Dreaming of gifts to come

Today is my wonderful H's birthday. In one way, I'm feeling a little remiss as a loving wife, considering the lengths he normally goes to with birthdays full of things I love, lavish surprises and prosecco-fuelled, moonlit strolls along the Thames.

Because honestly, I fear he will be welcomed home tonight to the sight of a wife lying prostrate on the sofa, moaning audibly. And not in the Ooh baby ravish me, jungle sex kind of way. Rather in the eeuuueeehhhh I'm dizzy and I might puke, joyful-but-comatose way that only an infertile pregnant lady can embrace. 

I'm feeling better; that is 'better' in this weird, inverted world of pregnancy after loss, when feeling crap becomes awesome, and feeling too fit or energetic or symptom-free is the stuff of night terrors. I've held on to each of your wishes and prayers and thoughts like colourful little worry dolls, there to help ease my burden and sooth my fears. Thank you. I truly feel like there are so many people out there rooting for this little life.

And today I'm focusing on being happy. For as long as this pregnancy lasts, I want the days of happiness to outweigh those of fear. And the truth is, at this point, aside from looking after my body and keeping that hope, a very large part of the work now falls to this little pea shoot itself. I'm going to have to trust that s/he is strong and healthy and ready to be the one that finally sticks.

So in another way, I'm doing my bit to make this a birthday for H to remember. Although tonight there will be no homemade cake and no scantily clad wife ready to indulge his every whim, I'm going to invest all my energies in preparing for a truly amazing (if belated) birthday gift next week.

I know there's nothing he'd rather have. It'll be the perfect gift. 

I still do

Four years ago today, high up in the Austrian Alps, H and I were bound to each other, two lives intertwined. Though it wasn't a wedding in the conventional sense, it was, and is, the most meaningful day in our still growing relationship, and the date we mark as an anniversary. (And yes, we have a penchant in this family for celebrating the less conventional milestones in life; somehow, that makes it feel all the more special).

There was only us two, no witnesses, no papers to sign, nothing to officially validate that momentous day as two lives, almost imperceptibly really, became intertwined, became A Life; a future that we promised each other we'd build together. There were no formal vows, at least not verbal ones. I can say this: every fibre of my being sang with the possibilities before us, my flesh and blood and bone and grey matter and intestines, all my bodily secretions, rushed and tingled with the rightness of this transformation we were undergoing. I just knew. There was champagne, and breathtaking views as far as the eye could see; not that we really had eyes for more than each other. We had a passerby, careless of either the stunning scenery or the Big Day she didn't realise she was witnessing, take a hasty, ill-framed image.

On that afternoon - emotionally and spiritually and in every other way that holds meaning for us, if not bureaucratically - we became husband and wife. 

Our 'wedding', which happened us much for the benefit of US Immigration Services when I was offered a fellowship in that country as for sentiment, took place months later, in the echoing chambers of Toronto City Hall. We posed, faux ironically, with our wedding party witnesses, my brother and a buddy who had the day off work; had these two single, beer swilling, 20-something guys elbow each other out as I threw my bouquet, (result: my shy, steadfast brother, still single, still gorgeous but wisely choosy these years later, didn't catch the bouquet), and then the four of us went for a gargantuan, slap-up lunch at one of my favourite Vietnamese Pho restaurants on Bloor St. It was fun and it was inconsequential, which felt appropriate for us.

(I have a confession: I wasn't really sold on the idea of marriage per se, even after I met H, and even after I knew he was The One. My own doubts about the social [and economic, and political] conventions attached to this particular institution, combined with the values imbued in the matriarchy that was my stridently feminist upbringing by a strong, capable, idealistic single-mother-of-five, made me a wary convert. And yet now? Now I derive great delight from uttering the words 'my husband' as pertaining to H, and not just for it's retro vibe.)

But before all that, four years ago exactly, on a terrace atop a ski jump in Innsbruck, we looked into each others eyes and saw the future.

Long before we ever uttered those age old words, I do, well, we did. We do, every single day.

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It's not always, or even often, easy. Did we know, those four years ago, just how full of twists and turns and potholes this journey together would be? We've certainly been together through some better and (a lot of) worse, some richer and poorer (though not really), a worrying amount of sickness, and health too. But really, two people could not possibly love and cherish each other more.

