1) Prenatal screening can detect the risk of delivering a baby with Down syndrome.
2) Prenatal screening can detect the possibility of delivering a baby with Down syndrome.
They mean basically the same thing, but not. We welcome possibility, while we shy away from risk.
As an agnostic feminist, I have been a lifelong supporter of women's right to choose. I have also been a lifelong advocate for - celebrator of! - the plurality of human experience. We like to think of ourselves as moving into a world of ever more respect for rights (of women, of minorities, of various 'others') and respect for diversity.
And so, like others before me, I struggle with the contradiction inherent in the fact that as our societies become more embracing of diversity, we are also, thanks in part to more accurate prenatal screening (which is not accompanied by accurate education), adopting ever more normative standards of what that diversity should look like.
By some estimates, upwards of 90% of pregnancies where a risk/possibility of Down syndrome is detected are terminated. There is a real chance that for people like my daughter, a day will come - and soon- when they will wake up to find themselves the last of their kind.
While I suspect that most people will find it hard to understand how I can say
I have come to love that extra chromosome in all its unique,
confounding, divisive glory, it seems a little sad to me that we're denying ourselves opportunities to live with this diversity: diversity of experience, genetic diversity, human diversity.
I can't help but think it's a shame that in our avoidance of risk (what life worth living doesn't involve some level of risk?) we are closing ourselves off from all kinds of possibilities.
Written as part of Mel's Microblog Mondays. Check it out here to participate.
Girl Wonder is a tiny little thing, weighing in at just under 5 kg (she was 8 months on Christmas day). To my mind, this has numerous benefits. I love her compact nature, which allows me to lie to myself about the passage of time still cuddle and cradle her like an infant even as she's fast approaching the end to this stage of development. (I can't imagine how my back would be faring if I were carrying one of the larger babies I see everywhere around us!) And while it made locating baby clothes for her tiny 2 kg frame a challenge in those first few months, she has spent longer in some of our favourite little garments - she's now typically in a three month size, depending on the brand - which has allowed us to retain her wardrobe accordingly.
But much as I might wish to stall the ceaseless march of time, she is growing, as babies eventually do, and with this new year we're having a clear out too. That means finding a place, or purpose, for all those beloved items she no longer fits. Initially I thought of repurposing some of the sweet fabrics for a home-made sensory book for Girl Wonder. However I quickly realized that this sentimental mama can't bring herself to cut through those tiny memories ('she wore this when she first smiled'...'this is what she had on when she first met her uncle from Canada'...), while the practical side of me is loathe to discard still very-much-usable baby items.
Their lack of utility for us is not merely a reminder of how quickly Girl Wonder is growing up, but also of the fact that, however much I might will it otherwise, this is it for us; the end of my child-bearing years.
But we're in a small city centre flat, which leaves me with a dilemma. Staying in the moment might present its own challenges, but right now it's the letting go - even of those things which are mere symbols of what was and what will never be - which is wrenching my heart.
Momentoes
Bloggy friends, am I the only one sappy enough to feel a twinge as I discard too-small baby items? What have you done/will you do with the items your children no longer use?
Alternate titles for this post: What a difference a day makes; Ready or
not, here she comes; Reasons why all your 'planning' is stupid;Planning schmanning; or the simple Gotcha!. Any works really,
so take your pick. And you'll have to excuse me if this post is all over the
place, a rambling, incoherent collection of my thoughts at this juncture. These
have been heady hours.
Yesterday at our appointments with both the fetal medicine specialist and
our OB, we learned that although little seedling's growth is still on track
(she's now 1.75 kilos, or 3 lbs8 oz), the diastolic flow of her umbilicus has
further declined. While Dr B did say that he 'doesn't think it's a matter of
the next 48 hours', I was given the first of two steroid shots to help mature
her lungs, and we've been put on high alert. I've just returned from the clinic
where I had the second shot, and tomorrow we're back again for another non-stress
test and further doppler reading. Basically, I'm existing right now just to
gestate this little girl (even though my maternity leave doesn't official start
until month's end). I might as well just move in to the hospital (though I'm
glad they haven't suggested admitting me - yet).
And even though I was given
an inkling of this trajectory nearly two weeks ago, intellectually I guess
I couldn't quite grasp it. Not
for the first time though, my body has been smarter than my brain, and I
find this level of intuitiveness amazing. Yeah, my body gets it, she's doing
her job and she's been trying to tell me something. I was slow to catch on, but
I'm getting there. Physically, I've felt extremely pregnant - like, imminent
delivery, as I am now learning - for several weeks now. I haven't slept
through the night in weeks, and when I wake up at four in the morning, it is
with the ravenous need for food RIGHT NOW. (I'm kind of also hoping this
means little seedling is on a final, fortifying growth spurt.) I have crazy,
constant Braxton Hicks that seize me with a breath-taking ferocity, and a
constant pressure in my lower pelvis. And ok, I often pee a little when I
sneeze. Then I feel like I have to pee all the rest of the time, but when I get
to the toilet, nothin' doing.
When they measured the amniotic fluid levels along with little seedling's
growth yesterday, here were the results: I am carrying a girl who is a wee bit
behind in terms of average growth, but she is swimming inside a uterus
measuring at 41 weeks. Yikes.
You guys, this is pretty much it. (But I still hope she'll hang on another
few weeks, just to build up a bit more and gain strength. I can hope, right?)
H and I spent yesterday after the appointment stumbling around in a kind of
daze of heightened awareness, yet not really aware of anything else besides this
Huge Thing at all. It's scary but also exciting to think we might meet our
daughter so soon. We cried and we had huge grins on our faces and got
distracted and irritable and then laughed and cried some more. We felt all the
emotions. All of them.
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So how prepared are we? With the all important details?
Finish that novel I was working through? Squeeze in one last date night with
H? Go for a pedi to avoid in-hospital embarrassment at my unsightly winter toes
(and while we're at it, don't I need to do something about my now unknowable
nether regions, which I haven't been able to access since, like, February)?
Baby clothes washed and ready? Yeah, some of that stuff we've managed. I still
haven't packed a hospital bag. And in truth, we still need to finalise a name
for this girl (we're pretty much there, though I have moments of paralysis
thinking about the responsibility involved in shaping a whole person's identity
in this way). But then, thank gods I managed to watch the final episode
of True Detective; I'm not sure I could have gone into this not knowing
of the fates of Rust and Marty.
But seriously though, I had a epiphany sitting in the crowded clinic
yesterday, awaiting my shot and trying to absorb this scary new development.
I have agonized over the possibility of a scheduled C-section - recommended
by Dr B as the best way to avoid unforeseen complications and make sure
everything is in place for her transfer for further tests and surgery - and a (maybe?)
desire to try for a vaginal birth. I have struggled with doubt and worry that I
have not 'enjoyed' this pregnancy 'enough', coping as I was with recurrent
terror and stress from so many quarters. Should we have done birthing classes,
even though I felt and knew we wouldn't 'fit in', just so as to maximize the
whole experience? Shouldn't I have spent more time listening to my hypnosis
tracks, to make sure I am all calm and collected and present for the birth
itself? Yadda, yadda, yadda....
