It's cyclical - it's month after month after month of the same routine, the same highs and lows and doubts, and it is always a peak followed by a trough. You have to hope for the best but prepare for the worst; getting appointments for treatments or seeing doctors and specialists sometimes means weeks of waiting, so you have to assume that something might not work so you will need that appointment in three months time, so you need to start organising now.
Some months are better; I know deep inside that it hasn't happened, which lessens the blow somewhat. The worst are the months when you are hopeful, when you think (or know) that it will be successful. Those are the worst.
Day 1 - first day of cycle
Your heart breaks. When it arrives, every month, it's like a death. It's a death of those thoughts "in a year's time, I could have a 3 month old!" "we could be parents!", day-dreaming about taking our child to the park, bringing our child home from the hospital, kissing their head, their fingers curled around mine, watching them sleep. All of those thoughts, hopes, they're gone. Dashed. In the cold light, they look awfully childish and stupid. You're battling physical pain, inconvenience. If you're receiving treatment, Day 1 is also Action Day, booking appointments stocking up again on ovulation kits and vitamins and booking more appointments and trying to guess at when things might happen, all the while trying very hard not to cry in public or during inopportune moments. Sometimes, you think "fuck it, I can have a drink as I'm definitely not pregnant", so you have a glass of wine but as this is a once a month event, it hits you hard and fast. The hangover starts before you've even finished the glass.
Days 2 to 10
You're getting more used to the heart break. The thoughts are dismissed, you have to focus on the new month ahead. Things are booked. Things are ready. You're focused and you're concentrated on the weeks ahead, and doing every possible thing you can for this time to be successful, to exert some control over something uncontrollable. You're feeling so much better than Day 1, much more positive. You've moved on (again). You're invincible.
But then, sometimes Day 3 or 4 it hits again. The sense of loss, the absence. You realise again what you don't have, and you realise that once again you're going through all of this, that this is real, it hasn't happened again, you've failed another time.
In the more than 2 years of trying, I only recall one moment when I briefly forgot (it was just as I was waking up) what was going on. It was a blissful moment, when I thought "imagine if I was struggling to fall pregnant?", but then it hit me that I didn't have to imagine it; I was going through it. I felt the realisation descend and take over again.
Days 10 to 17
It's getting close to the time when you may (or may not) ovulate. You're watching all the signs, arranging your schedule so that everything can be timed perfectly. You try to keep things exciting; the worst is for everything to feel mechanical and forced, but sometimes you can't help it. You try to stay relaxed - that's key isn't it? But then the clinic is running late, or you need to get more medication which means waiting for ages at the pharmacy, or something goes wrong - too few follicles, too many, the lining isn't thickening as it should. One month I had a whole morning of peeing on a stick disasters - the test broke, I tried another one, that one wasn't working either, I bought more, ran out of pee and had to spend a whole morning at work alternating between drinking a lot of water and sneaking ovulation tests in the bathroom. I nearly laughed at how farcical it was.
The Two Week Wait - Part 1
For me, this is divided into two sections. The first is when I know that there is absolutely no way (though it's taken me months of googling to figure this out) that I can feel pregnant within this time - the time between ovulation was likely to have happened (if it did) and the time when the egg could implant. This is the one time of the month when I have any kind of mental peace. I have no idea of knowing, and it's the time I now look forward to the most. I know I've done all that I can, so I have to just let it go.
The Two Week Wait - Part 2
This is when it gets rough, when your hope and anxiety may both be at their highest. Any twinge which could indicate PMS sends you into a panic. You agonise of whether or not to test, and when. If the result is negative, you consider all the options - is the test broken, was it not a good sample, is it too early? But as soon as you know it didn't happen, you have to pull yourself up and start all over.
