Still here, still pregnant

And every time I utter (or even think) that second statement, I feel a compulsion to add 'as far as we know right now'. That's terrible, isn't it?

While I had hoped that seeing that beautiful little flutter would be enough to not only calm my fears but make me feel more connected to the idea of being pregnant - and in some ways it has - and while I've managed not to descend into further bouts of mucousy crying, I'm also, it has to be said, a little...reserved? Detached? Hiding in a ball under the duvet?

After last Monday, I began to feel like it had perhaps, just maybe, all been a dream and now things were returning back to anxious pessimistic 'normal'. Minus the booze. Or the sushi.

That's not really true, of course. I have moments of real hopefulness, and when I am able to access the left brain logic buried under still- heavy piles of fear and caution, I remind myself that as of now, we have nothing but reasons to believe this pregnancy, that adorable grey blob, will indeed keep going and result in a healthy baby eight seven-and-a-half months from now. Today, I'm just shy of eight weeks pregnant. Further than we got last time. And my symptoms, which seem to wax and wane an frequently as my moments of hopeterrordetachmenthope, have run the gamut. And they are often strong. Until little seedling is able to give me more concrete, anthropic evidence that s/he is in there, growing away, it's a pretty nice reminder that things may just be going as they ought.

To wit: I'm a glowing amalgam of nausea, headaches, dizziness, aching boobs, nausea, heartburn, constipation, food aversions, food cravings, nausea, fatigue, bloating, gassiness, aaand nausea, which sometimes seems to exist in simultaneity with a desire to consume all the foods. All of them. On top of that, my weakened immune system chose this week to land me with a mammoth, sniffling, hacking head cold. I am a delight, I tell you.  

So, for the most part I'm laying low here in limbo-land (how's that for alliteration?), not drawing attention to myself or my 'condition', hoping that the malevolent variety of pregnancy gods somehow miss me altogether this time. Cast your lightening bolts elsewhere, evil fiends!

Given our history (and no matter how much I try to distance myself from that too, putting it in the ancient past), I don't know when I'll feel more confident in this pregnancy, if there'll be a magic moment when I'll really, truly believe. I'm certainly hopeful that there will, and that it will be soon; because while I can't say that my fear is stealing all the joy, it has muted it considerably. I'm hopeful that one day soon, the 'as far as we know' will become 'until s/he's born'. 

For now, I'm flexing my coping muscles. Cherishing those moments of holymolyI'mactuallypregnant! euphoria when they come, but also being gentle with myself when I can't muster the energy to embrace them, or stomach ohmigodhowexciting! sentiments of any kind when they come from others. Not that we've told a single soul beyond the thousands of my closest friends on the interwebs you, dear readers <waves to anonymous follower in the Cook Islands>. More just as a general attitude. Which is probably why I feel an occasional need to be silent in this space right now.

Which is maybe not such a bad thing for my long-suffering bloggy friends. Really, I'm repeating myself, aren't I? Lather <paranoid freak-out>, rinse <feel pukey and rejoice>, repeat. Is there a point to any of this? Not really; I guess it's more of a pop-in-and-say-hi kind of post.

I'm still here, still pregnant, and as far as we know...everything's just fine.

Same sentiment, whole new significance.

A spotting update and attitude reboot

Since I posted my frantic report of spotting on Friday, I've become a lot calmer and regained much of my zen about this pregnancy. The spotting has stopped and I'm inclined to believe that it might just have been one of those little blips that are not uncommon to perfectly normal healthy pregnancies...a topic on which I have too little practice.

When I could get away from work on Friday afternoon, I called our clinic, fighting back tears as I talked with the doctor on call. She reiterated what all of you wise women, with your reassuring comments, already knew: that spotting at this stage of pregnancy is not only very normal, but could even be a good sign. That based on what I'd told her it could very well be the little one making itself comfy for a long stay. That as long as the spotting didn't increase in flow or become red blood, I should try not to worry. That the cervix is very 'vascularized' in early pregnancy, and given the fact that my progesterone levels have always been through the roof naturally even before pregnancy (thus precluding any need for supplements), this increases the chances of even mild irritation leading to some bleeding. That my biggest job right now was staying optimistic and looking after myself. She prescribed bed rest for the weekend and said that if things remained the same there was no need to advance the u/s which will happen tomorrow (tomorrow!) anyway. 

Since then, I've had two more episodes of spotting on Saturday morning, slightly heavier at first, but brown in colour, making me think (hopehopehope) she may just have been right that this was leftover implantation bleeding. It dwindled by yesterday afternoon and today there's been nothing.

