Salad rolls and Star Trek

I have another new weapon in my deluded experimental artillery of infertility busting lifestyle habits. Recently my acupuncturist did some food sensitivity testing on me and suggested that I give a gluten-free diet a try. (He's not the first to suggest a link between gluten intolerance and infertility/loss, but I don't want to overthink that one, mostly because we all know we lead healthy lives, do everything we can for those babies-to-be, and shouldn't beat ourselves or our bodies up over not controlling managing carefully enough. I for one am down to only grass-fed grass and decaf, dairy free morning coffee; while the cigarettes and daily McDonald's intake of many a passing parent I encounter in the street has clearly not made a difference, so go figure.)

OK, so on the one hand this gluten-free stuff sounds like one of those obnoxious trends of the kind which could actually be the cause of nausea and fatigue for those not affluent enough to enjoy $1000 a day yoga retreats and all organic, all the time, locally produced, bicycle delivered kale chips picked by specially trained, ethically kept, artisan, free range guinea fowl exposed to it.*

 But I love to experiment with cooking; my kitchen is my laboratory, and so I found the prospect of rethinking my cooking and eating habits rather exciting. And we are fortunate enough to have a virtual Aladdin's Cave of a supermarket around the corner from our place, run by a lovely Indian-Ghanaian couple and their children, and where I can find everything from tamarind paste to pickled green mango to fresh taro root. When we moved here I made a promise to myself to cook with a new ingredient every month, so we've had banana blossom salad and jackfruit seed curry, and now I have the perfect opportunity to experiment with stuff like sweet potato noodles and teff flour. So with the beginning of April and an end to the over-indulgence of my extended birthday celebrating (parts one and two), I decided to go cold turkey for a while.

Yesterday we made Vietnamese salad rolls. I initially thought I'd share the whole recipe here since I altered some of the ingredients from that link, but then I realised as someone who doesn't really follow recipes I'm actually too lazy to write the whole thing. (I don't own measuring cups and usually just throw stuff in a bowl, adjusting the quantities until I like the taste; for me it's always like 'a handful' of this, or 'until it feels like' that, so it's kinda tedious to write exact measurements).  I can say that this recipe is a pretty decent one and we were really happy with the results and the authenticity of the taste. I recommend you use not only both the mint and cilantro, but also a healthy quantity of basil (the Thai variety, if you can get it), because the fresh herbs really make this dish. Also, we added both daikon radish and red bell pepper to the vegetable fillings. Finally, in my opinion there's no replacement for good sriracha sauce to provide the heat in the peanut dipping sauce.

Although working with the rice paper takes some getting used to, they were incredibly fun to make because it's very hands on. See? 

H making a mess in the kitchen, just the way we like it.

The rolling technique takes a little practice, (the trick being to top your veg and herb combination with another thin layer of rice vermicelli before folding), but after the first four or five you get the hang of it. The rice wrappers are so thin that the colours and textures of the filling create a beautiful lacy effect on the completed rolls. I was lucky I managed to get any pictures, because they smelled amazing and it was hard not to nibble compulsively.

Finished product.

We ate our salad rolls while sitting on the sofa watching old episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and maybe it was the magic of those aromatherapeutic herbs, but all suddenly seemed right with the world. 

You see?, I tell myself. All it takes to make you step back into joy is a few Vietnamese salad rolls, an old episode of Star Trek, and the arms of your beloved around you. So whatever is in store for us in the near or distant future, life rightthisveryminute is not so bad, after all.


*Seriously Gwyneth, I understand why you're having panick attacks, I really do. I can relate to the stress of trying to manage day in and out.... Oh, wait.

When you look at it like that

First off, you guys. You guys. I mean seriously, it's these little nuggets of kindness and encouragement that lift me in such times and all your comments and emails were so appreciated. Thank you. 

I'm not going to lie; the last few days have been exhausting. Between tying up all kinds of loose ends as my job winds down, and my grief hangover, I don't have much physical or emotional energy these days. (This is not helped by another round of will-she-won't-she erratic menstruation antics on the part of my disobedient body). Right now, my Spring ain't looking so Invincible people.