Wednesday, 4 March 2015
Monday, 9 February 2015
On Infertility - What Other People Say
Not many people know - that's deliberate. They don't know that we're trying at all, let alone that we have all these issues. It's better it saves us hopefully from lots of questions and comments. Even so, people say stupid stuff, which brings me back to one of my original points, that it's impossible to know what this is like unless you're going through it. Below are some of the things that people have said, and why they were hurtful.
The first, well, what can I say, you should just never say this to anyone. If you're curious about someone's family plan, just deal with it. You don't have any right to know about what's going on, and if they want you to know, they'll offer that information.
"Why don't you have children yet? [other couple who got married after us] have a baby already. Don't you know how children are made?" (I literally could have punched the person who said this in the throat)
This is hurtful because, well it's just so tactless. Even if we weren't having all these issues it's a pretty tactless thing to say
"Prince Rainier and his wife had twins - I bet they got some kind of special treatment to make sure of that" (this can be substituted for many other celebrities). This is just bollocks - no sane person would go through IVF just to have twins. I mean, seriously, no sane person would go through IVF for the hell of it. The physical and emotional stress that going through fertility treatment, unless you're a sociopath, would make any normal person avoid it.
(when wanting to tell someone good news) "Is it that you're pregnant?" Depending on what this is said, this can be pretty devastating (as in, imagine it's just the day after I found out, AGAIN, that I wasn't pregnant?) It was meant in a nice way, but man it made me upset.
"I know you're going to have children." This is a nice sentiment, but at this point in time I'm only listening to medical professionals on this subject. Someone once told me "you can't choose to have children, you can only choose to not have children", and now I realise this is so true. Nobody knows if I will have children; I would like to think that it's something that will happen, but I don't know it. Doctors can say I have x% chance of this treatment or another treatment working or that based on the following test results, the prognosis is positive. But not even they can say with certainty that I will have children, so someone with no sight of my medical history, test results and so on can say it either regardless of how well it is meant.
So what can / should you say? This is one of those things where chances are, I (or someone else), just need someone to listen.
Sunday, 18 January 2015
On Infertility - Other People's children
When you are married / in a couple in your early thirties, it is very hard to avoid children. It seems (because it's true) that almost every week we hear about someone falling pregnant, having a baby.
On the one hand, it's wonderful - I am so happy for my friends and families who are having children, creating or growing their family. In different circumstances I would be leaping with joy, but I can't. It's not their fault. People aren't out there falling pregnant to spite me (I would hope not - that would be weird), in fact very few people know that we are trying to have children. But it still hurts. It's not that I'm jealous of them having their baby. I'm jealous of me not having mine, us not having ours.
This is the best way I can explain it is as follows. One of the defining characteristics of being human is dignity. And what is dignity? Dignity is being complete within yourself, despite your circumstances, despite your position in life, being able to stand up straight, your head held high, knowing that you are complete in and of yourself. A dignified person isn't jealous of someone else. Being jealous of someone else is acknowledging that you lack something, believing that you are not complete, that you lack a partner or a bigger house or better job. After years of maturing and learning not to be jealous of what others have, working towards being dignified, I have lost that. When someone else announces they're pregnant, despite everything, it is a reminder of what we, I don't have. That despite all the trying and working so hard, the appointments, the injections, the vitamins, the life overhauls - they have something, they have achieved something that I can't. I just feel acutely the child-shaped hole that I know is in my life.
I don't want their child, I don't want their life, I want mine.
I don't want their child, I don't want their life, I want mine.
On Infertility - Intro
Originally, this was going to be just one post, but I found it difficult to encapsulate everything I wanted to say in just one essay, as this topic, what it means to me, is so wide-ranging that it needs to be examined from a number of angles, in a number of different ways.
It pains me to even write "infertility" because I don't want it to be true, but it has happened. I also can't add it as an adjective to describe me, though that's not just optimism; no doctor has described me as "infertile", it's just I haven't fallen pregnant, or I haven't fallen pregnant and carried to term.