I'm so relieved and a strange sense of calm has even fallen over me. I still think that those of us who have struggled hard to get and stay pregnant deserve a free pass when it comes to anything hinting at pregnancy complications, but so be it. It's absurd and difficult, but I'm trying as I might to place some distance from my past experience and just exist here and now.

Of all the insights culled from the not-actually-reassuring because I'm deeply neurotic phone consult with Dr. B last week, there was one I've clung to in the last few days. He said that as hard as he can imagine it to be (and I like about this doctor the fact that he doesn't assume he knows, can only imagine), that we have to try and look forward and see this as a new experience, a new pregnancy entirely separate from all our past experiences. Although my history reveals a lot of really crap luck, it may be nothing more than just that: shitty luck. And the one silver lining of having spun our wheels for months on end this year has been the copious amounts of monitoring that have taken place: we now know that there are no identifiable barriers to healthy conception or pregnancy, we're both in great health, and indeed, there is no reason why this shouldn't work. In fact, as we prepared for IVf over the summer, we were both hyper-conscious of being in the best possible shape we've been in ages, so the timing is right.

This is it's own pregnancy, and history doesn't always repeat itself.

At the moments when those scary events are happening, and when I let my mind wander to the worst case scenarios that have been, (as well as the ones I dream up) it can indeed feel as though H and I are somehow marked for bad luck. That it is always and inevitably attracted to us. But really, where we now find ourselves, that attitude won't do. Firstly because it's not a very appealing quality to possess and not one I'd like to be associated with, but also, secondly, because it won't do us any good to think like that and may even steal precious moments of joy from what is becoming. As much bad luck as there might have been, right this very minute, we are lucky indeed for what is.

H has been amazing through all this. This time around, he is both more connected to this pregnancy than I am able to be (which made this spotting episode all the more scary for him), and also more able to tap into his optimism. He continues to dream quite vivid dreams of us with our child (including, amusingly, one last night of teaching the fundamentals of potty training...who dreams of that? All I can say is, if the realist leanings of his paternal yearnings are anything to go by, he's a natural, and I'm going to have it relatively easy). He has been nuzzling my belly and whispering coaxing words of all the delights that await, to tempt this little life to stay put and grace us with its presence in eight odd months. Last night, as we watched old episodes of Parks and Recreation on the computer, in bed, snuggled close together and with the speakers near my belly as the opening credits rolled, he said: How could it not want to stay with us when it can hear fun music like this? We promise we'll have lots of fun baby! We always have lots of fun. (The kid better share our taste in entertainment, I guess...) [He has, despite his own terror, managed to make me laugh in these moments of uncertainty. Having asked for immediate spotting-status-updates after each of my visits to the toilet, he then announced, on his own departure to the bathroom: I have to go to the loo. I wonder what my own pee will reveal? Maybe that we've won the lottery! Yeah, you had to be there... As schmaltzy as it gets, but this is why I love the man.]

Are we getting way ahead of ourselves? Yes. Is it way too early to count our embryos before they've hatched never mind need potty training? For sure. Will any of this have even the slightest impact, for ill or good, on how tomorrow turns out, or all the tomorrows after that? Not a jot. So we might as well enjoy, because we sure as hell deserve it.

Now....Breath held. Fingers crossed. On to tomorrow. 

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. 

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.

Duped by my own progesterone levels

My progesterone levels on day 21 of this cycle were a whopping 59. Clearly, I've ovulated. So in the end, after much trepidation on my part and H's encroaching boredom over my ad nauseum analysis at the potential effects on my cervical mucous, there will be no Clomid for me. At least not for now.

On the one hand, I'm relieved. Obviously. If my cervical mucous is not totally courteous and welcoming to H's little guys now, I'll have no one to blame but myself. I had reservations (which I nonetheless would have been willing to put aside if it would provide me with a real chance of conception), not just about what Clomid might do to my body, but about what such a course of action represents in the bigger picture. My granola-y, hippy commune upbringing instilled in me a deep-seated mistrust of synthetic chemicals that remains hard to dislodge even today.  (Then again, fat lot of good all that organic granola did me...)

At the same time...What the what?! Somehow I've just been tricked by circumstances conspiring against me and my uterus into accepting the status quo. Being totally inert. Changing nothing. Seriously,you guys.  The not-totally-out-but-not-really-doing-anything-not-hopeful-not-hopeless-let's-wait-and-see place? (I know you know this). It's excruciating, and I suck at inhabiting it. I. Want. Movement. Or at least the illusion thereof?

