On Mother's Day

Wherever you are in your parenting journey, whether in the depths of new grief, mourning losses long ago, missing the children you will never have, parenting after infertility, actively trying with or without assistance, pursuing adoption, ambivalent or resolved or a combination of the above, today I honour you.

 

A tale of two playgroups

I'm the kind of person who really likes my own company and can be a bit of a loner by nature, but I think when you're trying to integrate into a new cultural space, it's do or die. I've moved to enough new and strange cities in my time to have a keenly developed survival instinct telling me to get out there and vigorously mix, integrate, interact. Volunteer opportunity at the local homeless shelter? Sign me up! H's second cousin wants to meet for coffee and practice her English? Yes please! Plus, there is the small detail of my small daughter now spurning me on; she has a couple cousins here but both are school age and if I don't want Girl Wonder to become a little hermit baby I'd better mom up and make an effort.

So we've been checking out playgroups. However - leaving aside the strangeness that is my new social role as a mom - my German is still wobbly enough that I'm not confident just waltzing into a local group to make my own way in a language which still feels foreign to me. So we went for 'special interest' groups as a first step.

First up: there is a very active, city-wide, English-language playgroup that exists for the many foreigners who call this place home. A good place to start, right? Well, sort of; we might have had language in common, and even the experience of being newcomers, but to be honest? (Of course I'm painting with broad strokes here, I only dipped my toes in, after all), that might be where the commonalities end.

Because this city hosts the headquarters of a number of international organisations, expats here tend to be of the well-travelled and well-heeled variety. While we may be the former, we are certainly not the latter. Our home isn't big enough that we can play host to fourteen (fourteen!) sets of moms and babies, as others in the group have recently done. And while we move in some pretty interesting circles, we can't tell you about our last visit to the ambassador's residence for a semi-formal buffet dinner.

So there was already a certain socioeconomic divide, although that wasn't really the thing that singled me out and made everything seem awkward. Nope, our family history took care of that. Since my own brush with terminal illness in my teens, which left me with a pronounced limp, I am accustomed to answering intrusive curious questions about 'what's wrong with your leg?' my complicated medical history. When I know the intentions are good, it doesn't really bother me and I'm happy to oblige. Though I'm finding that things get a bit more sticky when it's your child(ren) concerned, I'm also someone who wants to contribute to the destigmatization of topics like infertility, disability, unconventional family building, etc. and so I generally try to be open and matter-of-fact. Our stories, all too often shunted to the margins for the comfort of a complacent society, should be part of the conversation too. Also, I (naively?) like to think that if I share my experiences in a way that shows they're not a life-defining tragedy for me, it might demystify some of the fear and pity for others as well.

Uh, except...maybe, on some occasions, this is more than a room full of terrified, pregnant fertiles most people can handle. So when stories were being exchanged about birth experiences and starting solids and yadda, yadda, yadda and, rather than come off like a wallflower, I honestly contributed...'born six weeks early by cesearean'...'intra-uterine-growth-restriction'...'Down syndrome'...'we're starting solids later because of her surgery at 36 hours old and feeding tube for first nine weeks'... Well, I'm sure you see where this is going...

I wasn't just the lead balloon in the room; I quickly became the bogey man, the personification of everyone's darkest dreams. You guys, that was before we even got to the infertility and loss stuff. People just looked at me. And despite the fact that my life may be dreamy these days and is certainly a long way from dark, it wasn't the most comfortable experience to see myself through other eyes.

I felt isolated. Like a fake, a freak. And though I know it wasn't intentional, that no one had set out to ostracize me, I couldn't help but feel like the awkward new girl at school facing The Plastics. (And if you haven't seen Mean Girls, go check it out; I'll wait. Tina Fey and Lyndsey Lohan in a previous incarnation. Love.)

(As another aside, I'm not really sure why people think 'I can't possibly imagine what you're going through' is in any way a good thing to say to someone facing life challenges. In my experience this only underscores otherness, leading to the person feeling all the more isolated and lonely. Also - while the subtly but crucially different 'I won't pretend to know what you're experiencing' is honest and direct, which I appreciate - in saying that you simply can't even imagine, you're pretty much saying that you lack the compassion or humanistic imagination for any kind of empathy. Way to go. But I digress...and that is deserving of a whole post of its own, really.)

So where was I? Ah yes, back to the playgroups.

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Luckily, that finely honed survival instinct of the expat prevented me from throwing in the towel after my initial difficult attempt. The following week, there was a playgroup put on by and for the local parent's network for families of kids with Down syndrome. (Again, at the risk of generalising,) I've said it before and I'll say it again: I like how people from this 'community' think and approach life.

There was the kind of shorthand that groups who have found themselves on the margins tend to share, and none of the awkward horror at all our baggage: was she born early? Did we get a birth or prenatal diagnosis? Did she have any medical anomalies? What is she doing with her early intervention therapist?

In a few brief conversations, I also learned that two of the babes in the group close in age to Girl Wonder were the product of fertility treatment. Do I think that there's a relationship between this extra challenge in family building and potential parents' attitudes towards chromosomal anomalies? Probably, yes.

Am I saying that if you've experienced hardship you're inevitably going to be more empathetic and have your priorities worked out? Not at all (and Loribeth wrote a great post recently about how people who do experience adversity in life are expected, often for the benefit of everyone but themselves, to fit a certain redemptive cultural narrative).