Still, there is no way we could have imagined just how hard our future would be. Our young marriage has had more than it's fair share of challenges, so that sometimes we feel as though the universe is testing us. We've experienced losses, paralysing grief, hospitalization and major illnesses, joblessness, innumerable moves and family dramas. H has talked about the unfairness of all we've had to face, how hard we've had to work at finding romance, seeing the silver linings, counting our blessings, just staying afloat some days. As though we naively expected that our love alone and the marvel of us having found each other should shield us from any of that. No; like too many couples who find themselves having drifted into the world of loss and infertility just as they thought their happily ever afters were about to begin, who end up devoting so much time to the pursuit of elusive offspring, there has been heartbreak and disappointment, hard life lessons and hope. Such is life, for some of us.

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I wear a ring, given to me by H, my engagement-cum-wedding band.

It's a thick band of white gold, surrounding an enamelled inlay with a distinctive pattern inspired by an artist,  Hundertwasser, whose work has particular meaning for us. (H later told me that, despite the numerous times family and friends tried to persuade him that it was perhaps too unorthodox, he knew that ours was not a routine, diamond solitaire, gold band kind of union. I'm so pleased he remained dissuaded.)

Still, when we went to have it sized after he put it on my finger, and the woman in the shop gave me the instructions for its care, I did take a gulp of trepidation; it turns out that that distinctive, eye catching enamel pattern which has garnered so many compliments since, is also particularly high maintenance when it comes to daily routines (never mind month upon month of heartbreak and trauma).

It should be taken off whenever I use my hands for anything particularly active (which is always); it should not come in contact with any cosmetics or chemicals. It shouldn't be worn adjacent to other jewellery. And the list went on... The thing is, I didn't really take the advice to keep it pristine, safely tucked away; it is far too beautiful and well, it is a special reminder of just what H and I do have, a symbol of our strength.

That ring has been through all those dramas and traumas with us (and, I am ashamed to admit, one screaming, rage-fuelled journey across a room to hit a wall on the other side, when I was in a particular pique of anguish during the worst of my grieving. When I thought that since my hopes of motherhood had died with my baby, so everything else might as well go too. Luckily, H gently scoffed at my petulance on that occasion.) But here's the thing: even if it momentarily feels eradicated, you don't give up on the beautiful and the magical just because you're stuck in the middle of a seemingly endless shit storm; maybe you even cling to it all the harder.

In truth, all the carefully conveyed instructions of the saleswoman having been cavalierly disregarded, my ring is now full of scratches and nicks, after only four years of wear. But it's still whole. It's still beautiful. It's still full of vibrant colour and imbued with the deepest meaning.

Yes, I think it remains a perfect emblem of this unique, indestructible, and frequently magical union.

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Happy Anniversary, H. Your mighty smile and your gentle, compassionate tears, whether of joy or sorrow, are still more than I could have ever dreamed of. In the face of this, all the rest falls away. And yes, I still do.

Still beautiful, scars and all

What not to do while trying to conceive, and doing it in glorious style

Yep, we're back from what has already been dubbed The Glorious Holiday in these parts. Although a mere perusal of my blogger reading list indicates that I have a lot of catching up to do where my bloggy friends are concerned, (bear with me, I'll stop by soon!) I don't have much in the way of updates in Invincible Spring Land.

The uterus? Still very much unoccupied. (Did we expect anything different, really?) We have an appointment with the clinic on Thursday, and along we teeter... Honestly, none of it - the screaming scarlet that made its appearance a tantilizing two days late, or our perpetually childless status, the waits and the run-arounds at our clinic - seemed too bad in the context of recent weeks.

The holiday? Just...glorious. We hiked and strolled and explored and swam and ate and drank and laughed more than we have in a long while. It was a tonic for our marriage, and for my outlook on life generally.

And did we stick to the promise that we made before our departure? Not entirely, but that was ok too. Travel for me has always been about engaging with as much looking at new surroundings. A big part of that, I guess, is about allowing yourself to think about your own life and place in the vastness of things, as you encounter diversity and newness and difference. Because I'm a narcissistic emo type I tend to reflect on what I'd like to bring back with me from each encounter; not just the little stuff like a piece of local art of a tasty new way of preparing fish or doing my hair. The bigger stuff too: different priorities, ways of expressing ourselves, worldviews. (I think maybe these weeks away clarified some things for H and I, though how we act on that remains to be seen.)

So yeah, there was some of that too, fuelled by drinking in too much art, epic history and local socio-cultural quirks (birch bark sauna slapping, anyone?!) oh ok, and vodka. Like I said, glorious.

I'm sure I'll be back to bore you with photographic evidence in the coming days, but for now, I'm equal parts busy with all the back-to-reality stuff one inevitably faces, and stuck in a post-holiday-funk-apathy.

OMGseriously you guys! We went from these vast, ethereal, bright blue skies which become alight with orange and pink swirls around midnight, but never truly darken... 

