So, apparently we're 'immoral'

For a moment this morning I was outraged and nauseated as I read, over my breakfast cereal, Richard Dawkin's latest contrarian tweet.

In response to a woman who wonders about the ethical dilemma of going ahead with a pregnancy after a Down syndrome diagnosis, Dawkins - seeing no dilemma at all - replies:

Abort it and try again. It would be immoral to bring it into the world if you have the choice.

But then I saw this (from Craig Porter):







































...and now I feel better. Best. Response. Ever. 

Suck on that, Richard Dawkins.

If this is what immoral looks like, then paint me scarlet.

Pregnancy, the Austrian way

When, on something of a whim, we booked this lovely holiday (contents thus far: slow food and long walks followed by longer naps), it meant having to rearrange our 16 week appointment so that we could be followed here. After all the worry that once again surfaced with our last bloodwork results, we were loath to just skip entirely a chance at reassurance, yet another confirmation that everything looks good and is progressing well for our little seedling. Our appointment with a local OB could not have gone better, even if there were some marked cultural shifts in, let's say the care regimen, from that to which we're accustomed in the UK.

We hauled ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn (medical appointments start early here!) and made our way to the clinic; for the first time, I think the busyness and fatigue of the previous days' travel kept my mind from any nerves which usually precede such appointments.

The warm yet state-of-the-art atmosphere of the waiting area was quickly offset by the icy welcome we received from the receptionist, who immediately sized us up as the foreign interlopers we were and informed us that as it was a busy day, she could give no indication of the wait ahead. Even at 7 o'clock in the morning, the clinic was full; immediately noticeable though, was the absence of any dads. At our clinic appointments in England, it is the exception rather than the rule that a pregnant woman will attend such an appointment sans partner. While we waited to be called in, we saw eight patients come and go solo, while H was the only dude anywhere in sight. <cultural shift the first> Given their reputation for, erm...less than progressive gender roles in this country, I suppose it should be unsurprising, but it surprised the sensibilities of this couple nonetheless. I'm lucky who are we kidding, what I really mean is discerning in that my own Austrian is a clear exception to this trend. 

We didn't in the end have to wait long to be called in, and the doctor herself was as warm and welcoming as her receptionist was frosty. She spent a great deal of time going over our history, listening to any concerns, reassuring as that all looked well, and examining me and little seedling. <and here we encounter cultural shift the second> So yes, the Austrians can claim many cultural idiosyncrasies, but unnecessary modesty is not among them. These straightforward, efficient people see no reason to cover up where clinical bodily matters are concerned, and thus, wenn in Wein, as it were...Behind a pointless flimsy partition I stripped from the waist down (save my socks!) and progressed from doctor's office to exam room stirrups to ultrasound room without so much as a crappy paper, ass-hanging-out-the-back hospital gown. Wie natürlich!

Alright then; cervix looks good, blood pressure looks good. My weight is down (!) 2 kgs from my 13 week weigh-in, but since the little seedling is a week ahead in terms of its own weight gain we see who's taking priority here no worries. And finally we get as far as the u/s room. And again, all is clearly set up to accommodate doctor, pregnant lady patient, and...nope, no partner. I mean, obviously. Why ever would you want your husband/wife there with you?! H had to crunch in at the foot of the examining table and lean over the doctor as she wielded the wand. (In all the u/s rooms I've been to before, the table was set up with the u/s machinery one one side, and a chair for the hand-holding partner on the other.)  

Still, it was worth it; what the Austrians lack in gender equality they make up for in technology. (And isn't that just the sum of every stereotype ever produced about the Germanic peoples? No, I am not above gross cultural stereotyping, it seems.) We got a good 25 minutes of u/s time, as she toured us around every little inch and crevice of little seedling's ever-developing form. We got to see the lobes of the brain and an adorable little alien-esque spinal column and each individual rib. So cool. In fact, I'm pretty sure that what we got today was equivalent to the 'special' level II genetic scan that we'll have next month. She even thought she detected little seedling's sex, but again, the 19 week scan should confirm that, so I'm keeping schtum for now. 

Alles gut?, I nervously queried in my still-clumsy German. 'Alles sehr gut', she replied. 'Wunderbar! Eine schönes Baby'. A beautiful baby. We could not possibly have received a better Christmas gift.

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

Despite my own weight loss, the little seedling continues unperturbed, and my baby belly is no longer just the overhang of middle age spread a real thing now. We waited until arriving here to shop for maternity stuff, because the products are both cheaper and better quality than in England. So, yesterday we took ourselves off to the shops accordingly. This experience was surreal in more ways than one. First, there is the now obvious fact that...uh, hello, I have an actual (yes, actually real) bump! Strange days indeed. I still can't quite wrap my head around it. 