Also, since progesterone levels are out of the way as a source of worry, that frees up my brain to ferret out myriad new scenarios to serve as future impediments to our baby making. I probably certainly have crappy eggs! H hasn't been eating enough avocado to give his little guys the oomph they need! I water skied too much in adolescence! We'll never be approved for adoption once they discover H's weird childhood collection of semi-limbless He-man figures with which he refuses to part! [insert random, illogical, second-guessing worry here].

H, for his part, as if to prove his continued devotion to the there really isn't anything wrong if we don't face up to it! approach seems to have mastered Zen and the Art of Reproductive Uncertainty. He is dragging his feet on supplying a sample for his sperm analysis, because he 'doesn't like doing it'. Whereas, you know, I kind of love the weekly blood tests and regular contact with the transvag invader...  I get it, I really do. But. This is making me want to kick him in the shins. I would try it, but...er...I don't think it's conducive to the provision of said sample (unless maybe that's your thing, in which case, totally no judgement here).

I'm managing to make light of it, but I'm annoyed and frustrated and constantly second guessing myself. How do we move forward with this? (This...nothing). Should we be looking further afield? (Particularly as we're staking our life plans for the immediate future on this). Do we really entrust this clinic to take us forward? I can't shake the feeling that we need to be proactive because we are losing time here. Surely we need to do everything we can NOW to increase our likelihood of this ever working?

That's kinda the conversation going on in my head - and much to H's delight, at the dinner table - this week. I haven't yet decided if any of these questions are rhetorical. 

Thank the gods for big deadlines that will keep me otherwise occupied all weekend. Yeah, sure...of course they will.

I know I should love my own particular progesterone, but right now I have mixed feelings. Also, how eewww is this T-shirt? Source.

Avocado, coconut and lime smoothie

Time for a break from all the assisted reproduction/medicated cycles/baby making talk. My head is spinning with thoughts of what the future holds and so for now, I'm going to do what I often do best with overwhelming situations: hide my head in the sand for a bit longer let things take their course until Wednesday when I go in for my progesterone levels. Let's talk about more mundane and pleasurable things for a moment.

I'm now in week four of my new gluten free diet and I have to say that there hasn't been much of an adjustment. I'm not a big bread/cake/muffin person, and I've found awesome ways to incorporate starches and flours typically found in Asian and African cooking, so my experimentation with international cooking has become more and more the norm. Fun! I've lost weight, (which wasn't my goal but it certainly doesn't hurt), and am feeling generally a bit lighter and more energetic - yay!-  so I think there's something to this, whether or not it will aid in the improved functioning of my lady parts.

My only real challenge has been breakfasts. I'm not really a breakfast person, per se, so I have a usual rut of going for a slice of wholegrain toast and peanut butter, or oatmeal, both of which are now off the proverbial table. I have a stomach that is extremely vocal and vociferous in its demands for regular nourishment - I'm talking disruptively so.* So skipping breakfast is not an option whether I'm hungry or not. Since going gluten free though, I've had to rely on lots of smoothies to keep me going and my fruit choices are growing rather monotonous.

I need to be more adventurous: enter the avocado. I loooove avocado, and at my favourite Vietnamese restaurant in Toronto I always used to order their avocado shake, so I thought I'd attempt something along those lines. I also had a half used can of coconut milk in the fridge, so I chucked that in, and a star was born. Oh my lord, you guys how has it never occurred to me to pair avocado and coconut before now? I want to eat this for breakfast, lunch and dinner, in a variety of combinations. Breakfast this morning was this smoothie using half an avocado and whatever else I had in the fridge/fruit basket. It has the added benefit of being vegan (which I am not, but cutting animal fats down to such brilliant effect is never a bad thing).

Avocado, coconut and lime smoothie

•  1/2 a ripe avocado
• one kiwi fruit, peeled and sliced
• 1/2 cup of coconut water (or milk, if you want it thicker)
• juice of 1/2 a lime
• a handful of mint leaves
• shaved coconut if you want some texture

Throw all this stuff in a blender and tell me it's not amazing.

*  In university I had one morning lecture that I couldn't reschedule to a more civilized hour, and once, in a hurry, showed up without having eaten. My stomach was typically clamorous that day, to the extent that the lecturer stopped talking at one point, glared at me three rows back, and asked if I'd like to step out for a snack. At which point I wanted to hide under the paltry little writing board attached to the arm of my seat, and made a mental note NEVER to attend an event of any kind without first feeding the beast. I really am ruled by the whims of my stomach.  H finds something oddly adorable in my (foodsexnow!) complete deference to my lizard brain, but I'm not sure others see the charms.