But I do think that once you've been through some of life's nastier shit storms there is at least the opportunity to gain some perspective; some gratitude. Not to get hung up on life's little 'problems'. So many of you have shown me that, with grace and humour and generosity of spirit. And while this ALI club is certainly not one that any of us would have voluntarily joined, I think the higher-than-average levels of compassion and determination not to sweat the small stuff are a significant silver lining that make me glad to have you all for company. But again, I digress...

The gist of my second attempt was this: I felt accepted. Embraced. And - perhaps ironically, given that shared language was not the common denominator here - understood. It was such a good feeling, and one that made me think I'll do fine as we move forward, even juggling as I am a new hometown and my new role as a mom and my newbie status in the world of Down syndrome.

I'm not saying that difficulty is something to be lauded. But maybe difference is, or should be.

With our unorthodox background stories, our transnational lives, our off-the-curve road to reaching a family, our high risk pregnancy, and a host of other variables, ours was never going to be the typical, 'normal' story. And as much as others may have a hard time with that, I'm ok with it; better than ok. I'm grateful for and sensitive to complicated, less-than-'perfect' realities. I'm happy. My life is full of love.

Leaving that playgroup, I found myself, not for the first time, feeling like we've landed on a really good side of 'normal', and oh so happy to be here.

And we don't even own a dryer! Source.

Four years, still like yesterday

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      

i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

                           ~ E.E. Cummings 

 

 

Source.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are loved and missed every day sweet boy, and woven into the tapestry of our days in innumerable, magical ways. We will always be grateful for you. We will never stop wishing you could have stayed. We wish you had the chance to meet your little sister. (Perhaps you have.) We wish she would grow to know you. (We will do our best to make sure she does.)

It's not me, it's you

I think I mentioned that the holidays, while largely beautiful and relaxing and contemplative, also brought some moments of bitterness. Courtesy of our own family, in fact.

By way of the briefest of summaries, we've struggled with how to maintain family relationships with some of our relatives over the last 3+ years, when their callous, indifferent or demanding reactions to our loss(es) and experiences of infertility have placed extra strain and hurt on us in a time when instead we should have been seeking support and compassion. I knew that a subsequent pregnancy would compound this tension in so many ways. I've alluded to it as one of the reasons why I was reticent about sharing our exciting (but still scary) news for so long.

The visits with H's family over the last three weeks were intended as a kind of olive branch, a renewed effort on our part to let things go and start afresh (albeit with reduced expectations: you don't always get the family you want, but they're still family. Aren't they?).

It kind of worked out that way, but also, not really very much at all. Two vignettes, brought to you from the suffocating depths of our loving extended family homefires:

1) During a reunion in which H and I were making genuine efforts to let bygones be bygones, on the cusp of a new year with all the symbolism that implied, my mother-in-law wanted to revisit the topic of why we had sent 'hurtful' emails to her, oh...two odd years ago? That's right, apparently we hurt her when (you're gonna love this) we sent an email indicating that while we understood their concern for us, some forms of..ahem, grief management advice (and I'm using this term loosely here) were not welcome. To whit: when, on the first anniversary of S's death, H shared his feelings with his mother, her directive was to 'put it in a drawer and forget about it'. Yes, she referred to my son as an it. Still though, who were we, in our naivety, to imagine that we knew what we needed or to have the audacity to ask for it? That was hurtful to her, and she insisted that new year's day was the time to clear the air. New year or not, I guess a bitch of a mother-in-law tiger doesn't change it's stripes.

2) Lest you think that my own side of the family is immune from such gaffs in grieving etiquette (is there a manual for this? Because there should be), I present my sister. Things have not been great between us since, among other things, she blandly stated, 'Why should I grieve for your son? I didn't know him'. Since, on my first meeting with her after my loss - when I also met her son born a mere few days after S should have been - she indicated that she saw no reason to be sensitive in proffering her new babe because 'My first priority is my baby, and if you can't deal with that it's your problem'. Yeah, she is sensitivity personified, that woman. I'm not actually sure what her deal is, given that she had the same happy childhood as I. Anyway, she wanted the holidays to be a time when to reach out to those she so evidently loves and cares for, with the message that 'Family is so important, and as a parent this becomes all the more true when you have kids of your own'. She is extremely family oriented. Obviously. Here's what I would do with her version of 'family values'. Take them and delete, delete, delete not suitable for some audiences!. Just wait 'til she finds out about the little seedling. She's the type who will suddenly have all the love in the world for us.

As I am sure you are all too aware - though I admit to being deeply envious of some of you who seem to have such warm, understanding support around you - dealing with other people, and with community life in general, can be one of the hardest things about being in this already crappy ALI club.

There have been some break ups. The stupidity, insensitivity or just plain careless, this-is-no-big-deal-at-least-it-wasn't-a-real-baby attitudes to my grief on the parts of some people were enough to make me re-evaluate a few 'friend'ships. (This is to say nothing of the people who dumped us, initially on the pretense of 'giving us space', but later because grief is fucking hard, ugly work and they weren't up to the task; or so I can assume. Most just sort of disappeared, never proffering even a lame excuse, and never to return.) I give people lots of chances. If you've hurt me, I always try to talk openly, honestly and calmly about how your behaviour makes me feel (hence the 'hurtful' email to my mother-in-law), leaving a chance to clear the air. However, if your response to those attempts proves even more self-absorbed, sometimes you gotta know when to throw in the towel, if only for self-preservation.

