Sometimes I wonder what the world is coming to. First there was the whole waxing incident, and now this.
Since when did daily hormone injections and scans take the stress out of trying to get pregnant?!?
For the love of g*d! IVF isn't a lifestyle choice for celebrities who are "too impatient" to try and conceive a child through good, old-fashioned, loving sex, or who just want to "knock out" two babies in one go, so they can reach their target number of kids. It is a MEDICAL treatment, which was developed to help those with MEDICAL conditions.
No wonder we have to keep spelling it out.
Showing posts with label living with infertility. Show all posts
Showing posts with label living with infertility. Show all posts
Friday, 25 July 2008
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Is nowhere safe?
I have just got back from having my monthly brow and bikini wax.
When I arrived at the salon, there was no-one at the reception desk. All of a sudden, a very bright and smiley woman appeared from out of nowhere. Was I there for my ultrasound, she asked.
Like many women, I like to have a little tidy up before my dates with the dildo cam. I generally make sure that I book in for a wax the week before my first appointment at the clinic. Had I somehow mixed up the two appointments in my diary? I stopped for a moment to double-check. I was definitely in the beauty salon, and not the Great Big Infertility Clinic.
No, I was fairly sure that I had a waxing appointment, I replied.
"Take a seat in the waiting area," the smiley woman said, ushering me into a room full of women in varying stages of pregnancy.
"Are you here for a scan, too?" asked the woman next to me, happily stroking her belly. "I'm so excited, I can't wait to see how much the baby's grown."
By this stage, I was beginning to feel like I had stumbled into the Infertility Twilight Zone. All became clear, however, once I finally got in to my appointment. The therapist explained to me that they had decided to rent out a room to a private medical company that performs those 4D scans where you get to see the baby suck its thumb, yawn etc, etc.
And so it seems that nowhere is safe. I can't even get a wax without being surrounded by reminders of my infertility.
When I arrived at the salon, there was no-one at the reception desk. All of a sudden, a very bright and smiley woman appeared from out of nowhere. Was I there for my ultrasound, she asked.
Like many women, I like to have a little tidy up before my dates with the dildo cam. I generally make sure that I book in for a wax the week before my first appointment at the clinic. Had I somehow mixed up the two appointments in my diary? I stopped for a moment to double-check. I was definitely in the beauty salon, and not the Great Big Infertility Clinic.
No, I was fairly sure that I had a waxing appointment, I replied.
"Take a seat in the waiting area," the smiley woman said, ushering me into a room full of women in varying stages of pregnancy.
"Are you here for a scan, too?" asked the woman next to me, happily stroking her belly. "I'm so excited, I can't wait to see how much the baby's grown."
By this stage, I was beginning to feel like I had stumbled into the Infertility Twilight Zone. All became clear, however, once I finally got in to my appointment. The therapist explained to me that they had decided to rent out a room to a private medical company that performs those 4D scans where you get to see the baby suck its thumb, yawn etc, etc.
And so it seems that nowhere is safe. I can't even get a wax without being surrounded by reminders of my infertility.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
When is it time to let go?
Last week, many British newspapers featured an item about a woman who had just given birth to a daughter conceived after she had advertised, first in the window of her local newsagents and then on the back of a London bus, for an egg donor. She was fifty-six years old.
This story could - and should - have generated debate about the severe shortage of both egg and sperm donors in this country. Instead, it provoked a range of predictable concerns about the so-called 'selfishness' of women determined to extend their reproductive life beyond what is 'naturally' possible. I listened to a radio phone-in on the topic, in which several callers pointed out that the woman in question would be in her seventies by the time her daughter was a teenager, and would in all probability not live long enough to see her mature into an adult woman.