Midnight sun marvel: 2AM

...to the grey, featureless, claustrophobic lid that is the sky over England at any given time. We traded sunshine and shirtsleeves for rain and woollen jumpers again. Sigh.

In sum though, (once my period had finally arrived), I can say that my behaviour on these weeks away was a veritable compendium of What Not To Do When You're Trying to Conceive:

• Forget your embargo on caffeine completely, and partake of daily doses of rich, dark, aromatic coffee (the likes of which is never to be found here in England), served in elegant cafes on cobbled squares while watching the world go by. Usually twice daily.
• Go local and eat raw fish, prepared ninety seven ways, of which there never seems to be a shortage. And caviar. So much caviar.
• Develop a heretofore unthinkable taste for vodka, which becomes irresistible in this land of expert vodka drinking and making (they treat it like fine wine). Sample the amazing, locally distilled varieties infused with incredible things like rhubarb, lingonberry, and sea buckthorn (my new favourite fruit!) 
• Smoke (gasp!) a leisurely cigarillo while seated in aforementioned cafe
• Throw your acupuncturist-recommended, doctor-backed gluten free diet (and with it your caution) to the wind, and partake of an obscene amount of pastries! cakes! breads! and beers in virtually every microbrewery pub you find along the way (they take their beers seriously too, these people)
• Saunas! Hot springs!
• Have sex with your husband for the sake of sex alone. Frivolous, exciting, standing-up, bathroom-in-a-moving-conveyance sex, as though you're a pair of horny teenagers with not a care for his sperm reaching your cervix on what might very well be fertile days (I know! Rebels!)

So yeah, I guess you could say we had an awesome time.

Suck on that, happiness-sanctioning, spontaneity-stealing infertility!

Behind every case of infertility, apparently

...is a woman, according to our insightful GP's office. I want to share this wonderful gem with you so that we can all indulge in a moment of sisterly, unpredictable-threatening-female-hormone-induced! seething rage at conventional social (medical?) attitudes.

But first - because I just know you've all been on pins and needles awaiting the update - I can confirm that the sperm have left the building and are now, as I type, nestled safely in the andrology lab awaiting results. What can I say ladies?  Thanks for all your comments, commiserations and solidarity over my husband's ability to embrace Zen and the Art of Reproductive Uncertainty. Yesterday he made good and did his small part. And I have no doubt that he would be delighted/horrified at the thought of so many strangers over the interwebs cheerleading his masturbatory efforts. I spared him that detail.

The truth is, it wasn't the first time he's had to do it and it likely won't be the last, so it's not like we didn't know the drill. We are lucky enough to be only 20 minutes from the hospital, so it's possible for him to do his thing at home, aided by me, and drop it straight at the lab, (as many of you suggested).

Oh wait, you didn't actually want to know all that? Oops. Sorry...

Anyway. So yes, that's done. Again. Not that I'm sure it really matters. Will it get us any closer to confronting the eventuality of IVF? Will it provide any answers? What are the questions again? Even I'm getting bored with this dinner table talk.

But none of that is really what I want to dwell on right now. Instead, I'd like to share with you a piece of medical wisdom which H gleaned from the doctor, perhaps entirely obliterating the necessity for his sperm sample at all. A kind of old husband's tale, if you will.

Because of a paperwork mixup, he had to first go to the GP's office to get a signature to send along to the lab. A minor inconvenience, but no big deal. Except that when he asked for the signature, the (male) doctor thought it worthwhile to cheerily provide some becalming (and unsolicited) assurance.

I wouldn't worry. Usually it's a problem with the woman anyway.

Yes, really. (Because, ya know, usually is a totally, scientifically valid, quantitative measure of data analysis.)

To which H, like the consummate feminist social scientist that he is, calmly replied that perhaps if the medical establishment weren't so patriarchal in its vision of the ideal body, it might ask a different set of questions entirely. And also pointed out that really, an approach which seeks to assign blame for the problem on the basis of a clear division of the sexes (or anything else, for that matter), might actually, possibly, just be missing the point anyway, being that this is not really the height of good practice in person-centred care.

(Not that I'm sure the doctor realized he was providing anything but wonderful, reassuring, person-centred care to one of the boys.) I only wish I could have been there.

I will say this though. H may not always get it, and he may unwittingly pose frustrating barriers to this whole process in the form of occasional foot dragging...

But.

I  am so in love with my husband at moments like these.

Swoon.

Insert appropriate comment about patriarchal medicine and the male gaze. Source.