But here's the thing: when we get to the end game, the real deal, none of
this - the little things we do to convince ourselves we have some control over
any of this, or even the lack of control itself - matters even one jot. It's
superfluous. She is all there is.
It kind of reminds me of that
poem, one that has brought me much affirmation in times of difficulty. (Go
read it now; it's short and powerful.) Only now, in an entirely different context,
it becomes all the more uplifting and joyful and speaks to me on a whole new
personal level.
We sit and we wait, H and I, for our great day to dawn, for our little light
to fill the world.
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We've worked so hard to get here, and she's worked so hard to stay
and grow and thrive. It's been such a long journey, and yet it's far too soon.
Now more than ever, we have to keep believing in her. Whatever the coming days hold for us, (and I'll certainly endeavour to
update), keep us in your thoughts, won't you friends?
As a brief postscript to my last post: we went in this week for one of the many non-stress tests that will lead up to little seedling's arrival, and let's just say, she didn't perform up to standardized expectations...Her heartbeat stayed a steady course and was nice and strong, but she just refused to jump on command. H and I weren't really worried though; our parental intuition has become strong, she had been doing her routine kung fu moves on my bowels only an hour earlier. In those moments at the clinic, as bad luck would have it, she was just more in the mood for a snooze than a triple somersault (which of course she was prepared to do as soon as the monitors were removed).
A moment of maternal pride: my kid is already set to challenge the legitimacy of normative, numerically-based testing, achieving in utero what it's taken me four degrees and an entire career to do. Then again, (having proven herself very blissed out early on), maybe she was still just chill from all the jazz music and brown cafes and one too many Belgian beer of last week...?
But that's not really why I'm here. Today, I want to ask your thoughts on a topic which looms large in my mind these days.
I think when I said that there was much to prepare before little seedling makes her appearance, a lot of people heard stuff to prepare. Trying as we are to be proponents of a certain level of simplicity parenting, we're working not to get too hung up on stuff just yet, especially as her hospital stay will postpone a lot of those immediate needs, and since each baby is unique in there needs and habits, it seems to make sense to wait and see what's actually useful. We have the basics: enough clothes to start her off, a place for her to sleep, and this carrier which is recommended for babies with low muscle tone, as well as a ring sling. All the rest will come, and we're not fussed about that.
Our preparations, however, aren't really about that anyway. Basically, there is a huge part of me that has been terrified preoccupied with the prospect of a NICU stay since the moment the possibility was raised.
I've slowly learned to adjust; there aren't (as many) moments these days of late night sobbing on H's chest, overcome by fear and heartbreak at the thought of my little girl in such a scary, clinical environment, hurting or feeling alone. I'm trying to embrace what lays ahead as a necessary and helpful stepping stone to getting our daughter healthy and home in our arms, where she belongs.
And I'm grateful that we got all these diagnoses prenatally and were given time to prepare mentally. I don't know how I'd cope having all this sprung on me at birth. It helped a lot that we've been able to tour the ward where she'll be staying and get a sense of the facilities there. We've met with the ward staff and the neonatologist and the pedeatric surgeon, all of whom seem caring and good at what they do.
I think I do continue to worry about how the crucial bonding of those early hours and days will work. I've had all the benefits of skin-to-skin parenting so thoroughly drummed into me that I can't imagine how she'll feel our presence or know how much love and strength we want to convey to her if all we're able to do is hover over a hospital bed. Or maybe I'm worrying needlessly...I know the hospital is keen on supporting these opportunities for intimacy where medically possible, and there is a lot of support and education for breastfeeding as well.
But still, I can't quite picture it, how we'll spend our time, how we'll bond with her, what that atmosphere will be like.
So that's what this is mostly about. Being as mentally and emotionally prepared as we possibly can. I guess there are practicalities in there too, like what to pack and what to arrange beforehand.
And really, here is where I could use some help.
Bloggy friends, I know that many of you have walked this arduous road before me, and I could use your nuggets of NICU wisdom right now. Were there things you wish you'd known or done to ease the experience? Little rituals you found particularly comforting? Essential items that made your stay more homey, or at least less stressful? And what exactly is it like in there? How much time did you spend bedside? All your reflections and insights are so appreciated.
Well, insofar as we ever had a plan anyway, and if you
consider a ‘plan’ to be: having gotten pregnant, hope and pray to all the gods
of fertility that baby grows and stays; deliver baby on or near due date.
For us, June 4thwas meant to be the magic
number. I had even fully convinced myself – in flagrant disregard of just how
many unforeseen loops this whole journey has thrown us – that we had something
like eight weeks still to plan and prepare and freak out a little at the
massive, mind-bending, life altering change-in-the-form-of-tiny-human that is
about to befall us.
We won’t be making it that far, it seems, or anywhere near,
unless we’re very lucky.
But let me backtrack a bit.
This week has been a big one for us, full of important
milestones passed and happy news in the world of little seedling’s development.
First and foremost, her ventricles seem to have stabilised at their slightly
reduced measurements, and after 30 weeks they tend to feel that those
measurements are likely to hold steady. So we’ve kind of allowed ourselves to
exhale on that one. Then, at our request (because our medical team is
thoughtful and awesome and takes our concerns seriously), we were sent to
another city and another clinic to undergo a fetal echocardiogram. Strictly as
a precaution; 40% of Down syndrome babes experience some kind of heart
abnormality, and this is by far the scariest and most sever complication that
comes with a diagnosis. I can happily report that the cardiologist saw what
looks like a normal heart and no cause for concern, though further tests will
be carried out on little seedling’s arrival. Yay for happy news on scans!
But because this is life, and ours never seems to want to
sail a straight course, opting instead for the adventure and uncertainty (and
because, well, every baby comes when it damned well pleases and isn’t that just
a part of the crazy euphoric, terrifying adventure?) that comes with really being alive, there
are some new logistical issues to navigate.
My amniotic fluid levels are stable for the moment, but it’s
something they want to keep a close eye on, given the risk of preterm labour.
And on our u/s, we learned that the diastolic flow through the umbilicus is
reducing. This is not entirely a surprise, as we know that with a Down syndrome
pregnancy, the placenta carries the same trisomy, and therefore a likelihood of
placental insufficiency at some point. We were kind of prepared. And yet, we
were spectacularly unprepared, in the sense that I hadn’t thought, not seriously, about what it might mean. As
in, like, delivery only weeks away.
We’re at 31w4d now, and the new goal is to make it to 36
weeks. June 4th will certainly not
be our magic number, but as long as she gets here safe and grows healthy,
everything else is frills, really. There will be an upsurge in the monitoring
from here on in, probably every other day, just to keep a close eye on the flow
within the umbilical cord and make sure she’s getting all the nutrients she
needs. She’s always been a tiny one, measuring on the bottom end of normal
range since about 22weeks, (while I’ve had trouble gaining weight myself) and I
so want her to be in the best possible shape to face and overcome all the
challenges she has in store. Our medical team don’t seem worried about the
possible medical implications of a delivery in the coming weeks, since her
progression in terms of weight gain has been steady, and I have a lot of trust
in them, so I’m trying not to panic either.