But these people are my relatives. Unfortunately, things aren't so simple here. I can't break up with them. So I come here to vent, to shake a raging fist at the universe for bestowing me with such a frankly useless support system, and to beg your patience with me as I do.

And I know what they say about relationships being hard work, and how it takes two, and yadda, yadda, yadda. That's all totally true. I've worked hard over the past few years.

But still, I'm pretty sure it's not me. It's them.

The ties that bind. Like, literally. Source.

If you've faced similar insensitivities, what do you do to manage? How do you learn to bite your tongue, turn the other cheek, and keep that pasted-on smile upturned?

Disqualified

Allow me a brief interlude in all my shiny, happy talk about blissed out babies and real OB appointments, for a missive of a more bilious nature. Those of you who have been reading for a while may remember I have previously on these pages both praised the NHS for its comprehensive, free-access care and decried it's insensitivity.

(I have to say, that while we are blessed to live in a society that - for now - continues to view high quality healthcare as a fundamental right of citizenship [or even, as in our case, residence], we have also been on the receiving end of that disinterested attitude on more than one occasion. But today I'm here to rant in a more generalized way.)

The universal healthcare of the UK's National Health Service: weighing in on the generosity end of the spectrum, there is the fact that all pregnant women in the UK receive what is called a Maternity Exemption Certificate, entitling the bearer to totally free prescriptions of any kind, as well as dental coverage, for the duration of their pregnancy and until the first birthday of their child. Wonderful.

At the other, less humane end of the spectrum, well...New levels of insensitivity have been reached today people.

After filling out a form with my midwife about a week ago, I received my certificate in the mail this week. Below the instructions for use, under a section entitled 'Important Information', alongside routine details of what to do in the event your address changes, etc, there was the following:

If you have a miscarriage within the first 24 weeks of your pregnancy, please return your certificate to us. (If your baby is stillborn after 24 weeks, you can keep it. Yay!)

Subtext: because really, if your sorry uterus can't even manage the job of carrying a baby to a minimally respectable point at which it is considered a death rather than just release of the 'products of conception', what right do you have to the privileges enjoyed by other, more effortlessly fecund women?

Ah, all the tiny, effortlessly cruel ways in which the world reminds us of our failings, of how we just don't qualify, of how we're not quite enough.

Okay, okay, I get it...Age of Austerity, economic bottom line, risk of welfare fraud, cold, heartless neo Thatcherism, yadda, yadda, yadda...

But seriously? Seriously NHS?! You can't come up with a more appropriate way of keeping tabs on the allocation of the state's resources, or show even the slightest hint of compassion in the context of your bloated bureaucracy?

I know that when I lost my babies, in the midst of all the grieving and gnawing pain and self-loathing, one of my absolute top priorities was to undertake the paperwork necessary to keep me in good standing with my healthcare registration status.

Honestly, I'm not even sure how to appropriately convey the sense of repugnance I feel at this piece of 'information' and the way in which it is delivered, because it would involve a string of expletives so long and ugly I would doubtless alienate the more genteel among my readers and belie my true, less-than-ladylike nature.

If, however, this stokes the fires of your righteous indignation as it did mine, fellow IFers, fellow loss moms, well then, please feel free to let loose with as many colorful expletives as you care to share.

I'll start us off: Fucking, thoughtless, asshole, inhuman, dickhead, douchebag wankers.

<End rant>

Does not qualify as humane treatment

Waves of light

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

Remembering

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

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

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

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

I'll never be able to imagine what that feels like

(WARNING: This post is pretty much unadulterated bitterness and bile, prompted by a rather self-absorbed meltdown today [in turn prompted by an innocent-enough email exchange], and hammered out here in the blogoverse on the basis of the better-out-than-in principle. If you've passed by today in search of more beautiful holiday snaps, or a nice, wholesome recipe or something, well...I apologize. If, on the other hand, like me you're having a particularly bitter infertile kind of day, stuck alone with your darkest, ugliest thoughts... well, far be it from me to offer any kind of validation, but feel free to stay and read on. I'm mixing the stiff drinks right now.)

Something I think will never stop stinging, whenever I encounter it: the way everyone else is so damned exuberantly confident as they face down pregnancy and parenthood...

'We are eight weeks pregnant!' 'We are expecting our first child in February!'

(Eight weeks?? I'd be terrified to ever again announce a pregnancy until...well, essentially the child is here and screaming. We don't ever indulge in any sense of expectancy anymore, except perhaps as it pertains to heartache and disappointment).

I wish they wouldn't be quite so cavalier, especially when they are aware of our own history. And yet here's the thing: other peoples' assured sense that everything is simple and easy and a pregnancy unequivocally results in a healthy-baby-nine-months-later is almost always rewarded with the very scenario their casual confidence imagines. I have to keep reminding myself that we fall on the distant margins of the statistics, the dark side of the moon.

('Less than 5 percent of women have two consecutive miscarriages, and only 1 percent have three or more consecutive miscarriages'. Thank you, Mayo Clinic, for using my miserable stats to reassure other parents about their odds, thereby pointing out to me what a freak I actually am. [I am the 1%. So special.] Actually, I guess the world does a pretty good job of reminding me just how not normal we are, with painful frequency. On my better days I probably just do an okay job of blocking that out. Lalalala I can't hear you!)

And then most of all, it stings that anyone else's justified joyful excitement over something so pure and beautiful is a source of pain and rage and just-please-shut-the-fuck-up-about-your-eight-week-pregnancy-and-plans-for-the-nursery mindset for me.