A week of loveliness in two halves: London

And then, after the animal rescue angst and the family visit, we were off to The Smoke, just the two of us again. H didn't disappoint in his planning, lots of little surprises up his sleeve, revisiting all the significant spots in our history, booking us at no less than three of our favourite restaurants. The weekend was basically spent over-indulging in food and drink, strolling the snowy streets, and taking in lots of what my German speaking husband refers to as kunstgenuss. And - because that's what we had done when we were first dating, to celebrate three blissful months together (probably a good two months after we both realized that this was it) - on Friday night we drank prosecco from plastic cups, huddled close together under a blanket on the chilly evening terrace of the Southbank Centre, looking out towards the Parliament buildings and the London Eye and across the Thames. And you know what? It felt a bit like it had then: a little bit new, a little bit hopeful, a little bit scary and exciting, a little bit full of possibilities.

But as for London (the backdrop to so many a happy memory for us), I think she speaks for herself.* So for those of you interested in what else I was up to during my recent internet hiatus, here is just a glimpse...

Borough's bounty

Kaleidoscopic

Riding the rails

Brick gallery at Brick Lane

Raindrops on the river

* Having lived in various points around the UK, and having tasted the varied charms that each region has to offer, I nonetheless am the first to admit to being one of those really obnoxious Londoners at heart. Basically, as much as I love England's countryside, (and oh, I do), everything of interest or significance to me ends at the M25. 

Romantic Sabotage

No, I'm not talking about the infertility-inflicted kind, that robs us of opportunities for spontaneous romance and the sheer pleasures of couplehood; what with all its timed intercourse, gotta-think-ahead, mandated procedures and hormones, vaginal wand wielding, and of course the ubiquitous cultural tyranny of its two-is-not-enough thinking. I'm not talking about that kind of romantic sabotage. That we all know too well.

I'm talking about my husband, the devious saboteur hopeless romantic.

He's known since the first days of our fledgling romance that I'm not really a heart-shaped-box-of-chocolates kind of girl, but he can't resist the opportunity for a surprise celebration. (Who can blame him, really? I do adore his penchant for prosecco in the afternoon, just because). The first Valentine's Day we spent together he tricked me into agreeing that we'd do absolutely nothing to mark the day. I happily took this to heart (excuse the unfortunate pun), and did nothing. He took it as an opportunity to sneak out and buy chocolate (not just any chocolate, this stuff. Oh my god, their salted caramel chocolates...) and place it on my pillow in the morning. Chocolate for breakfast! It's below the belt. And despite my best attempts, (ok then, I didn't try that hard), he's been engaging in variations of the above ever since.

It's not that I don't love a little romance; I enjoy being brought flowers as much as the next girl. I just don't like romance by directive.

I do however have a weakness for chocolate, so this year, if he insists, who am I to protest? He wins. Wanton disregard for cervical position and cycle day Jungle time (*blush*) will almost certainly follow.

Plus, after my wobble yesterday, I'm trying to look on the bright side of just us two, with no little person to share stuff like this with. Because if I have to cry tears, let their salty taste be matched -bettered - by decadent salted caramel chocolates. Let me bask in the warmth - as gooey and cloying as it may sound - of my love for the man who made me want to make babies in the first place.




Blog friends, will you mark Valentine's Day with your other half? Ignore it? How have your experiences of infertility or loss altered the romance in your relationships?

My long-time companions

For the past few weeks, H and I have repeatedly said to each other that we want 2013 to be different. We really want things to get better. Not that we expect things we both know are beyond our control to suddenly go our way, but we both realised that throughout much of 2012, as we sank deeper into the waters of infertility, and then faced another loss, we had begun to drift -- away from our shared dreams, away of any will to actively pursue them, and most alarmingly to drift away from each other. The last few months have been a necessary wake-up call for us.

So yes, we want 2013 to be different in terms of how we approach it. But of course that's easier said than done. The last year 24 months have been replete with suckiness. And yet I'm not naive enough to believe that the simple turning of a page on the calender can suddenly shift things for us in anything but attitude. 2010 was both the best and worst year of my life; it was the year in which we had, and then lost, S. We started 2011 clinging to some vestiges of hopeful naivety, ready to ttc again in the new year...only to wait a full 10 months before a positive pregnancy test, and have it snatched away again a few short weeks later. I miscarried at 7 weeks, 10 days before Christmas. So the holidays last year sucked, and we clung to each other with the mantra that 2012 had to be our year. It turned out to be the year of exhaustive fertility testing, which has turned up only that we are two relatively healthy people with a long string of shit luck. And in August, one more cruel tease of a positive pregnancy test which was even more short-lived than the last.