It is something we had made accommodation for ("we'll start trying now, but in x years if it doesn't happen we will seek assistance"), without ever believing that it would happen to us. It happens to other people, not us or people we know, but other mystical infertile couples. But that's not true - it is way more common than I have ever thought possible (around 1 in 6 couples have problems conceiving), it's just not something that is talked about (at least in my world). But it happens. It is something I, we, are in the middle of.
One of the things with it, is that unless you have been through or are going through it, it is very difficult to understand what it's like. Not even the most well meaning, empathetic individual (in my experience) can relate, can know what it's like, but partly what I am trying to do here is give an outsider a glimpse into this world.
Ironically (given it is written as the end point), I found this article articulates a lot of what is difficult about it. When you decide you want to have children, that you're going to start trying, it effectively means choosing to overhaul your life completely. Deciding to have children affects all aspects - what you eat (there's so much guidance on what you should and shouldn't consume when trying to conceive), where you live, how you spend your time, how you spend (or don't) your money, career choices; the article I linked above articulates it so well:
"Pursuing a child is an absolute lifestyle. Some people don’t realize how much time it takes. It affects everything—the food you eat, your daily routine, the phone calls, the red tape, the appointments—it holds you back from pursuing other things. I had been living my whole life with the idea that I would have a baby someday, and it affected everything: career decisions, which car I bought, the home that I bought. I lived my life in a way that centered around a future with a baby."
But then, it doesn't happen. You change so many things in your life, hold back on doing things, and for nothing. You wait. Every month is a cycle of hope and expectation and planning, for it all to come to nought the moment either the pregnancy test shows negative or your period arrives. But then you start again, from the beginning, trying hard not to get too emotionally involved, but it's impossible. You hear things about being positive, and that affecting the outcome, but investing too much of yourself means losing that part of yourself when it fails. You want to give of your all - it would be awful, the guilt, of this round being unsuccessful because you didn't try hard enough, you ate the wrong food, did too much / too little exercise, had too little sex or too much, took the wrong drugs, took the right drugs at the wrong time, slept too little, slept too much, was too stressed. And so you continue on and on, with the hope that one day, it will work.
I'm still waiting for that day.
It pains me to even write "infertility" because I don't want it to be true, but it has happened. I also can't add it as an adjective to describe me, though that's not just optimism; no doctor has described me as "infertile", it's just I haven't fallen pregnant, or I haven't fallen pregnant and carried to term.
It is something we had made accommodation for ("we'll start trying now, but in x years if it doesn't happen we will seek assistance"), without ever believing that it would happen to us. It happens to other people, not us or people we know, but other mystical infertile couples. But that's not true - it is way more common than I have ever thought possible (around 1 in 6 couples have problems conceiving), it's just not something that is talked about (at least in my world). But it happens. It is something I, we, are in the middle of.
One of the things with it, is that unless you have been through or are going through it, it is very difficult to understand what it's like. Not even the most well meaning, empathetic individual (in my experience) can relate, can know what it's like, but partly what I am trying to do here is give an outsider a glimpse into this world.
Ironically (given it is written as the end point), I found this article articulates a lot of what is difficult about it. When you decide you want to have children, that you're going to start trying, it effectively means choosing to overhaul your life completely. Deciding to have children affects all aspects - what you eat (there's so much guidance on what you should and shouldn't consume when trying to conceive), where you live, how you spend your time, how you spend (or don't) your money, career choices; the article I linked above articulates it so well:
"Pursuing a child is an absolute lifestyle. Some people don’t realize how much time it takes. It affects everything—the food you eat, your daily routine, the phone calls, the red tape, the appointments—it holds you back from pursuing other things. I had been living my whole life with the idea that I would have a baby someday, and it affected everything: career decisions, which car I bought, the home that I bought. I lived my life in a way that centered around a future with a baby."