However, yet more bizarre entertaining still was the exchange I had with the sales clerk when I asked to be directed to the maternity wear, using my available German vocabulary for 'pregnancy' and 'maternity'. She looked at me quizzically, until I mimed my expanding bulge, when recognition set in; 'ah', she said, 'you mean Umstandsmode!'. Uh, ok...I guess so? <cultural shift the third> The literal translation for this word, apparently the commonplace descriptor in German, is 'condition clothing'. And there we found it, all the cheap and expertly made European apparel a pregnant lady could want, under the department marked, yes, Condition Clothing.

I'd have choice words in response to that one, but my delicate, erm, condition prevents me from getting too worked up. Now now, dear, think of the baby.

Let's do the time warp again. Source

 

Love everyone even if they are weird, and other bits of Blogger wisdom

It's been quite a week and on this beautiful Sunday morning, with the house still quiet, I'm stealing a few minutes for blogging and to catch my breath before it all starts again.

I've been back and forth and back again to our clinic for yet more data collection; not only the stupidly, insensitively administered bloodwork, but also my first antral follicle count. Result (on day five): 16 follicles - 11 on the left and 5 on the lazy, underachieving right. I was told that this was 'great' <quote> for a woman my age, which is always a reassuring phrase to have appended to any health assessment. No matter; my own data collection - the nerd/control freak in me is incapable of processing any of this information without triangulating findings via an independently conducted literature review - found this count to be acceptable. ('Acceptable' versus 'great for a woman my age': you be the judge. Which of these do I cling to?) So until the next instalment we're all good.

I also started my new job this week, and am remembering both how great it feels to be a highly functioning, contributing member of society and how little time that leaves for fun stuff like obsessing about the state of my uterus, control freakery in the form of infertility-related literature reviews, and general blogging shenanigans. All these new experiences have me more than a little reflective, and aching to release the narcissist in me record it all for the interwebs.

Alas, on my single day of relaxation this week affords, I'm off for a day of hiking on what is sure to be one of the last truly beautiful days of the dying summer. But because I don't like to report-and-run, and also because I've somehow just discovered the bizarrely fascinating world of Blogger stats and the list of keyword searches that led you good readerfolk to my tiny corner of the blogosphere, I leave you with an annotated selection of some of my favorites:

1) how to be optimistic about infertility
 I'm flattered and amazed that anyone would think to attach this notion to my frequently nasty ramblings. But I'm working on it.

2) infertility+fuming
Yes, frequently. This seems more apt.

3) spring in ovaries
As in, 'spring in my step'? This one has a nice ring to it: 'with the wind at my back and a spring in my ovaries, I set off the face the world'.

4) love everyone even if they are weird
Indeed. Improbable and delightful as a search term leading to my humble blog, with a little adaptation this one offers a kind of zen wisdom for a multitude of scenarios faced by the ranting infertile. Self love: love everyone...even if they are barren and bitter. Stranger love: love everyone...even if they are pregnant. (You're allowed to laugh too.) Familial love: love everyone...even if they're full of ignorant-but-think-they're-helpful suggestions on how to conquer infertility.
I am oddly proud to have my blog associated with this one.

And finally, my personal favorite...

5) everything is going to be alright
Oh yes, I'd certainly like to think so. One way or another, it will. I have to believe that.

Weird but beautiful.

I have seen the future and it is royally terrifying

Well, I suppose we all knew it was coming.

The royal offspring of Kate and William, that is.

I've done a fairly good job of blacking it all out, all the speculation, the 24hr bump watch, the feverish hysteria. First, there was the initial craze - in the weeks following my arrival in this country no less - and I shrieked sighed inwardly. Then when tragedy struck and the media kinda backed off, I exhaled. Only the tasteless tabloids seemed to remain interested and so all I had to do was avert my eyes when lining up to buy my milk at the news agent's and go merrily on my way.

I'm pleased to say it worked, mostly. It was nice while it lasted.

Yesterday I walked in to my local bookstore for an innocent browse, and was met with a full-on, Union Jack bunting festooned display of books commemorating the as-yet unborn royal's arrival. And it hit me; I've had my respite, it's not like this baby will be gestating forever, and when the water damn dam breaks [insert unfortunate mucous plug/labour/flood crisis management analogy here]...well, gods help us all. Yesterday's shopping excursion was just a taster of what is to come people.

There was this....  

...and this...

...and this.

Source

It's not so much the arrival of the little national obsession bundle of joy that bothers me; I continue to have a lot more trouble with healthy pregnant bellies, which remain a mystical property to me, than I do with babies themselves. I like babies; they're cute and cuddly and entertaining, plus they smell good. So the baby can go ahead and arrive and I'm sure I'll ooh and aah over the deluge of photos and be very happy for all involved.