(Though at this point, I'm not sure what's worse: all that confident, babyiscoming! bravado, or the avoidant, furtive, whispered, poor-woman-I-don't-know-how-I'd-cope pity.)

I hate it that all this has turned me into such a shit head.

I hate it that one of the first things I think when I hear these kinds of happy announcements is:
Don't you know how long and hard some people have to struggle to get there?

I hate it that one of the second things I scream internally think is:
Don't you know that unborn babies die?!

In these misanthropic moments of self-pity, I kind of hate everyone, but I think I hate myself most of all.

Just...fuck.

Among the less commonly discussed side effects.  Source

Laughter yoga, Bereaved Mother's Day, and the messy truth of life

Over the weekend, as I promised myself I would do, I tried to find ways to overcome the spring blues which I've been battling these past days. This nascent spring summer! is too beautiful not to enjoy, and the perfect opportunity to move beyond the bounds of my comfortable funk presented itself.

Yesterday, to mark World Laughter Day my yoga instructor organized a taster of laughter yoga, a movement with which I have long been intrigued but have not had the chance to enjoy. Based largely on the medical knowledge that your mind and body benefit hugely from smiling and laughing - whether it's genuine or contrived - the laughter yoga movement begun in India is intended as a 'positive manifestation for world peace and to build up a global consciousness of brotherhood and friendship through laughter'. Nice, right? So although I wasn't in the mood, I cajoled myself into an afternoon of merriment with perfect strangers. Because that's the point of laughter yoga from a health perspective: studies suggest that you can actually 'trick' yourself into happiness even through forcing a laugh, and that you should do so as a means to build community too.

In addition to the kinds of breathing exercizes that are part of traditional yoga, and various absurdist activities in which one really couldn't help but laugh in the end, completely and authentically, our instructor shared some of the science behind the practice. We were taught how laughter-on-command can ease the stress of lots of little situations we all encounter in life; you know those moments that make you grit your teeth and set your muscles tighter and generally growl inwardly? The example used was hitting a red light in traffic. Just laugh hysterically at the light, she said, and you'll soon find it no longer holds the same toxic grip over you.

Since I don't drive, and (being routinely 10 minutes late for everything ever) I have come to accept that such small delays are not the mortal enemy, I don't much have a problem with red lights. But truthfully friends, (bad Sadie! I know!) for the briefest of moments, my infertility-addled brain actually wandered to the possibility of applying that same hysterical laughing technique to the legions of pregnant bellies which seem to accost me on a daily basis.

Hhhmm...guess that wouldn't really be in keeping with the laughter yoga mantra that we are always laughing with, right?

Of course I would never do that. Not really. I'm not going to live up to the archetypal, misogynistic evil-cackling-madwoman-who-never-fulfilled-her-maternal-instincts-and-is-therefore-dangerous bit that our culture still nurtures. Because, well...obviously. That would be too easy.

Anyway, where was I?

We also learned that on average, children laugh 300 times per day, where adults laugh on average 15 times per day. Just, wow....something is clearly getting lost along the way, so whatever we can do to restore it, even if I'm the first to indulge in the occasional bout of duvet diving, can't be a bad thing.

Sometimes laughter really is the only medicine. And you know, with my belly muscles pleasantly straining after one and half hours of mandated laughter, I actually felt not just emotionally lighter, but physically euphoric for several hours afterwards.

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It was only on my return home later in the afternoon, after a long and lovely walk, when I learned through several bloggy friends that yesterday was also International Bereaved Mother's Day. At first I wasn't sure what to make of that perhaps cruelly random juxtaposition of days to simultaneously mark such seemingly opposing sentiments: laughter and dead babies. Then I thought, actually, it's quite true to life. And maybe they're not as opposing as they might first appear.

Much as I once might have implored it to - much as I feel at times that mine has - life has not stopped since S died, since we started on this scary, uncertain road of infertility. Much to my own surprise, and despite the brokenness from which I once thought I would never recover, I have gone on laughing (though you'd be forgiven for not believing that if you stumble upon this blog on any given day). I cry, I laugh, I breath. I am alive and he is not. I owe him the full life - to accept, inhabit, embrace it - that he cannot and never will have. And despite the realities of birth and death, we remain connected. I try to remind myself of those things every day.

There was one thing about yesterday which somehow, serendipitously, brought all these sentiments together. The laughter yoga class was held on the grounds of a beautiful medieval convent which remains in use today. It is filled with tranquil gardens designed to bring peace, to foster the contemplation of life's great mysteries (or at least so it seemed to me). Just being there was a special experience. And the lawn on which we sat and moved and breathed and laughed among strangers was also home to this beautiful flowering tree. A memory tree.

The sign under it's branches instructed us to: Tie a ribbon on the tree and remember someone special.

And the next time I visit the lawn to sit and laugh with strangers, I will do just that.

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

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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.

What the body remembers

When I was doing my post-doc and began working with trauma patients, I came across a book that I found particularly compelling, in a professional sense. It was about the important relationship between psychotherapy and neurobiology, and its basic premise was that even when there are things that your brain or your psyche can't compute - because maybe they're simply too devastating - your body holds on to those memories. The author argued for a therapeutic process which gave voice to the body, suggesting that this reconnection could aid in healing.

It's true; the body holds onto a lot of stuff that the brain, because of its protective capacities, simply can't deal with. I've always been a firm believer in the mind/body connection, but I got to experience it firsthand, in an embodied way, when I was forced to grieve the loss of my son, and subsequently all the secondary losses that came with that.