But then, it doesn't happen. You change so many things in your life, hold back on doing things, and for nothing. You wait. Every month is a cycle of hope and expectation and planning, for it all to come to nought the moment either the pregnancy test shows negative or your period arrives. But then you start again, from the beginning, trying hard not to get too emotionally involved, but it's impossible. You hear things about being positive, and that affecting the outcome, but investing too much of yourself means losing that part of yourself when it fails. You want to give of your all - it would be awful, the guilt, of this round being unsuccessful because you didn't try hard enough, you ate the wrong food, did too much / too little exercise, had too little sex or too much, took the wrong drugs, took the right drugs at the wrong time, slept too little, slept too much, was too stressed. And so you continue on and on, with the hope that one day, it will work.
I'm still waiting for that day.
Friday, 4 July 2014
On challenges
The first half of this year has been challenging, to put it mildly. Things that I never thought could happen to me (see: broken leg, family troubles) have. It has been tough, and frustrating and I never in a million years would have wanted anything that has happened so far, to have happened or to happen to other people.
But then, part of me is glad this has all gone on, because what I've found is that when terrible things happen, good can come out of it. I had a very unlikely inspirational person on this point, a manager and friend from when I worked at a waitress. He taught me something very valuable (though I think at the time he was referring to trying to turn a waitressing disaster into something better, like dropping a glass or forgetting to place an order). He would always say "what are you going to do to turn this around?" And that has helped me invaluably. I suppose another way to phrase it is what lessons, or what positives, can you take from a challenge, how can you make sure that this wasn't a wasted opportunity.
With my broken leg and the other troubles, I've learned that:
- total strangers can be wonderful, they can look after you and be kind and caring even Londoners. I generally tend to be a bit sceptical of people (to quote Dr Cox in Scrubs) "People are bastard coated bastards with a bastard filling" (okay, I've never been that bad), but what I've learned is actually people can be lovely, really lovely. Total strangers called an ambulance, shielded me from the cars and made sure I was okay, they've helped me get around, held doors, and generally looked after me;
- the people in my life are wonderful. I'm not saying I had the "bastard" view of friends and family members, I just didn't always realise how much they cared. I've had people visit, cook food, check up on me, make me laugh, carry stuff for me, be concerned for me.
- Given all the loveliness experienced above, it's encouraged me to be a better person (or at least try). When thinking of the strangers who stayed with me, it's made me think "would I do the same?""how can I help out people in my life?"
- You can only take some things, one day at a time. If I had known when I first broke my leg that two months later, I'd still be using crutches, I think I would have freaked out. The surgeon told me it would be three months until I was back to normal, and at the time it seemed terrible, but now it seems about right, and it's been okay
- figure out how you can "turn it around". I would never have wanted to break my leg, but I enjoyed having the break from work (as terrible as that sounds), as it's given me some perspective. It's also given me time to do other stuff, like get a novel ready for a competition (I'd planned on doing it, but I don't know if I would have managed it), realise how rushed and stressed out I was, start blogging and watch some of the world's worst movies without feeling guilty
But then, part of me is glad this has all gone on, because what I've found is that when terrible things happen, good can come out of it. I had a very unlikely inspirational person on this point, a manager and friend from when I worked at a waitress. He taught me something very valuable (though I think at the time he was referring to trying to turn a waitressing disaster into something better, like dropping a glass or forgetting to place an order). He would always say "what are you going to do to turn this around?" And that has helped me invaluably. I suppose another way to phrase it is what lessons, or what positives, can you take from a challenge, how can you make sure that this wasn't a wasted opportunity.
With my broken leg and the other troubles, I've learned that:
- total strangers can be wonderful, they can look after you and be kind and caring even Londoners. I generally tend to be a bit sceptical of people (to quote Dr Cox in Scrubs) "People are bastard coated bastards with a bastard filling" (okay, I've never been that bad), but what I've learned is actually people can be lovely, really lovely. Total strangers called an ambulance, shielded me from the cars and made sure I was okay, they've helped me get around, held doors, and generally looked after me;
- the people in my life are wonderful. I'm not saying I had the "bastard" view of friends and family members, I just didn't always realise how much they cared. I've had people visit, cook food, check up on me, make me laugh, carry stuff for me, be concerned for me.