It's more my terror at and disdain for the faint whiff of...what? Accomplishment? Smugness? Superiority even? As though any baby is not so much a new life in it's own right as an achievement on the part of its parents. (I mean of course the public reception here, and not necessarily the attitude of the parents involved, who have my deepest sympathies in this case, considering what they face.)

It's like that Cult of Glowing Parenthood and Righteous Baby-Making that pervades every live, uncomplicated birth, (bunnies&unicorns! everything is always pretty and perfect! we are in control! modern medicine and lots of money! babybooties&joy!) that tends to make we in the ALI community feel somehow defective, as though our very purpose in life should be to run out and procreate but we're just too stupid or selfish to have figured that one out. Seeing as we can't do it with great ease, it must be an indicator of moral value (or lack thereof), indicating that we lead vacuous, shallow lives with no understanding of 'what really matters'. As though life itself ceases to have all meaning if you don't, or can't bow to that 'natural' imperative. (I guess if you're second in line to the throne of one of the most powerful monarchies on earth, that's actually kinda true. God forbid you should end up gay or childless: not good options in the House of Windsor.) Sometimes, in the objectified-bump-obsessed world we now seem to inhabit, I feel like we've been reduced to a 19th century vision of womanhood as synonymous with, no, secondary to our reproductive capacities. *Shakes head in dismay*

And where the royal baby is concerned? Well, take that whole schtick and amplify it by a hundred. Times a million. I know. Yikes, right?

And all the other merchandise. Oh, the merchandise! (Lest we forget that any of this actually has to do with the jubilation over a tiny, healthy new life or proud new parents. No indeed. It's all about the merch people.)

Here I have to stop and say thank you Hadley Freeman, I think I love you. For reminding me that it is not only us barren bitches who might feel suffocated and nauseated by this ad nauseum obsession and it's overt appeals of consume!monarchy!nationalism!royalwomb!blahblahblah...To say nothing of the 'baby-based bullshit' which our society has so fetishized to the detriment of the collective self esteem of childless (by choice or otherwise) women everywhere. I've always loved your writing and, well, now...I just love you. (But look at me writing like I know anything. Perhaps you're one of us. Perhaps you're a barren bitch too, and that's why you feel this bitter distaste for all things royal baby. Can there really be any other explanation? After all, having witnessed up close the Hilary Mantel fiasco, in which her comments on the Duchess as nothing more than a pretty mannequin in the eyes of the media led to us being reminded that she spoke from a place of jealousy as a fat, barren Booker Prize winning old lady, we must now realize that any commentary on one woman by another is always fed by said jealousy, and is basically, well, a cat fight. Because, obviously.)

Anyway, I digress. What I really want to say is that I wish the happy couple a calm and speedy delivery away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.

And also:

Time to hunker down, brace for impact, turn off the internet and stockpile bottled vodka water, canned peaches, Ben & Jerry's, and every season of (beautifully misanthropic, baby-free) Curb Your Enthusiasm and Arrested Development.

Because the mother of all triggers is coming people, and it will be wearing a Royal Nappy.

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.

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

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.

The Easter Bump Hunt of 2013

This morning, slipping out of bed early to leave H for a late lie in after a later night of work, I was lazily sipping my (decaf) coffee and reading about the search for the Higgs Boson here, when this reference caught my eye: 'The Easter Bump Hunt of 2011'.  

Why, yes I thought to myself. That's what I'm caught up in too, for 2013!

Oh, wait...

(And yes, I have bump on the brain. And, are there other kinds of bumps besides pregnancy ones? I'm suddenly gripped. And yes, you'll have to read the article through to the end for their particular usage of 'bump'. I can't do all the work around here people. I'm no physicist.)

But continuing with the article, it got more uncanny. According to its authors, the Bump Hunt of 2011 'was only one episode in a roller coaster of sleepless nights, bright promises, missed clues, false alarms, euphoria, depression, gritty calculation, cooperation and envy, all the tedium and vertiginous notions of...'

I'm very tempted to finish that sentence with 'infertility', but in fact it read 'modern science'.

Sounds familiar though, right?

So friends, we're all really very much like physicists then.

Totally not my ovaries. It's the search for the Higgs Boson! Source.

Bump envy

It's something I suppose we've all experienced here, but this* is taking it a tad far, surely?

Granted, Heidi Agan's envy seems to be prompted by something other than the emotionally-charged, hormone-crazed, random-crying, baby-craving, cervical-position-seeking, innocent-pregnant-bystander-hating that feeds my own desires.

(And it's not that I'm saying, er... frocks aren't a perfectly good reason for envy. More just that Kate Windsor's frocks are not really my thing; however much I may envy her current status  - pregnant, not princess - she wouldn't be my first sartorial inspiration.)

Anyway, I'm feeling comparatively well-adjusted now. Thank you, Heidi.


 




































* I swear, I only read the Daily Mail when obsessively searching for baby seal rescue stories like this. That last one will have you in tears.