Still, suddenly it feels there is a lot to do and arrange
(the practicalities of which are also huge, and warrant a post of their own, soon to
follow). I think we just lost approximately four weeks of processing time,
and as anxious as we are to meet her, our heads are spinning as we try to take
in yet more new twists and turns. A month
from now...I can’t even finish that sentence, not yet. The possibilities
are scary and exciting and unknowable. And I'm trying my best to trust in the process, to trust in our caregivers, trust in her, in my own body. Deep breathes.
Tomorrow is our long-awaited level II anatomy scan. For the past more-than-a-month I've done a good job of putting it out of mind, because really, there was nothing else to do, and I was damned if I was going to let this worry rob me of the hard won but ever increasing joy and trust we have in this pregnancy.
But for the last few days I have been irritable and sleeping poorly and easy to well up with tears. I chalked it up to ongoing pregnancy weirdness and unprocessed grief (which are doubtless also to blame), but then I remembered...
I keep coming to this space, thinking of things I want to say, to share. I have half-written several posts, but they always languish in my drafts folder. I feel mute in a way, shifting between this wild hopefulness and swinging back around to fear. Fear, irrational as it may seem, that there is something much worse than markers for Downs syndrome. And then, excitement and anticipation that we will find out the sex of our little seedling, who wriggles and somersaults wildly now on a daily basis, as if offering reassurance.
Anxious, fearful, hopeful, excited, confused.
Send some vibes our way tomorrow, won't you friends?
I've never been big on lavish New Years celebrations. When I was young,
and liked to pretend I was more seasoned than my years, I was fond of
this one quote (attributed to Frank Sinatra, I think?): New Years Eve is for amateurs. I
guess I took it to mean that you only got worked up about stuff like
that if you were too naive to really know how to live your life the
other 364 days of the year. You don't need an excuse (least of all one born of chronology) for a party.
Later on, the very
idea that a flip of the calendar could be anything other than a random
date change began to feel like yet another bitter joke in life's plan for us. Losing S was (and continues to be) the most difficult, painful thing I have ever experienced. I remember December 31st, 2010, after surviving our first
holidays as childless parents, H and I looking at each other with determination as we stated: this yearwill be our year. Things have to get better. It wasn't and they didn't. But in each year that followed, we dutifully repeated the mantra while our determination became more grim and our conviction more shaky. The closing weeks of 2011 - during which we continued to mourn, and adjust to that feeling of being invisible in a world that refused to acknowledge our son or the pain that came with our childless status - brought our second pregnancy loss. 2012 brought serious illness for H, months of testing that confirmed (without explanation) our subfertile status thankyouverymuch, a surprise conception in August followed with a by-then unsurprising miscarriage a week later, and by year's end, the darkest, most all-consuming depression I have ever experienced.
Of course there were lots of happier moments in there too; laughter and adventure and flickers of hope. It's just that in the context of those years, none of that stands out in memory as starkly as the sea of crap through which we waded for so long. And then, while attempting to pull myself up for air, I sat down and wrote this. That simple act of writing not only led me to all of you - all your support and encouragement and compassion and tears and anger and humour and understanding - but helped me to see those flickers of hope for what they were, to somehow more easily embrace them when they came along.
And it occurs to me that this is what movement, healing, change, growth are all about; a series of tiny things, none of which seem particularly momentous at the time (and almost certainly accompanied by laughter and tears in equal measure), that once accumulated can lead us to the most profound realizations and discoveries. Good or bad, you never know what's around the next corner. And I for one can think of no better reason for a party, whatever form that takes. Maybe it's quiet contemplation. Maybe it's filled with angst and red wine and self-soothing. Maybe it's more conventionally recognizable as a party, time spent laughing with the kind of family we all long to have and hold.
But the strength and hope and perseverance and giving-the-middle-finger to an unfair, indifferent universe? It's all worth celebrating.
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And that brings me to Google +.
Urging me to click on the highlighted little notification
button when I logged onto blogger today, Google + announced that, thanks to
their annoyingly titled new feature Auto Awesome, they had a gift waiting for me.
(As
an aside, I'm pretty hopeless when it comes to techy stuff. I don't
really have a clue what the purpose of Google + actually is. If
you've ever 'added me to your circle' on Google + and I haven't
reciprocated, it's because a) I don't know how and b) even if I did, I
wouldn't see the point. I'm not being rude, I swear! I want to be
friends! I am just not at all social media-y. I actually kind of loathe
that stuff. There is nothing you can say to convince me that it's not
kind of...well, superficial and narcissistic, instead of the cure for
all ills of postmodern ennui from which we suffer, as it is too often
touted to be. And yes, I am fully aware of the irony of my recording
that statement on a blog. I never claimed to be consistent.)
Anyway, it seems Auto Awesome was so sweet as to prepare a 'personalized' 2013 Movie! for me, based on all the albums I have (apparently? I'm not techy, remember?) created while keeping this here blog.
It started off with those beautiful shots of the snowy day I sat down to start this blog. It continued on to that whimsical memory tree
I found one day while practicing laughter yoga and missing my son, then
went on to some of the photos we took while marking his third birthday. It threw in several lovely slides of our glorious holiday, as well as the disappointment that followed. A beautiful hike which made me again feel close to S, an impromptu, pre-new-job trip to France, a hot, boozy, day of dancing at Notting Hill Carnival. Next was a shot of the candles lit to mark Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and all the tiny lives that never got to live. And the slideshow concluded (as though Auto Awesome somehow knew what it was looking at?), with the most amazing sight we've seen all year for a very very long time: that little grey blob, beating, growing, living. (Not that we dared hope we'd get this far at the time.) And then, blame pregnancy hormones I teared up.
And there you have it. Happy/sad/scary/fun all mixed up messily together. A year in the life, as well as in this blog.
Just when you think you're safely out of the danger zone (if such a thing exists). Just when we finally began allowing ourselves to feel really hopeful and let unadulterated happiness in. Just when we were starting to breath again.
We got the bloodwork results from our combined NT screening (after the nuchal fold itself measuring perfectly) and they show an extremely high risk of Down's syndrome; 1:35. Given my age, I suppose we knew there was a heightened risk, but it still broke me to see H, overcome with tears of fear and exhaustion, look at me and say 'I knew we shouldn't have let ourselves hope'.
They asked us to come in right away to discuss things with the screening midwife. When we were ushered into one of those 'nice' hospital rooms with the sofas and tea making facilities and boxes of tissues, I think both H and I were petrified; those are the kinds of places you go to hear the Very Bad News. The specialist midwife was lovely and patient and answered all of our questions. They are not at this point worried about any other, more dangerous trisomies, which should already have been picked up on u/s. We had an appointment with our Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist booked for Friday anyway, so after this encounter it was good to have the extra time for discussion and to go over any questions we still had. Not that we managed to really be coherent enough to compose any, or focussed enough to really take in the answers that were proffered. We did, however, get a completely unsolicited look at the little seedling again; we weren't expecting this, having just had a scan a week earlier, but Dr B offered and who were we to decline? (Have I mentioned that I'm a little bit in love with our doctor?) And there s/he was, bouncing around without a care in the world, looking pumped up on too much caffeine or sugary cereal for all the vigorous jumping around it was doing. This time we got to hear the heartbeat too. Amazing. This is one strong baby; I just feel that.