- Given all the loveliness experienced above, it's encouraged me to be a better person (or at least try). When thinking of the strangers who stayed with me, it's made me think "would I do the same?""how can I help out people in my life?"
- You can only take some things, one day at a time. If I had known when I first broke my leg that two months later, I'd still be using crutches, I think I would have freaked out. The surgeon told me it would be three months until I was back to normal, and at the time it seemed terrible, but now it seems about right, and it's been okay
- figure out how you can "turn it around". I would never have wanted to break my leg, but I enjoyed having the break from work (as terrible as that sounds), as it's given me some perspective. It's also given me time to do other stuff, like get a novel ready for a competition (I'd planned on doing it, but I don't know if I would have managed it), realise how rushed and stressed out I was, start blogging and watch some of the world's worst movies without feeling guilty
Tuesday, 24 June 2014
Sunday, 15 June 2014
On hayfever
In an ideal world, the soundtrack of my summer would be something like Sunny Afternoon by the Kinks or August Day Song by Bebel Gilberto or pretty much anything else which conjures up heavy perfumed air, lazy afternoons, ice cold lemonade, pretty much anything other than sneezing fits in the evening as the pollen settles, and gummy eyes. But no, I think the song that most accurately describes most of my summers (in the UK, it seems that whatever is ailing me doesn't lurk in other countries) is The Divine Comedy's Pop Singer's Fear of the Pollen Count. I hate it, I hate feeling the back of my throat itching up, the streaming nose, the puffy eyes, sneezing fits at inopportune moments. Also, the worst year (and day) I ever had for hayfever was the year of my graduation; all my graduation photos for all eternity, my face is puffy, my eyes red and streaming. It honestly doesn't look like me, or it looks like me inflated. And this was after mammoth doses of antihistamine, anti-histamine eye drops straight from the fridge (best thing ever) and generally doing whatever I could to look normal. I suppose it could have been worse, it could have happened on my wedding day.
But, even after all that, I learned that it doesn't end there. I found out (fortunately after I'd finished having exams, otherwise it would have bummed me out too much) that antihistamines can affect your ability to study. So yeah, not only are exams smack bang in the good weather time so you're inside revising instead of outside, doing pretty much anything else (I tried studying outside, it doesn't work), AND when hayfever is at its height, taking antihistamines to be able to try and deal with it can affect your concentration, and your exam results. I'm seriously contemplating contacting my university and seeing if they'll agree to a do-over, of my exams and my graduation photos. Or you know, so I don't have to do exams ever again, just bump my final grades up by 10% across the board, and redo my graduation photos with professional hair and make up, and Annie Leibovits or Mario Testino. That seems reasonable to me.
An example of what my revised graduation photos would look like, only imagine I'm clutching my degree in my hand as I run from the university to a bright future.
But, even after all that, I learned that it doesn't end there. I found out (fortunately after I'd finished having exams, otherwise it would have bummed me out too much) that antihistamines can affect your ability to study. So yeah, not only are exams smack bang in the good weather time so you're inside revising instead of outside, doing pretty much anything else (I tried studying outside, it doesn't work), AND when hayfever is at its height, taking antihistamines to be able to try and deal with it can affect your concentration, and your exam results. I'm seriously contemplating contacting my university and seeing if they'll agree to a do-over, of my exams and my graduation photos. Or you know, so I don't have to do exams ever again, just bump my final grades up by 10% across the board, and redo my graduation photos with professional hair and make up, and Annie Leibovits or Mario Testino. That seems reasonable to me.
An example of what my revised graduation photos would look like, only imagine I'm clutching my degree in my hand as I run from the university to a bright future.
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