On Second Thought

Remember how I counted this cycle as done and dusted earlier this week? Well now I'm not even sure if it's ended, and I have to say I am totally confused. I posted that update on Thursday because I had all the usual PMS-ish symptoms - bloatiness and cramping and general blech feelings, sore boobs, fatigue, 30 second emotional meltdowns of the I-will-never-parent-a-living-child variety - that always indicate Day One is on its merry way. By Wednesday evening I had already begun the mild spotting that has become pretty typical since my third loss.

And so I sat, wallowing under the duvet, and I waited. And waited. And nothing really happened.

And before we get unreasonably enthusiastic about the possibilities herein, let me rule out the prospects for anything approximating a pregnancy in the works. Zero. A gazillion negative pregnancy tests concur on that. Well, ok, it was five; but all different brands and all at different times of day - for the sake of triangulation - with the last this morning, just to rule out the possibility (and potential new source of worry) of a late implanter.

I actually had a very faint line on the first test I did on Monday afternoon, but it didn't appear until a good thirty minutes after use*, so in light of that and the subsequent mounting evidence, I'm guessing it was an evil evaporation line. 

At first I worried that the late arrival of my period would clash with the long awaited and finally nearly here procedure to remove my cervical polyp. But, then.

By Friday evening all those predictable symptoms seemed to have dissipated, and now I'm just....sitting here, confused. Not bleeding.

Now I'm sure for many of you who have experienced irregular or anovulatory cycles this might all sound like nothing. (Obviously, it's nothing. Literally). And maybe you can add your two cents and provide some insight as I await the call to my doctor tomorrow morning. However I have always been a pretty standard and predictable 28 day kind of girl.

Fourteen hours of spotting, bloating and sore boobs. I probably even thought that coming here and recording all this on the interweb would help me get things in order and find some clarification. But no, I'm still confused. Was that a period?

Aaaahhhgg! How does all this work if I can't count a Cycle Day? Does not compute!

Source.

* I always think this gives a special insight into the insanity that is my hoping-to-be-pregnant brain. Is there any other item on which you have recently urinated that you would want to save for future reference?

Welcome, ICLWers!

Thanks for stopping by! I am new to blogging, if not the land of infertility and loss, and this is my first ICLW. I'm hoping to reach out to fellow travellers on this journey and maybe make some new blogging friends, so do pull up a seat, the kettle's on.

Although I know it's kinda orthodoxy in these parts, you won't find a ttc timeline here, mostly because - as with every other aspect of my life - our journey towards a family has been anything but linear and anyway, I already spend too much time in real life being hyper-vigilant about my often disobedient body.

We lost our beautiful son, a first and easily achieved pregnancy, in 2010 at 17 weeks gestation, and have since experienced the frustration and sadness of subfertility and recurrent loss. We've also been rather itinerant during that time (from Europe to North America and back, with shorter stops in the Middle East and Asia), which has its ups and downs but has ultimately brought us many amazing adventures. We hope for 2013 to bring us some clearer sense of direction, while I use this space to record my thoughts on this process and keep them in order.

This is also a space where I honour my grief, celebrate my  love for my son, confide my fledgling hopes to the ether, and occasionally rant about the world's injustices. Oh yeah, there's cooking too.

You're stopping by as we approach an intersection; we're eager to know what the future holds both in terms of the possibility of assisted reproduction, and for life in general. At the moment, some ultimately minor but currently frustrating medical stuff has us spinning our wheels without getting many answers, but we've decided to go maverick anyway and throw our sperm hats in the ring this month. In fact, I'm probably ovulating as we speak, so...Er...if you'll excuse me, you can talk amongst yourselves.

Source

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?

How is it possible...

...that during the holidays, when we took an official ttc break so I could relax and enjoy and not worry about all the indulgences (and let's face it, downright unhealthy levels of excess) or how they would effect my possible future babies-to-be, when I continued my conception prenatals but ditched all my other supplements...that then, I had a perfect, healthy cycle and plenty of 'the coveted clear and stretchy' cervical mucus? All dressed up and no place to go.

And now, when I'm back to diligently observing every morsel that passes my lips, and downing my evening primrose oil, my raspberry leaf tea and vitamins with the discipline of an Olympic athlete (to say nothing of post-coital, legs in the air acrobatics*)...no egg whites to be seen.

WTF??

I'm sure there's some kind of lesson in here about the perils of hyper-vigilance and just relaxing already, which I guess I'm just too darn busy being hyper-vigilant to appreciate.

Edited to add: I may have over-reacted on this. All the stuff that was supposed to happen eventually did, and all the stuff we were supposed to do, we did. So, the wait begins...

* Just kidding, I don't really do that and haven't for ages. Is there anyone for whom this has actually worked?

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.