When I began to frequent babyloss blogs, I would hear parents speak of this phenomenon again and again: your consciousness might forget the weight of a particular date, as your brain allowed it to become just another number on your calendar. Then maybe, seemingly out of the blue, you'd get sick or just not be particularly good at coping any more, when you'd otherwise felt you were making 'progress'. That's your body remembering.

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I meant for April to be the continuation of the mindset I managed to embrace in the latter half of March; hopeful, irreverent, happy. I survived another birthday (and another two week wait) without too major a meltdown. H and I made progress on the medical front, and found a really great doctor. We are making plans for exciting summer travels. Here in blogland, I wrote a series of silly, carefree posts that reflected the mood I held for many days in a row. I planned to write a post about spring, such as it is finally here; to enumerate all the ways I feel blessed, all the things I have to look forward to. They are, after all, many.

But then.

Then I ended up here. For the past two days, I've felt indeterminately melancholic. My brain is fuzzy and can't seem to concentrate. I'm irritable with H and work and life in general. I lack my usual energy, but I also feel restless a lot of the time. In light of all the loveliness of the past weeks and my comparatively positive mood, I struggled to think of why this might be.

And then I remembered: this month marks three years since the beginning of our journey to parenthood. (How has it been been three whole years already? How has it been only three years?)

In April of 2010, after we decided to take the plunge - less than a year into being together; but we both knew what we wanted and weren't getting any younger - I had been to see my oncologist in Canada to discuss how my disease and treatment history might effect this journey, and was told not to expect too much too quickly. We were initially cautious. Three weeks later, while we were visiting H's parents in Germany, we learned that we had conceived S; in our first month, before we were even really actively trying. (And little did we know just how active, and just how trying, the whole thing could become, back in those halcyon days). We were scared and elated and filled with wonder. This season is so evocative for me. For seventeen and a half weeks in the spring and summer of 2010, S was here with us, and it was like magic.

Until it wasn't. And I was broken. I was shocked by the depth of my own grief. I gained new understanding of that trite, rom-com notion of the broken heart. Mine was shattered in a million pieces, and every day for many months on end I could feel it, actually feel the shards piercing me. I often had a searing pain and a weight on my chest that made it hard to breath. And while the shards eventually melted, my heart developed new scar tissue to protect itself, and the pain slowly dissipated to something much gentler, the sense that there was no way to possibly ever understand - on a cognitive level - how we had got from there to here remained. How had this become my life?

I don't often spend time thinking those thoughts these days. I'm better than I was. I'm healing. I laugh a lot. I enjoy the little things again. But as I look down the long stretch of time and failure and loss that has carried us away from that magical time, a feeling that anything was still possible, my body and my brain seem to have momentarily reconnected: I'm missing those days in the spring of 2010.

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I miss the innocent and hopeful me I was in the 'before'.

I miss my belief in a 'logical' course of events: you pee on a stick. You see two lines. You cry and rejoice. You have a baby that outlives you by many decades. You walk away, happily ever after, into the sunset.

I miss the (stupid, vain) certainty I had of H and I as a dynamic, confident, always ebullient pair who were blessed, who always had good things coming to us. 

I miss the carefree way I used to be able to interact with friends and family and the world at large, before I crawled inside this protective, fearful carapace which so often walls me off from those around me. From their normality, their joys, their forward moving lives.

I miss the unwavering support and understanding that I used to think they'd be able to provide, before I realised, looking backward, that we were on a completely different path from virtually all of those people, and that this path was diverging into an ever widening gap of experience which they would be hard pressed to even grasp, never mind support.

I miss the version of myself that would have been able to see my two subsequent pregnancies - even for the brief time they were with us - as babies I might look forward to meeting, instead of the dread and diminished self-worth that accompanied those interrupted journeys.

Most of all, I miss my boy. I miss feeling him in my burgeoning belly. I miss the chance of knowing the person he would have become. He'd be two years old now, a chubby toddler. If he took after either of his bookish, nerdy parents, he'd already be showing an abiding interest in the written word. Maybe he'd have his father's flair for the dramatic. Maybe he'd be rambunctious and naughty, having inherited my curious, restless spirit and intellectual ADD. Our lives would be different now in ways I am still not able to fathom.

It doesn't often happen. Three years on, some supposedly significant dates - a loss, a due date, the date I got a positive pregnancy test - may come and go without my even realising it. These random down days may not come forever, I don't know. (Though my mother says that she still has these vaguely depressed anniversary days more than ten years after my grandmother died). And though I feel S is present in some way in our lives, I don't often indulge in the 'what ifs', partly because they're just too painful. My brain is protective.

I tell myself that it does no good missing any of these things, because they're gone and won't return. (With the exception of S, who is a different matter entirely). Things are what they are, and no amount of lamenting will bring them back. It was a realization I finally had months before starting this blog, and most days this knowledge allows me a kind of freedom, so that I am able to embrace the now. I am finding contentment in things again, in my life, with all its uncertainties. And although I am no longer (and probably never will be again) any of those things listed above, there are new, and better things that have replaced them; I am more compassionate, more patient, and I'd like to think more gracious with others. I feel acutely aware of all I have to be thankful for. I begin to believe in myself, to trust myself again. I don't want it to appear that I'm sliding backward, or that I'm ungrateful for all the wonderful things I have. I'm happy.