It's been a very tumultuous few days. I've gone from devastated and terrified that any heightened risk factors might put this pregnancy in jeopardy, to a sense of 'ok, we can do this', to utter confusion over what I can, should, might be feeling.
Part of that has to do with all the what next? issues we now have to consider. We were offered further screening; we're too late in the pregnancy for a CVS but our options now include an amniocentesis and level two genetic anomaly scan. (And before anyone suggests it, no, the MaterniT21 test is not available here in the UK, even privately. From a bioethical perspective - to do more with the history of scandal surrounding the company that holds the patent rather than the test per se - I am not sure how we'd feel about it anyway.)
Given our history of loss and how hard we've struggled to get here, not to mention how protective we feel of the little seedling, it would feel crazy to undergo any testing that puts us at risk of miscarriage, no matter how small. So I don't think we'll pursue an amnio. We can be booked in for a high level genetic scan carried out by a specialist (rather than just a technician) at 19 weeks. This might detect any 'soft markers' for Down's, but like the combined screening of NT scan and bloodwork, it can give you only a probability; it's not a diagnostic test.
Even if we got a conclusive answer from an amnio, we wouldn't consider a termination because of a diagnosis of Down's syndrome. It couldn't possibly make us love our baby any less, and really, as two highly educated people without any other children to demand our time and attention, we are pretty well placed to cope with such an eventuality and give our little seedling the best possible upbringing regardless of its level of ability. We've fought too hard to get here. So the invasive, risky procedures seem pointless, except insofar as perhaps preparing us for that eventuality.
Of course, there's a big part of me that wants to crumple up on the floor and howl, to indulge in all kinds of I knew it thinking about how we were never going to be allowed the true, simple joys of pregnancy without fear and complication. If this was always going to be true anyway, given our history, it's now that much moreso. No stress-free, happy pregnancy here. But actually, I don't want to come across all Why me?, because really, why not me? I know I'm no one special. Although it can be galling to watch how some people (usually the nasty ones, or so it seems) can breeze through life unscathed and blissfully unaware of the harsher difficulties that some of us face in more than our fair share, the truth is, people get shitty breaks all the time. This is far from the worst among them.
For months, years, I lamented and implored the fertility gods to just allow us one chance at a healthy, happy, living baby, and nothing has fundamentally changed in that. Our little seedling is still that chance. We're still lucky beyond measure, and best of all, we know it.
I'm still processing all this, and don't yet know what I think or feel, but one thing is true: this is not the worst news. Even if it may not look as I expected it to look when I have often repeated that simple, comforting incantation, somehow I still have to believe that everything is going to be alright. Screw it; I'm going to keep hoping.
Today I am 11 weeks pregnant. Not so far along in the larger scheme of things, I suppose, but oh so much farther than I ever imagined we would get, in those scary, tentative first days. In the last little while, this has all begun to feel real. Like, really real; this might actually happen. I don't mean the reality of a baby joining us in 6.5 months. Shut your face! That's still crazy talk!
What I mean is that for many weeks I couldn't even grasp the reality of my, uh...delicate condition. Being pregnant. Knocked up. I'm not sure I actually fully believed there was a bun in this here oven. <Any other grating cliches we can trot out here?> But the fact is, we'll soon be rounding the bend on the second trimester.
My confidence is currently on an upswing though may swing down without warning; I still reserve the right to panic at any given moment after another breathtaking peek at the little seedling during our 'graduation' from the fertility clinic this week. And graduate we did, with flying colours. Such agony! Such relief! S/he was in there, still measuring slightly ahead with a crown-rump length of 11 weeks 2 days for an ultrasound done at 10 weeks 5 days. That was very reassuring. But best of all, we got to see little seedling fist pumping away in there, either annoyed or delighted with the extra attention (who could say which?) and making its feelings emphatically known as we gazed in reverent silence at the screen lighting the dim sanctity of that room shared with three radiology students in that amazing moment. Before now, there was the little heart beat, but really, somehow I didn't have quite such a sense of the...alive-ness of our baby. Until now.
And so when I say things are getting real, I mean that now, I kind of accept the fact that there is an actual human being growing somewhere in the vicinity of my lower pelvis as I type this. My baby. It's crazy and amazing. And also, I must confess, not something I was able to truly absorb before this week. I think in my first pregnancy, I personified S from the very beginning, felt maternal love for another human being from the very beginning. Putting aside for the moment my sense of guilt at not having been able to do that for this baby...well, it was just too terrifying to invest that much. Until now.
And it only got more real from there, though more on the basis of social cues than of biological evidence. After our discharge from the clinic, we were sent for an intake appointment with the community midwives team. We've only ever gotten that far once before. Typically here in the UK, prenatal care and births are handled by midwives, with OBs or specialists stepping in only when a woman is referred as high risk. I do fall into that category (for many reasons, my age and medical history and recurrent losses being chief among them), but our initial assessment was carried out by a midwife who will follow us alongside Dr. B. We liked her very much; she was knowledgeable and understanding and sensitive but also very practical. Meetings with the community midwives tend to be less rushed and more focused on parental feelings and adjustments than hospital appointments do. We spent more than an hour, and at the end were rewarded with a bag full of goodies aimed at consume!consume!consume! expectant parents and...wait for it...a maternity book for which to record a progressing pregnancy, all the way up to a birth plan. Holy shit. For reals.
More disorienting delightful still, our appointment took place not in the clinical, high risky environment of the hospital, but in a local children's centre, complete with diaper caddies and tiny person furniture and adorable toys like these two:
Wizards and witches and babies, oh my!
The atmosphere was so warm and so... familial, oozing such an aura of parental ease, of children-as-a-natural-part-of-life, that it caught us off guard. In the past, such spaces were clearly demarcated as being out of our reach; cruel reminders of what we couldn't do and didn't have.
I felt like an interloper at first. Did we really belong there? This place with the built-in changing tables and nursing pillows and leaflets for mother-baby yoga? The fact is, I don't know if I'll ever truly feel a part of the 'club' (or, in many ways, if I want to) but for perhaps the first time, I allowed myself to feel embraced and lulled by the warmth of such an environment, which for so long felt beyond our grasp. For however long this pregnancy lasts (even though I still can't mentally grasp the whole living-baby-in-6.5-months thing, I am hoping for it with all my heart), I want to bask in it. Feel every second of it, as completely as possible skipping the terror of course pleaseandthankyou.
No, we didn't take a wrong turn. Yes, we are really supposed to be there. We have the paperwork - oh ok, and the little burgeoning human - to attest to that. And if my renewed nausea and fatigue in the last days are anything to go by (this is supposed to abate in the second trimester, right?), then - staying with my confident, hopeful vibe - the tiny human is going through another growth spurt.
