, and preferably some quality of life, come autumn. About this in and of itself, I am nervous, but not too fussed; we've always managed before, not just to survive, but usually to make an adventure of it in the process. Something will come (prettypleasethankyou). Patience is called for. I don't feel that same sense of confidence about my fertility journey though.We're on track, it seems, for IVF by the end of the year.Obviously, this would be facilitated by a sense of how things will look in the coming months.(Yes, I'm aware I'm on repeat here). But the more I think about IVF, the more uncertain I am if this is really the right path for us. And it's not just because of the logistics or the potential expense. As far as the 'right path' for our family building, I'm sifting through some big thoughts which I hope will take cogent form soon enough, but for now I'll leave it at that.
Still, it's all a lot to consider, and not the sort of stuff that will sort itself out in a matter of weeks, or even months. And this doesn't even begin to touch on the more existential questions doubts circling in my brain: does questioning IVF say something about my lack of commitment to parenting, which in turn says something about why we haven't managed a healthy pregnancy so far? And just what business do a couple of itinerant, gainfully unemployed holders of PhDs and not much else in the way of worldly possessions have trying to make a baby anyway?!
I'd love it if I actually had a crystal ball that allowed me to see what the future holds for us; I'd like to think that even if it's something difficult, I could handle it if I only knew what I was in for. If I'm destined never to raise children of my own (biological or otherwise), then let me get on with it; building the fun, adventurous, irresponsible, compensatory (yeah, right!) life that will follow for us as a childless couple. I could be good at that too. Yes, I realize none of this is that easy, and attempting to preempt the turmoil is probably no way to deal with things. I wish any of it was easy. For any of us.
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Dignan's plan, a series of confusing and yet meticulous sub-categories and 10 year breakdowns all scratched out on a standard lined notepad, concludes with the reminders to 1) remain flexible and 2) consider alternatives. Fair enough. It also offers prompts for further contemplation in the form of two questions:
Why not plan ahead? Why not continue?
(OK, so at this point it is probably also incumbent upon me to mention that Bottle's Rocket's
characters are hatching a 75 Year Plan to become professional burglars. I'll add a (hopefully unnecessary) caveat that this aspect of the story is clearly in no way analogous to our life situation. Let's not invite any other, screamingly obvious, cinematic comparison here. Raising Arizona!!)
Anyway, where was I? Well, even if things take their sweet time to work themselves out, I can tell you that I certainly don't want to be doing this, what I'm doing now, what I've been doingfor three tortuous years now, for the next 75 years to come. Not that I could, obviously. Ya know, menopause and death and all that...
But at the same time, our own road continues to be long and winding into an unknown, unknowable future, so we will indeed place 1) remaining flexible and 2) considering the alternatives as central tenets of our own long-term plan. We may not have 75 years in which to hash out these contingencies, but perhaps that is kind of the point. Once you've faced the kind of prolonged uncertainty that loss and infertility bring* - making any long-term planning seem laughably naive - maybe the best kind of 'plan' you can make is to keep stumbling along, finding what moments of laughter you will, hoping for the best from your yearly sub-plans, recognizing that some things are out of your hands while also trying your best to grasp what opportunities come, and being proactive with the things we do have some command of.
Thinking about it now, that notion of a ridiculously unwieldy life plan stretching into the hazy middle (long?) distance...Well, it doesn't seem quite so comical anymore. Or maybe I'm just growing up.
Why not continue? Wise words indeed, Dignan. Because really, what else is there to do?