Still, I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm slowly trying to catch up on all your blog news, and on my commenting. My brain has been intermittently weighing pros and cons, cons and pros in all of this, trying to figure out where I am for the moment...I'm trying to focus on pretty, shiny objects little things that bring me happiness, and just stay with that. Because that's the thing I know how to do, and what else is there, really?

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It's not just my metaphorical spring which seems to have been deferred. We had snow flurries again last night. No kidding. I'm missing the sun and the close-by beaches of Portugal now more than ever. On the other hand, if H's weather divination has any basis, we're still in for some good things in the remaining three seasons of this year. I'm going to go with that.

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 Yesterday was my last real day of work at my current job. I had to accompany a student to an offsite visit where most of the clients are mental health patients recovering from substance misuse. Within 20 minutes of arriving, I'd had encounters with two men in their 70s. One wanted to know if I'd accepted, really accepted, the Gospels into my life. He followed me around the facility until I explained my confused Catholic/Jewish parentage and my personal views (Holy atheist, Batman!) and that finally stumped him. The other guy  - in his 70s, remember - kept eyeing me and my student with a creepy leer, and tried to ahem...shall we say 'win me' without apparently realizing the coffee he was drinking was ending up in a fine spray on our faces. Yeah, he was hot stuff alright. Fun times. Will I miss this part of the job? For the most part, not so much.

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I'm down and out for another cycle. I was neither hopeful nor despairing this time around (in fact I pretty solidly found other things to think about), and so ends another two week wait, less eventful than many that have come before, and for that I am thankful. Still, after two + years of staking my existential status on where I sit in a monthly, merry-go-round cycle, all this uncertainty that my body is dishing out makes it hard for me to relax into the early part of my cycle. I'm Cycle Day...? 2? 3? -1? I have no clue. It's on and off and this is definitely signalling a less-than-reassuring new chapter. Luckily, the lovely Dr. B was entirely true to his word, and we have an appointment to meet with his colleagues in the sub-fertility clinic in just over two weeks. I'm hoping they'll be able to get to the bottom of all this faffing about that my body is doing. By then all my RPL panel results should be back so we can review those as well. I feel like I'm getting good care at last, and people who listen and follow up.

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Crucially, H and I are making big progress on working through our own ideas on the 'what next'. I hinted previously that we'd approached some more concrete plans in this department. Another long, tear-filled, looking-forward (and ultimately very cathartic) heart-to-heart took place over the weekend, and we finally have some sense of where we're ready to go. At our appointment on the 24th we'll ask about possibilities for IVF. We finally fulfil the criteria for 24 months of active ttc without any positive results (technically the year after S died was spent much more actively on grieving than on making a new baby). We still don't know the wheres or hows or whens, exactly (and there's still all the other uncertainty to deal with). But until quite recently, H had trouble with the idea of any kind of major intervention. He admitted himself that it was a kind of protective denial of the reality of our situation. So this is big. Huge.

And just like that, it looks like we might be boarding the IVF train. Holy shit. Honestly though, I'm hoping it'll give us the feeling of moving in a solid direction. Any direction is better, surely, than spinning our wheels as we have been for so many months now.

So good/bad/good/bad/good/bad. All in all, I think I can work with this. I just need to catch my breath first.

A real mixed bag, sweet and sour. Source.

What the body remembers

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

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

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

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

But then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember. Love. Grieve. Hope. Heal.

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

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

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

Putting myself back together. Again.

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.

Eggs and baby chicks and sugar: fertility symbols AND mass consumer delights

In addition to our Monday off, today is technically a bank holiday here in the UK, but there's still no rest for us academic saps the wicked, so today finds me banging away at the keyboard.

(Four day weekend you say? This is pretty much meaningless in our household, since weekends of any kind don't really exist for people in our field, who're likely to be found scrambling to meet our latest deadlines on any given Sunday.)

Anyway, today as I sought ways and means to studiously avoid the overdue article I should be writing puttered about the house, I came across this Easter treat. For the Girls fans among us (we seem to be inexplicably legion): enjoy.

And now if you'll excuse me as I go stuff my face with processed fluorescent coloured sugar in the shape of defenceless baby animals get back to work.

Have a lovely long weekend everyone, however you plan to spend it.

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.

A week of loveliness in two halves: London

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

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

Borough's bounty

Kaleidoscopic

Riding the rails

Brick gallery at Brick Lane

Raindrops on the river

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