What was all that blissed out zen crap I said last week? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I lied.
This past weekend involved several mini breakdowns, a patiently handled 'emergency' telephone consult with the lovely Dr. B (whose assurances that all those cramps were 'good news if anything, evidence that your uterus is preparing in all the ways it should right now', were only partly comforting in a long series of moments when my body's mimetic ability to feign PMS symptoms really convinced me my next period was impending, those second lines really just another cruel joke), and nearly a full day of lying curled up in the fetal position, all mucous and red, raw skin and ugly crying.
I'm having nightmares and not managing to sleep very well some nights. And then freaking out because it occurs to me that my lack of proper rest and the overstimulation of my adrenal-cortical system is probably harming the fetus trying to grow.
And symptoms? Much as I've had quite a few, ill-conceived pause for thought don'tthinkdon'tthink! led me to wonder: what if I just dreamed all those too? Because, just as with every two week wait I've experienced until now, I want to feel pregnant and so I do? Because ya know, when your uterus has done such a spectacular job of not sustaining the life you created, it's hard to place even the teeniest amount of trust in your body or any of what it's experiencing.
This is the nasty progression of infertility schizophrenia to the nth degree.With the after-effects of recurrent loss thrown in just for measure. Because if some seriously bipolar tendencies weren't enough, I also have some major PTSD sensations around ultrasounds themselves. They're a huge grief trigger. I'm afraid that the healthy form of grieving that I've carefully, painfully built over the past years, all the ways in which I've managed to incorporate and honour my losses without allowing them to overtake me entirely, will all crumble should the u/s screen reveal what I dread it will: just deep, still blackness.
Ultrasounds are not harbingers of good news for us. We've been here, hoping and waiting, three times before. And three times those hopes have been dashed. And in each case the u/s machine was the instrument of torture delivering those blows. The ultrasound terrifies me.
On the one hand, I don't see how this could possibly end
happily for us; it feels like that's something that happens for other
people; the preserve of those blessed masses among whom I don't belong, but never for us. At the same time, there's a still-resentful and resilient part of me that's thinking: If it's happening for everyone else, don't we get one shot?
I'm not always this bad, every second. I have a lot of hope for this pregnancy to turn itself into the wonderful culmination of all that love and desire we've been nurturing for so long, in the absence of more practical acts of nurturing. The rapid succession of emotions on that crazy hopeterrorhope continuumdoes not make it easy though.
I guess for now, I have to hang on to that resentful and resilient little voice which keeps me going. I always feel like when I reach that Fuck You place in my emotional arc, there's a lot of good momentum to pull me forward into a place of greater optimism and fight. (Though obviously, let's be honest: we all know that the real remedy for this particular malaise is just one, and that's to hear a happy, beating little heart next week.)
Also, as crazy and obnoxious as I know I sound right now, it helps just writing it out. Phew. Slightly better now.Yeah, let's go with that.
I feel like maybe I gave people the wrong impression with my last post, as though I've given up on ever getting pregnant and am no longer invested in the process at all. Or like maybe I can only find energy now for complaining about all the things I've given up in the course of trying to get that damned elusive baby. (WHERE ARE YOU BABY?!) I'm the first to admit that this whole process has exhausted me; we've been at it for a while now. And yes, distancing my emotions from the expectation of a baby specific outcome is these days generally a safer bet - or at least easier (I think?) - than dealing with more stuff like this should it prove not to have a purpose under our roof. That thought's too painful.
But the truth is, of course, I care a lot. I've invested practically all of myself, and without an ounce of regret I might add: whatever the outcome, I know it'll all be worth it in the end. I really want this. And so, I'm trying to remind myself that it's also ok to want it that badly. To hope. That this one simple yet intense human act doesn't make me naive or foolish.
I'm trying to un-learn fear and re-learn hope.
I'm trying to make my mantra: if so much crazy bad stuff can happen to us, why not crazy good stuff too?
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A lot of women, and bloggers in particular, can recount dreams they have of one day getting a positive pregnancy test or holding their child in their arms. They can relate these dreams, whether waking or asleep, in great detail and with a multicoloured vibrancy. I'm a bit envious of those women really. And also, it sometimes makes me feel like I'm doing a bad job at being an infertile in search of a baby of my own. Maybe I don't want it enough? Maybe my inability to connect with that part of myself is what's preventing me from becoming pregnant? I try to think back to before the time when pregnancy became some esoteric experience filled with fear and danger and which only happened to other people, before trying for a baby became this pot-holed road of disappointment and loneliness and hurt, to when these possibilities were an exciting time. You know, just to try to remember if it was different back then; did I have vivid dreams, specific plans I envisioned for us then? The thing is, I can't remember exactly. But I think it's there; buried deep, but there.
H reports that he has had several dreams in recent days in which we're carrying or playing with our baby. He says they are brief but vivid. It makes me feel good that he can carry the hope torch for a while. (And believe me, this is something of a novelty, since there was a time in recent memory when he was incapable of putting so much of his heart on that particular line.) I'm so grateful to have him there when my hope is flagging, to say with the great conviction that I often can't seem to find, that yes, one way or the other we will have our baby; be sure of it.
So obviously, I can see the benefits of this kind of dreaming, the optimism it can encourage, and the calm that comes with that. And scary as it is, I'm trying to make room for it. I've spent a lot of time meditating recently on the art of letting go. But the spiritual corollary of that, I suppose, is to hold on to the stuff that really matters. To borrow an analogy (granola-y hippy alert!) from yoga practice: when you do mindful breathing in lotus pose, the exhale releases stress and worry, while the inhale invites positive energy inward.
But you know - just as with those complimentary yoga movements that can only occur in tandem - I'm pretty sure that making room for that hopefulness
was only possible because I managed to face the worst case scenarios, to
confront my fears. I feel like there is so much more to be gained from
embracing the what ifs (even the scary ones) than pushing them
away, or struggling against them. And I needed to know, for myself, that
our life is going to be wonderful dammit, regardless if we become the Horrible Resolution many infertile woman fear most. I think it will. I won't fall apart. I know we'll keep laughing. Of
course if the IVF doesn't work out, I'll be devastated. But truthfully?
I don't think there is anything anymore, (short of losing H) that could
destroy me the way losing S did.
So here I am, gathering the hope around me. In this strange space of anticipation and yet cautious not to expect too much, I'm doing the simple little things that I can. Filling my body with nourishing stuff (oh ok, and ice cream) has been a good place to start. I'm surprised I don't perpetually smell of avocados, is all I'm sayin'... Today on my way to work, when I saw an adorable mom pushing her adorable child through the park in its adorable stroller, I didn't think: gggrrrr <while-grinding-teeth>... Instead, I allowed myself to think: that could be me next year. Earlier this week, instead of recoiling in horror at the very thought, I allowed myself to sit for an entire hour and look at baby-related posts at Craftgawker, sighing contentedly all the while. In short only actually, not so much: I'm trying to visualise myself into a reality where I might one day have a swelling belly. See a little heart beating on an ultrasound. Deliver a baby. See echos of myself and H (and maybe even S) in an expressive little face, a little face that is ours, to keep. Buy these baby booties:
So cute it hurts. No really, it hurts a little. Source
(...............this all is scary even to type, people............)