But there are days like today when I guess my body insists I stop, let down my carapace, and grieve. Be gentle with yourself, my body whispers to my brain, in an inversion of the logic we have learned from neurobiology, with the brain sending out missives that allow the body to function.Today, my body is calling the shots, and it has very clear ideas of what should take precedence.

Remember. Love. Grieve. Hope. Heal.

The thing about these embodied memories, as that book also pointed out, is that they aren't only a repository of your traumas; they are also a testament to your strength, to the way in which the mind and body can collaborate in positive ways to strengthen people.

Spring is here, it's come one way or another. Each day follows the last. We are moving forward.  I've learned that even while it retains this memory, my body keeps going, keeps fighting to be a part of the world, to make sure I'm really in it, that I'm happy.

So for now at least, my brain will listen, because that is also part of the trust I am regaining in myself and my body. I know it won't forget, but it won't quit either.

Putting myself back together. Again.

Now We're Getting Somewhere

If you've been following along in the incipient stage of this blog and reading my rants and raves, you'll already know that I attribute all of my misfortunes to the NHS rather than my own dysfunctional lady parts. Well ok, not really. But truth be told, I haven't often felt very cared for, or my medical or emotional concerns very attended to in my recent dealings with them. But today, I am here somewhat sheepishly but delighted to (semi)retract my statements of discontent.

This morning we had to make a visit to our GP office to sign paperwork for the referral to a specialist (other than the one I'll finally see in a few weeks to discuss my polyp). We also had to schedule updated CD3 and CD 21 bloodwork, so that's happening.

The appointment didn't start so well. I have been peeved with this process, with the accumulation of too many months of inaction and too many disinterested medical practitioners, and so I think my default mode has recently been one of snarkiness in these situations. So when we sat down with the nurse practitioner to complete the intake questions, and her first one was 'Do you have any children?', my response in the negative - 'That's why we're here'. (Duh.) - might have been a little too far on the brittle crackly side of dry. H silently implored me from over the unsuspecting nurse's head to behave myself if we want to move forward with what we want to move forward with. (He has this whole crazy philosophy of not pissing people off if you want something from them...I know, right?).

OK, so we went through all the questions, reviewed my paltry history - 3 pregnancies, 0 live births - we scheduled the bloodwork. The nurse practitioner was a bit brusque in her manner, but I'm ok with that as long as we get something done. And then while she was sitting there appraising the situation, things started to shift, almost imperceptibly. She said she wondered why we were actually being referred for infertility rather than recurrent loss, because although there are clearly subfertility issues that are preventing us from moving forward, most of these seem to relate to the viability of our pregnancies and not, well, complete lack of conception. Good god, someone who not only actually took the time to read and think through our entire medical history, but who saw fit to analyse it and prescribe accordingly!*  Bells started going off in my brain. We told her that those were in fact our sentiments exactly, but that in our previous location no specialist support had been offered for RPL, and thus we'd been referred for fertility.

(A little background is probably in order here. On our last and only visit with a fertility specialist last autumn, we were told that our problem was not really one of fertility; that in fact we both looked fine in that department and clearly could conceive, and that our real issue was sustaining a healthy embryo/pregnancy. Then this advice was given: the doctor told us that we should keep trying naturally for 6-8 months and if we conceive in that time we should call right away so that we could be provided extra monitoring and support and that they might be able to get to the bottom of why I keep losing babies. Oh no wait that's my best-case-scenario brain talking! What they actually said was if, after a conception, I end up miscarrying again (reassurance and optimism incarnate, they were), we should 'save the tissue in a pot in the freezer so you can bring it in for testing at your next appointment'. Eight months later. Yep. Also, they said that after those 6-8 months - and remember they had just said conceiving isn't the issue for us - we should consider moving straight on to IVF. Whaa? Huh? Anyway, the overall impression was one of a conveyor belt, one-size-fits-all treatment regime. Not reassuring. And clearly not very compassionate.)  

In contrast, the nurse today said that she wanted to make sure we got the appropriate care, and not send us on a wild goose chase. She said to leave it with her and she'd make the right enquiries about where to start. This is, in a word, huge. At that point, as we were getting up to leave, I could already have hugged her. But as we were tripping over ourselves thanking her - you become so grateful of the simplest human gestures in these moments - she said, almost as an afterthought: 'I've been through IVF myself, so I know how important these things are'. She understands! I love this nurse, brusque manner and all. For this one appointment, the first time anyone has paid us and our concerns and our medical issues enough attention to really get things done, I love her. I would book all my future appointments according to her work schedule if I could.

So now we're awaiting a referral that might actually bring us towards some of the answers we need, and more important, a game plan for the future. I don't kid myself; this is still the NHS and that means a big waiting game for now, but to at least be heading in the right direction feels like a watershed. I'll nag about what's happening with the referral when I go for my CD21 bloodwork on Thursday and then, hope that we're on the road. After all this waiting! After so many months of feeling like we're stuck in a pinball machine, being randomly zinged from pillar to post! This could mean more coordinated care with, for example, the specialist I'll see for my polyp removal/investigation, as they're all located in the same women's hospital and often work together. If we do ultimately need to go down the IVF route - realistically, we may still be looking at this later in the year, considering how ancient we are - again, all the care would be coordinated. And the best thing is, with this arrangement, if we were lucky enough to get pregnant on our own, according to my new favourite person, there would be early and extra monitoring available. (First trimester care generally suuucks here, in my experience). Seriously, this is crucial for my emotional health, if not my physical.