We're still trying though, with the attitude stuff. We both realised it was a make or break situation. As a result, our marriage is in a better place than it has been in ages; less tension, more romance and a genuine sense of intimacy and shared purpose. I'm getting as healthy as I can be, in mind, body and spirit. After some holiday eating decadence, I'm in January detox mode (facilitated by our lovely weekly organic veg box delivery). I can't believe it's been a whole year since I quit caffeine completely (I don't really miss it anymore!). I visited a naturopath and started taking a 'mood essence', which together with some hard emotional work really does seem to have done wonders for my spirits. I'm getting back to regular yoga practice and acupuncture. It all feels good.

And yet none of this was enough to keep me blissfully slumbering through the wee hours of last night. In fact, I had one of the poorest sleeps I've had since before the holidays, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, finding all kinds of things to worry about before its even time to do so. Fear, doubt and uncertainty, my unwelcome companions on this journey, ease up alongside me unbidden. I tossed and I turned and questioned: what if there won't be another baby? What if I waited too long, got too old, and have mis-spent my last chances? What if we don't manage to find new jobs after H's contract here runs out? What about my immigration status in that case, will we have to return to Canada? And on, and on....Like I said, there's still a lot to work through.

But after a crappy start to the day, this afternoon seems much better; I walked through the snow, did lots of yoga, and am writing here, all of which seem to help. So for now I guess it's just a question of daily vigilance, really digging into my resilience, and putting one foot in front of the other. I'm trying to shake off these pursuers.

I'm not naive. I know it's just the turning of a page, an arbitrary way to propel ourselves forward and look ahead with a greater sense of hope. But we've got to try something, start somewhere, because I'm really not willing to live with these unwelcome companions any longer.

Edited to add: And speaking of arbitrary, apparently there might be a perfectly scientific explanation with which to validate my low mood today. Except, not.

Jungle time (and too much information)

For various reasons that have to do with our currently complicated lives, we have thus far not pursued ttc with ART (ah, the world of reproductive acronyms!). H and I have somewhat differing opinions on this matter, but mostly it's because we've never been in one place long enough to go through all the stages of intake, monitoring, timing the interventions, etc., and thus never really given it the time to sit down and hammer through these differences.

So for the moment anyway, we continue to do things au natural. (NB: this does not include baby dancing of any sort, the very suggestion of which conjurs wierd and creepy connotations which may say as much about me as about the term itself. In this household, we have sex. Sometimes, and increasingly even, there's lovemaking in there. BD'ing is never an acronym to which you will see me subscribe, and its absence is something I also cherish about the ALI blog world). I have never been the type to chart my cycles either, because I find it stresses me out, and anyway, I'm lucky to at least have a body which sends fairly clear signals about what its all up into at all the right times, so that's never been a problem (and my instincts have been confirmed by investigative ultrasounds, which is reassuring).

This cycle feels like a bigger deal than other recent attempts, mostly because we're actually actively trying again. What with my depressive mood in the run-up to the holidays, and a week of stomach flu that put us down for the count in October, and some tension in terms of our differing ways of dealing (which seem now happily to be smoothing out), our ttc efforts in recent months have been pretty paltry. We've been tired. I guess we were in kind of 'taking a break' mode. Maybe it was even restorative. In any case, it feels good - hopeful even - to at least be doing something again

And so, we are now approaching that crucial, make-or-break time of the month...that's right, the fertile window is upon us. Or as H likes to call it, 'our week of hot jungle sex'. (We inadvertantly coined a new term on a TTC after Loss forum that I frequent. I mentioned H's humouros term once to the girls there, and now it's all 'jungle time' this, and 'hot jungle sex' that over there. This makes me inexplicably delighted).

So yeah, it's jungle time. One friend asked if that involves trapeze style swings fashioned from vines. I suppose it could if you wanted it to. I lack the sporty abilities for that. Still, I'm fortunate that after all this time, my husband and I can still get in jungle time that involves a genuine sense of pleasure in one another, and that H is such a wonderful partner that he manages to instil a sense of fun and humour in what could otherwise be arduous and stressy, what with all the timing things, and the pillow-under-the-butt, legs-in-the-air sexiness that ensues from my side.

And moreso, I'm very lucky indeed that said jungle time this month coincides with romantically snowy outdoor landscapes of the type that facilitate intense canoodling, and fall over a Sunday, since we have some special Sunday rituals in our home that involve staying in bed all day, reading the weekend papers, occassionally a bottle of prosecco, and, well...are equally conducive to intense canoodling. (There have to be perks to enforced childlessness, right?)

It's almost enough to banish thoughts of the dreaded weeks that follow...Perhaps, in homage to the desert, devoid of hopefulness and the intense thirst for some finality that they often involve, I should christen the 2ww 'desert time'?

Me Tarzan, you Jane. Source.