I should say here, that very fortuitously, two bloggers have recently encouraged me with their own ways of expressing hope for the future: Jessah at Dreaming of Dimples and Catherine at Twinkle of Light have both shared posts in the last weeks that have touched and inspired me. I love and admire their ideas for connecting to their maternal longings. Thank you ladies; it's stuff like this that gives me the strength to keep going some days.
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For the longest time, there was always this: each month while hope was strong, I would get maniacally excited as I misinterpreted lots of twinges and food cravings and basically projected and over-interpreted all my deepest desires onto one single unlikely outcome; and each month, I would later feel humiliated, tricked, foolish. (Like I said, scary.)
But (for anyone else whose thought processes lean towards the self-critical) you know what? It's not foolish. It's resilient. And damned if that isn't a really good - sometimes life saving - quality to possess.
It's like I've always said: hope is a bitch. Turns out though, she can also be a good person to hang out with. I guess instead of only hanging out with the too-cool-for-school kids, I'm trying to keep better company these days.
Bloggy friends, I am curious to know: are you able to envision your future selves pregnant, or with your living children? Are your dreams vague or vivid? Am I the only one who struggles with thinking and visualising in tangible ways the future I hope to have with my family?How to overcome this mental block?
This week while out shopping, one of my favorite Flaming Lips songs, Do You Realize? came over the radio. It's a song that's always held meaning for me, and which brought particular comfort after S died; there is a beautiful and powerful truth in the starkness of the lyrics. A call to live life to the fullest, to fully inhabit every moment you have. A wonder at the beauty of it all.
Do you realize That you have the most beautiful face? Do you realize We're floating in space? Do you realize That happiness makes you cry? Do you realize That everyone you know someday will die?
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes Let them know you realize that life goes fast It's hard to make the good things last You realize the sun doesn't go down It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
But on this most recent listening, those last two lines somehow caught me in a new way, a way I had never considered before.
the sun doesn't go down/it's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.
Just as we have to really fiercely live the beautiful and fleeting moments of happiness so intense it can reduce us to tears of bewildered joy, equally the dark moments when we think all sun and all goodness have gone from our lives are momentary too. And yes, there will be moments when that dark seems so deep and impenetrable as to be unending; when in fact, it's just an illusion, a trick of spinning planetary bodies. This too shall pass.
It was a welcome reminder.
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Last month I attended a conference that is one of the largest gatherings of its kind for people in my erstwhile profession. While there, I had the lovely opportunity to catch up with some former colleagues and in one such conversation, received an invitation to do some teaching in Botswana in early 2014. It was an intriguing offer, affirmation of my standing in a profession I no longer inhabit, and more than a little enticing. This was not the first such instance: in a similar encounter last year, I was asked to join full-time a project in China which I had been working on as a consultant for several years.
In a former life, these would have been the kinds of projects - and the kinds of adventures - that I would have jumped at, and I must confess that I was a little wistful in giving my answer that, at least for the time being, these undertakings wouldn't be in the cards for me. The reality is, such work and the travel it necessitates are hugely incompatible with ttc and particularly with infertility treatments. I would be required to take anti-malarials regularly, expose myself to questionable water sources, travel to post-conflict areas where infrastructure is minimal, if not non-existent. Over time, I have become mistrustful enough of my body's reproductive capacities and ability to deal with routine 'risks' like a glass of red wine thoughtlessly sipped during a two week wait, or accidental inhalation of mould or cat litter; throwing those extra (and very real) risks into the mix was not an option.
This whole babymaking rollercoaster has almost been enough to entirely erase from memory the knowledge of how stupid? adventurous my former self was, and what very different rollercoasters I once rode.
But when I left it behind, I suppose there was always some notion that we'd see where life took us, that I might possibly return to the work in some time, even with children. In reality, my marriage is no impediment to such work because my flexible, travel-loving husband is ready and willing to join me in such far-flung locales, and we envisaged a future in which we could introduce our child to the wonders of the world so loved by two travel-addicted parents. We both view travel as an exciting and vital form of education, and exposure to otherness, learning to negotiate differences of materiality and culture are more than just passionately held ideals for us. The cultures in which we have lived tend to place a high value on children, who are at the centre of community life, and we imagined our child benefitting from that atmosphere too. Learning to pump water from a well, to speak other languages; tasting and seeing and hearing new things; meeting other children and playing with the kind of freedom that is all but impossible in many western countries today. We (naively, foolishly) built an entire future for our little family - complete with sights and sounds and many an adventure - before understanding what sacrifices would have to be made, what challenges we would face, in getting the very part of the equation we thought would be the simplest: the babies. (And it was this approach to life that also made us drawn very early on to the possibility of international adoption; not instead of, but alongside biological children. It's something we'd still like to pursue, at a later date.)
Fast forward three years - through all the failures and pain and loss and false starts, not to mention the drastic change in living conditions and career paths - and here we are, about to begin IVF. We are oh-so-fortunate to be looked after at a clinic where we can expect two fully funded rounds of IVF, (including as many FETs as would be feasible after retrieval of my crappy eggs). We're so grateful for this chance, and also aware that This. Is. It: The Final Frontier. We'll either manage a healthy pregnancy or we won't. There really isn't any in-between, is there? A year from now, our life could and probably will look so very different than it does now, but we won't know for some time exactly which different we're getting. In any case, we both know we don't want to be doing this for much longer, whatever the outcome. It's hard to draw a line in the sand when it involves something you've worked so hard for, committed so much of yourself to, dreamed of with such intensity; so although we haven't set a hard and fast deadline for ourselves, we both know we're nearing the end of this particular journey. I need a fresh start, to devote my energies to something else for a change. I need the chance to be excited about things that might just work. I owe that to myself and I owe it to my marriage.
So why am I mentioning this in the context of my erratic career trajectory? I guess it's nice, and somehow reassuring, to be reminded of all that's waiting out there for me, for us, when we finally have cause to call it a day, baby or no baby. I'm reaching a place where all the possible what ifs hold not so much fear, but possibility. We have many an adventure still to undertake, whatever our family ends up looking like.
As dark as things may seem right now, there is movement, even if it's imperceptible in this particular moment. Things are happening. And there is so much waiting out there for us. H is close to completing his thesis, and then we won't need to be here anymore. We might finally make the move 'back home', to Canada, or to Austria. Maybe we'll move to that little alpine farm and raise goats, as we've daydreamed about. Maybe we'll find ourselves in more far-flung, less prosaic surroundings altogether. Maybe I'll return to the work for which I once held so much passion, or take up that offer in Botswana. Maybe we'll buy an old jalopy and spend three months driving through the Balkans, like we've always talked about. (Of course, all of these things would be stellar experiences with a tiny, curious and open-minded companion to occupy our time; this would be the best case scenario.) Who knows? The thing is, I think I'm getting to a place where all those possibilities, and even the unknown-ness of it all, can - one day soon - hold as much excitement as trepidation. And even though the world keeps spinning round, and will doubtless continue to throw us for a loop here and there, right now that's an okay place to be.