After so long kinda spinning our wheels, I'm a little bit hopeful and so heartened by such a simple exchange. This feels like progress. This feels like a beginning...of something.

Fingers crossed. Source.

* Is it just me, or is it often the less acknowledged, more poorly paid professional who steps up on these occassions?

A special gift

Today I received a wonderful gift in the mail. The beautiful, generous heart that is Angie at still life with circles has painted a mizuko jizo as part of a meditation she is doing in remembrance of lost babies, and I am touched and honoured that she included S.

Angie writes:

Jizos are bodhisattvas primarily associated with the dead, and particularly are protectors of women and children. A bodhisattva is a person who attains enlightenment (released from the fetters of the cycle of birth and rebirth), but chooses to be born again to help others achieve enlightenment. Mizuko is technically translated as "water child", because certain Japanese Buddhists believe that "existence flows into being slowly, like liquid". Mizuko is the name used for miscarried, aborted, and stillborn babies. Mizuko jizos are unique to Japanese Buddhism.

I developed a fascination with the mizuko jizo after losing S. (You can read a thoughtful and touching article on the topic here, written by Peggy Orenstein after she had suffered her second miscarriage while working in Japan). I now have a little collection scattered throughout our home; in flower pots, on the kitchen window sill, by the door to greet me when I return from work. They are little talismans that bring me peace and connect me to the watery, floating, ethereal in-between world I imagine S occupying when I think of this tradition.

I now have one more to add. Such a treasured gift, for me and for my little water baby. Thank you Angie. Your compassion and talent have brought gifts to many through so much grief.

A mizuko jizo for S

Smitten, or Speaking our Truths

After a day so busy that the disappointment of another month down didn't have much time to seep into my consciousness besides the intial tears, I'm back to myself and looking forward once again. (There's always that little come-down, the shock, even though you were expecting it, to the system, isn't there?). This weekend, I'll be doing just as you ladies have suggested, with a little gentle self-care, some of this (my current addiction), a visit with these old friends, and yes, there will be red wine.

 

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But let's speak about other frivolities for a moment. I think I have a new celebrity crush. Strictly speaking, I'm not one to get all hot under the collar over far off, celluloid imagery on-screen. I have eyes only for my tall and photogenic husband, a man who so thoroughly defies the 'type' of all my previous romantic entanglements that this is sure proof of just how destined we were for each other. No, I'm the sort of girl who's often been known to make the first move; I deal more in reality than dwelling on fantasy. I don't do crushes.

Nonetheless, I have recently developed an affection for Hugh Jackman that might be described as such. It's not his piercing gaze or his well defined torso that have attracted my attention though. I'm not even sure how many of his movies I've seen. Sure, (apropos my nerdery) I thought the X Men movies were fun, and from what I recall he made an ok Wolverine.

But in a toss up over what to watch when we went to the movies last weekend, I persuaded H of the merits of Les Mis over Lincoln. And I'll be cheering him for an Oscar next month. Frivolous, right?

Really, Jackman gained my admiration when I caught, quite by accident, an interview he did for the promotion of the movie, in which he talks about he and his wife's experiences with infertility, IVF and recurrent miscarriage. (They apparently eventually adopted). He rightly points out the silence that surrounds the topic of miscarriage and how important speaking out is to the grieving process. I continue to think it's all too rare for high profile figures - and society at large - to openly discuss infertility and pregnancy loss, and rarer still for men to do so. It's often wrongly seen as a 'women's thing', and therefore the very real grief that fathers experience can be brushed under the rug as they try to be 'the strong ones' in the equation.

I know many people criticize public figures for 'using' their personal battles as publicity stunts. (See last year's US presidential elections, in which comments directed towards both the Romneys and the Santorums in relation to sharing their own experiences of babyloss were often vitriolic, and I think revealed as much about the discomfort and low tolerance society at large has for discussions of this nature as it did either candidate's profile). So although I'm not one for celluloid fantasy, and I'm certainly no supporter of the Republican party, I am for any opportunity to normalise the experience of those in the ALI community, and to raise the level of discourse around what shouldn't be a taboo topic.

Oh yeah, and I can tell you that the movie really wasn't bad either. Mr. Jackman looks very dashing in those frock coats.

Colour me smitten. Source.

Panic averted ,and gratitude

Really, thank you all for stopping by to commiserate and becalm my fears yesterday. It was really just what I needed to hear. After taking a while to chill out yesterday afternoon, and heeding the wise and warm advice of Kimberly and JenS (thank you ladies!), and just the right approach from H (more of which in a moment), I was able to calm down and see this diagnosis for what it is. That is to say, really truly, probably nothing. And a little research this time did actually help to assuage my panic.

Some sites (oh ok, wikipedia) suggest that only 1% of polyps are malignant. Then there is this probably more reliable but slightly less reassuring site, which observes that polyps are 'often benign' (how often we don't know, because like good medical professionals and unlike wikipedia, they don't want to play the numbers game). Thing is, I don't have any of the symptoms they're outlining, which I'm thinking is a good thing.

There are a few particulars about this situation though that probably help to explain my strong reaction. Firstly, my complicated medical history; namely the fact that I am already a cancer survivor, (yes, babyloss mom and 'terminal' cancer survivor...I sure can't complain that life has been boring, however much I wish I sometimes could! But I'm getting off track, and that's a whole different post). The fact is, the statistics for any potential malignancy, for the rest of my days, are slightly skewed, slightly different for me than they would be for someone who had never been previously diagnosed. Not terrible, but slightly higher. In my past GP practices they would have flagged this immediately, but (again, lovely NHS), these new doctors since my return to the UK seem not to be concerned. OK, I guess I'll have to deal. I can do this.

But more to the point, and something to which I am sure readers of this blog can relate, it's the uncertainty of the waiting as it relates to ttc, infertility, and those monthly hopes-too-often-dashed by what can feel like piles of random bad luck. This is something I have a little more trouble dealing with. You see, a little more basic research (touchingly conducted by H) revealed that cervical polyps, even if they cause no real health risk to a woman, can cause problems with fertility because they interfere with movement of sperm through the cervix as well as implantation, and that if you do conceive, you may be at a heightened risk of miscarriage. Suddenly a whole new set of red flags are going off in relation to my more recent history...

Now the thing is, I last underwent one of many pelvic exams back in November of last year, prior to an HSG which showed no abnormalities with either my tubes or uterus (other than a small, apparently inconsequential fibroid). No one mentioned anything about my cervix. So this leads me to a new set of musings, that go something like this: either I've been dealing with medical practitioners so careless as to have thought that for a woman undergoing subfertility testing and experiencing recurrent miscarriage, cervical polyps were not worthy of note (!!), but treatment of which, had care been directed otherwise, could possibly have averted our months upon months of fruitless ttc and at least my most recent early miscarriage last August (I know, I know...all those 'what ifs'...). Or if not, then this sucker just sprung from nowhere and grew quickly. And maybe I'm still overreacting, but neither is an option that really allays my concerns in relation to baby making.

Why does this all have to be so complicated for some of us?

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In any case, H had just the right words to dissipate this feeling of uncertainty and worry last night. I had called him at his office to rant discuss the situation, and when he arrived home, bunch of cheery tulips in arm, he was armed with lots of information on the link with infertility/miscarriage. (Sometimes his slightly obsessive penchant for planning comes in handy). He pointed out that while it's frustrating to think back on time we might have 'wasted' (is there really such a thing?), on the up side this looks like a potentially simple answer for some of the weirdness and disappointment we've experienced in recent months. He may have a point there. It would be great if that annoying little thing provided us with some answers, if for once things really weren't that complicated.

I'll continue waiting for the letter with my appointment to arrive, along with that other wait. Luckily I have a date with my husband tonight, which gives me the excuse to sparkle a bit, and lots of hiking planned for this weekend, if the weather holds. (And if need be, I have this space to pour my fears and worries). So really, things aren't bad at all.

Blooms to bring spring to my worried soul

Visiting the acupuncturist, revisted

I've already mentioned how much I appreciate my acupunture sessions, and how they've been an integral part of both my healing from loss and ttc journey. Having relocated back to the UK, I recently managed to find a practitioner who takes my health issues seriously and doesn't underplay their emotional dimensions. I'm excited about some of the newer treatments he's offering. But in order to get there, I first had to kiss a frog or two, as it were.

The first practitioner I saw when we arrived here, I selected specifically because she advertised a specialism in infertility and loss (something which was really never available in Portugal). At the first appointment, I couldn't help but note that her manner was a little overly clinical for my liking (I want someone who's aware of the mind/body connection), but the needles seemed to do their thing of calming my anxieties and putting me in a meditative state just fine, so I stayed the course.

On the second appointment however, we were discussing how acupuncture can be beneficial in treating infertility and loss, and she used the following phrase: 'women who have a habit of miscarrying'. ...Say what?!?! I am sure she meant nothing by it and it was just a stupid choice of words, but it bothered me. I didn't say anything at the time, but I left her office and it stuck with me all the next week, until my following appointment. I decided to give her the benefit of doubt and gently call her on it - not in order to reprimand her, but out of a genuine desire to improve her practice. After all, given her speciality, and the fact that she has links with the local IVF clinic, she must be seeing many women like me. I want them to have quality of care too. Most of all, I want the awfulness of my own experiences to count for something, whether that be challenging the taboo and silence surrounding our paths to parenthood in the ALI community, or helping people (particularly in professions that are often mandated to care for us) to be compassionate and supportive of our losses - whether the loss of children who were here for too little time, or of those we have dreamed of but never had the chance to bring into being.

So at the end of our next session, I politely explained to her that I had been taken aback by her choice of words and wanted to draw her attention to some of the sensitivities around recurrent pregnancy loss and infertility. I said that many women in my place struggle with feelings of responsibility and guilt, of somehow feeling incapable, like failures, and suggested that perhaps we need to use words that help challenge that implication of responsibility (of choice even, according to her formulation. Like we just made bad decisions that lead us towards bad 'habits'). After all, I pointed out, you wouldn't say of a cancer patient 'he has a habit of developing tumours', would you? She stared at me blankly for a few moments, but here's where it got irreparable: instead of offering anything like 'I hadn't thought of that', or 'thanks for pointing it out', or simply 'I'm sorry', she was clearly annoyed. She said in a kind of snippy voice, 'fair enough'. Just like that. Nothing more. So needless to say, I didn't book another appointment with her.

Just goes to show that even those with so-called 'expertise' can totally let us down in their lack of understanding. Sometimes I think there isn't even the will to understand. That makes me all the more glad to have a space like this, and the support of a warm and wonderful group of women who truly understand, though I wish they didn't have to. And my search for those whose expertise can truly aid me, with compassion and empathy, continues with this journey.

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.