Here we sit, in the waning days of summer, (and perhaps for the first time in the history of ever, this country has produced a season worthy of that moniker, though not without some considerable and pretty laughable fanfare, I can tell you. Listen people of the British Isles: 33˚C is kind of, uh...normal where I come from.) And here I sit, trying to just be in the moment, and soak up every last ray of sun and enjoyment and not think ahead to the scary, uncertain cooler days to come. I really amtrying. We're sitting on the terrace every night until well after the sun sets and we need extra layers, taking languid walks along the coast, and - this being that self-indulgent five days at the beginning of my cycle when nothing feels off limits and my self-imposed alcohol sanctions don't resemble Sharia law - enjoying plenty of these and these.
Last weekend was the final long weekend of the season, and so we took ourselves off to Notting Hill Carnival along with one million other Londoners. We soaked up all the pleasures the event has to offer: a colourful kaleidoscope of sequins and feathers, the best jerk chicken this side of the Caribbean, ginger beer and steel drums and salsa and that distinctive brand of listless/audacious gyrating amid millions of sweaty bodies that can only be described as 'pleasurable' in the context of carnival.
And it was a sublime, childless couple-y thing to do. We even managed genuine smiles at all the adorable families out with their adorable offspring. So there are definite moments.
But then, well...there are other moments.
We're in the process of undergoing numerous humiliating and/or invasive procedures gathering all the necessary body data in anticipation of our upcoming IVF. H has undergone yet another sperm analysis, this time (for the first time) in the confines of the clinic itself, so as to insure 'optimal freshness'. (My dear, slightly OCD husband returned insisting he'd developed a rash as a result of sitting 'on that couch'. I saw nothing.) Bright and early next Monday I'll be in for my first ever antral follicle count. Our appointment to review all this stuff is not until the end of Sept; the clinic offered us the 4th, but that was impossible since it's also the day I start my new job, and anyway it seemed scarily close when we booked. I naively thought a few extra weeks might help us process all this. After that, there is a mandatory information session that we're expected to attend, and by the time we get through all the hoops, realistically we're looking at an IVF cycle by late October/early November. A long way off still, but nonetheless, very real and getting moreso all the time. (Suddenly, I feel like we're hurtling, headlong without helmets, along that long and winding road.)
The other day, as the impending signs of my period's arrival were hitting me particularly hard, I told H: 'I don't want to do this anymore. I just want it to be finished'. And it's true.
I don't feel particularly optimistic about IVF. And I know it's already a bad sign that we're both so exhausted before we even hop on that crazy train, where the best of the invasive, mind-bending, hormone-altering procedures and processes are yet to come. This is not how I would have chosen to approach all this you guys. It's not even that I'm afraid of all that stuff, though I know I have reason to be. But the fact is, even if this were to work, there's nothing to say it wouldn't just end in yet another loss. IVF provides absolutely no assurance, (particularly given my dismal track record), of a healthy, viable pregnancy. And I don't know if I have the reserves to face that right now.
I just want it to be finished.
Confession: I really wanted to be one of those people who, on the eve of getting all down and dirty with an RE's office, syringes and catheters, was just all of a sudden like, 'We conceived spontaneously!No need for IVF after all!' I wanted that to be our narrative arc.
Those people exist, right? It's not just an urban legend.
I don't think this is a case of denial though. On the contrary, I feel like lately, when I can't help but let my mind wander from the here and now to the what's-to-come, I'm all realist. And sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't just conserve our energy, stop fighting, and accept a life made up of sublime, childless couple-y things. Would that be so bad? Would it be enough?
I feel a tiny bit like a dickhead since publishing my last post, which I'm aware probably made me sound both ungrateful and capable of finding a complaint about any (potentially wonderful) scenario that life throws at me. Each of your comments gently reminded me though that, despite my own inability to recognize them as such, recent events have been hopeful. Celebration-worthy even. Thank you for feeling excited for me even as I can't seem to muster the energy to do it myself. Thank you for sticking with this dickhead.
As anyone who has been reading for a while will know, I am prone to emotional and physiological oversharing in this space; the ugly as well as the uplifting. Not only did I envision this space from the outset as a record of sorts, one that might help me process and look back on developments as they happened, but I definitely also think that sometimes just the act of getting it out there can limit the corrosive effects of all the negativity rattling around in my brain as a consequence of this crazy train.
So it's in that spirit, as much as for the, erm...entertainment of the interwebs, that I post the following. It was written right in the midst of the chaotic events of the last week of July, when I was juggling all the future possibilities and feeling especially overwhelmed by it all. And then I kind of lost my will and my voice and climbed into that grey track suit and never finished or posted it. Until now.
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It's been one hell of a week, and a lot of stuff has happened since I last found time to update. My head's still spinning, so I apologize in advance for the meandering course I'm sure this post will take. But I still feel I need to write it if for no other reason than to make sense of things myself.
It kind of started late last week, while I was still trying to renegotiate the interview time and felt a bit like my prospective employers were leaving me to do all the flexing. (This was not the best way to start a working relationship; it did not exactly endear me to said employers, but a job's a job, right?) There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing in emails, me calling the fertility clinic to see how late in the day our appointment could be pushed, checking and re-checking to see how feasible a certain train journey would be against a proposed schedule... It was stressful guys, and with H's contract due to expire in September, and no clear plans on what we'd do next, it felt like a lot was riding on this. On me.
I kind of lost it a bit then and there, broke down and cried about how random and unfair it all was, got in one of the first of what turned out to be a whole series of fights with H for 'not being supportive enough', after which we had slightly resentful, let's-just-do-this sex what a turn on! because, well, we were still just maybe in the 48hr window indicated by my positive OPK and didn't want to screw up a chance because of total emotional exhaustion petty squabbling. (And then thought to ourselves, 'I can't wait for IVF to come along and divorce this whole process entirely from baby-making so that maybe one day we'll have sex again because we just want to', and then felt awful for thinking that.)
And then I got my shit together and got on a train and gave an awesome interview on Monday. Within an hour of leaving the office, I got a call with an offer of the job, which I accepted. I called H to share the good news, and then I went for dinner with my mom. All perfectly lovely and anti-climactic and low key (and I managed to live happily for a whole 24hrs blissfully unaware that this had finally occurred). But I think H was disappointed with the detached way in which I greeted the news.
Now I should probably state for the record here, in my defence, that this has been a protective mechanism (one I'm far from happy with) that has only recently become fully manifest; my increasing callousness toward and detachment from a world full of wonderful things and good news stories. Like the thick skin that develops on your hands and feet over time, through exposure after exposure to painful elements, stinging barbs, intense heat, it's come layer by layer, and only now do I realize how much I have to cut away to get back to the tender heart of my being.
For the last three years, we've had more bad luck than good. It's sometimes hard not to feel like when S died, not just our hope, but all possibility for the future left with him. It's been a constant and continuous uphill climb, and I'm exhausted. In that time, we've lost two more pregnancies and had the rug pulled out from under us more times than I care to itemize. On several occasions, when we thought finally we have some good coming our way! it all turned out to be a big, cruel, cosmic joke. Not just the babies dying (though obviously that's the big one, the one that's left the deepest scars). On other occasions our hopes and plans for a stable home, a good job offer, were ultimately yanked away from us, once because of a stupid immigration technicality and once because H's Crohn's disease unexpectedly landed him in hospital for five scary weeks during which we thought he'd need to have his bowel resected (which in itself was pretty daunting). I don't know if this is because we somehow unwittingly manage to make really bad life choices or the gods have chosen us for target practice because of now unknown transgressions in a past life, or if we just have had a string of really. bad. luck.
But in short (though not really, given the length of this post): I don't trust good stuff anymore. I don't trust that I'm anything more than the butt end of that cruel cosmic joke. Hence my hesitation with embracing the good, even when it comes, try as I might. Oh, I'm quite ok with celebrating the little moments; you could even say I have a talent for that (which I am aware is an important life skill to cultivate, and helps to explain my resilience). But the big stuff? The stuff that's supposed to lift you up and, before you even realize it, change the direction of your lifecourse? Profound yet commonplace stuff like bringing new life into the world? Nu uh. Truthfully, I think I've stopped being able to believe in those big, life altering events. I don't believe in epiphanies. I think maybe it's all just a slow shuffle, and some days you manage to bring it and make everything feel shiny and promising, while some days all you really can do is shuffle your feet. So this was all stuff I was contemplating, darting through my brain as I made my return journey to the excited arms of my dear husband.
And my strange, ambiguous emotional state was not helped by what turned out to be a horrific journey. For the last forty minutes on the train, me and the entire train car I was riding in were witness to a vitriolic and aggressive domestic altercation courtesy of a couple who were hepped up on who knows what kind of (probably illegal) mood altering substances and didn't care who knew it. Horrific verbal abuse and expletives were hurled from both sides. In. A. Crowded. Train. What was much, much worse, they had two sweet, small boys with them; the younger was about three, and clearly found a defense mechanism in zoning it all out and focussing as hard as his little self could muster on a pull toy he was vrooming up and down the carriage, finding far too early in life his own necessary means of reaching oblivion as his parents clearly had with drugs or alcohol. But the older one, about five I'd say, was clearly totally cognizant of exactly what was going on, and tried to play (what seemed to me, as a feeling of nausea crept in with the realization), his probably customary role of peace-maker, interjecting plaintively, again and again: Please Daddy. To which one or the other parent invariably replied: Shut the f*%$ up! No one intervened, not even the train staff, because I think they were afraid of the parents. (After stepping off the train at my designated stop, I managed to alert some transport police who then boarded the train to investigate).
Frankly, it was harrowing. It was enough that it triggered one of those (admittedly selfish) 'Really? These people can have kids??' reactions and reminded me of the random unfairness of it all. But to be forced to witness the neglect, verbal and emotional abuse of small children like that, their humiliation at the hands of their own parents, was heartbreaking. I mean chest-constricting, painful-to-breath, kind of heartbreak. It effected me profoundly.
So when I stepped off the train to be greeted by my dear husband, whose arms, as it turned out, were not ready to receive me because of the gargantuan bouquet of exotic flowers he carried to bestow on me...Well, I wasn't really all there. I was overwhelmed and exhausted. And really, as I'm learning just now, my inability to receive and acknowledge good news is clearly becoming something of a problem I need to work harder at. I stiffened as I saw the joy on his face, and knew I wouldn't be able to convincingly play along. And yes, (naturally!) I then picked a fight with him. I am a terrible person, I know. Tuesday was not one of my prouder moments.
But the exact source of all this became clarified for me as we prepared for yesterday morning's appointment at the clinic. We were both edgy and hadn't, thanks to my in-progress meltdown, had the time to compose the careful list of what ifs? and what's next? with which we are typically armed for discussion during a doctor's visit. We fully expected, in light of clinical encounters both more and less recent, to have to cajole a bit, to plead our case, stand our ground against lethargic and disinterested medical professionals who would keep telling us that, thanks to our three 'successful' conceptions, we 'just needed to give it more time'.Truly, we were ready for a fight.
So when we entered the exam room and, within minutes of reviewing our fruitless attempts over the last several months, the consultant asked straighforwardly, How do you feel about moving forward with IVF?...
Well, we were flabbergasted. We were totally unprepared. We were clumsy and sputtering and far-too-grateful in our responses. But the long and short of it is this: we'll have some more detailed investigations done in prepartion for our final intake appointment, we'll attend a mandatory information session run by the IVF Unit at the hospital, and after that, my next cycle will be It. In sum, the appointment was great. Helpful, hopeful, informative. Everything we could have wished for.
And yet, I can't quite bring myself to feel happy or excited about this right now either. I know, I know...it's what we've been impatiently waiting months to be told. The best I can explain it is with what I said to H as we walked home from the clinic in a daze, disbelieving of the good fortune that might finally be coming our way:
You come up against a door that you realize, when you try to open it and walk through, has been locked and bolted. But you really, really want to get through that door, there's something you need on the other side, that your sanity and future happiness depend on. So you fling yourself feebly against it and you kick and you bang your fists, growing weak and tired and developing quite a few bruises and scratches in the process. And all of a sudden, just when you're tired and on the verge of giving up altogether, without any warning, the door gives without struggle, and instead of walking through cool, calm and collected, you fall flat on your face, right there on the threshold, with the extertion of its refusal that in the end, never came. You're momentarily shocked and bewildered, sitting there on the threshold.
That's how I felt this morning as we walked home. I want to, but I can't seem to bring myself to believe in good news anymore. Not yet. Actually, we were both so dazed that, despite having piles of work waiting for us at home and office as we now have to troubleshoot quite a big move in the coming weeks, we stopped for a cider at one of the sidewalk cafes that were teeming with life in the midst of an uncharacteristically hot, sunny summer. We sipped our drinks and squinted against the bright, warming, soothing sunlight which has become so unaccustomed to our ghostly white, pasty selves. And held hands, and just kind of stared into space.
I'm still having trouble dealing
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And there, good readerfolk, it ended. That last sentence hanging in the balance just like my befuddled brain, mid-completion, bereft of an ending.
So, fast-forward three odd weeks and I think I'm beginning to process it all. Inevitably, forward we go. I think at heart, at least for now, I'm still not super optimistic about IVF. Right now, I don't feel like I'll ever join that magic, select club who get their healthy pregnancy or happy adoption story and the take home baby that comes with it. I have doubts that IVF will be the magic bullet for us. Maybe (hopefully?) some of that will change as we progress through actual treatments and it becomes more real. Or maybe I still just need more time to process.
I'm still having trouble dealing...
But yeah, it's getting better. The door has been opened, and though we haven't walked through yet - we're still peering around, trying to get our bearings from the threshold - it's only a matter of time.