This is, perhaps, a legitimate concern. Having suffered the effects of premature maternal bereavement first hand, I know how traumatic the loss of a mother during late adolescence/early adulthood can be. My mother was first diagnosed with breast cancer when she was thirty seven, just one year older than I am now. She died two months after her forty-fourth birthday. As I have grown older, I have become less convinced that I am destined to follow the same way, and yet it is always in the back of my mind: if I have a child now, and die at the same age as my mother, then that child will be just seven years old. In my experience, mothers do die, and leave their children before they are ready, and I cannot help but worry that that may happen again.
But this case also sent me back to the perennial question, when is enough, enough? At what point do you decide to let go, to move on, to build a life for yourself beyond infertility? I seem to have spent much of my thirties trying unsuccessfully to have a baby. And I am tired - I am tired of the endless monthly cycles of hope and disappointment. I am tired of the repeated minor surgeries, of the injections and internal scans. I am tired of having to plaster a pleased expression on my face whenever I hear about someone else's surprise pregnancy. I am tired of crying all the time. I am tired of feeling a failure. I don't know how much longer I can keep putting myself through this. I cannot imagine that in another twenty years, I will still be plugging away at fertility treatments, still living from cycle to cycle.
Given my most recent prognosis, I can no longer believe unconditionally in happy endings. Of course I have hope that I may yet have a child, but I am also beginning to confront the fact that childlessness remains a very real possibility. I know that I will be forever scarred by infertility. I feel that it has robbed me of a major part of my identity as a woman. There will, of course, always be reminders of the baby I lost, of the children I might have had. And yet, I hope that, over time, I will journey towards some kind of acceptance. My life will follow a different course from the one I had envisaged, but it will continue nonetheless.
But what happens if, when other women my age are seeing their children off to university, or even welcoming their first grandchild, I am still longing for a baby? What if that deep, visceral ache for a child never subsides?
This story could - and should - have generated debate about the severe shortage of both egg and sperm donors in this country. Instead, it provoked a range of predictable concerns about the so-called 'selfishness' of women determined to extend their reproductive life beyond what is 'naturally' possible. I listened to a radio phone-in on the topic, in which several callers pointed out that the woman in question would be in her seventies by the time her daughter was a teenager, and would in all probability not live long enough to see her mature into an adult woman.
This is, perhaps, a legitimate concern. Having suffered the effects of premature maternal bereavement first hand, I know how traumatic the loss of a mother during late adolescence/early adulthood can be. My mother was first diagnosed with breast cancer when she was thirty seven, just one year older than I am now. She died two months after her forty-fourth birthday. As I have grown older, I have become less convinced that I am destined to follow the same way, and yet it is always in the back of my mind: if I have a child now, and die at the same age as my mother, then that child will be just seven years old. In my experience, mothers do die, and leave their children before they are ready, and I cannot help but worry that that may happen again.
But this case also sent me back to the perennial question, when is enough, enough? At what point do you decide to let go, to move on, to build a life for yourself beyond infertility? I seem to have spent much of my thirties trying unsuccessfully to have a baby. And I am tired - I am tired of the endless monthly cycles of hope and disappointment. I am tired of the repeated minor surgeries, of the injections and internal scans. I am tired of having to plaster a pleased expression on my face whenever I hear about someone else's surprise pregnancy. I am tired of crying all the time. I am tired of feeling a failure. I don't know how much longer I can keep putting myself through this. I cannot imagine that in another twenty years, I will still be plugging away at fertility treatments, still living from cycle to cycle.
Given my most recent prognosis, I can no longer believe unconditionally in happy endings. Of course I have hope that I may yet have a child, but I am also beginning to confront the fact that childlessness remains a very real possibility. I know that I will be forever scarred by infertility. I feel that it has robbed me of a major part of my identity as a woman. There will, of course, always be reminders of the baby I lost, of the children I might have had. And yet, I hope that, over time, I will journey towards some kind of acceptance. My life will follow a different course from the one I had envisaged, but it will continue nonetheless.
But what happens if, when other women my age are seeing their children off to university, or even welcoming their first grandchild, I am still longing for a baby? What if that deep, visceral ache for a child never subsides?
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Reality check
When I switched the cooker on last night, there was a loud bang from inside the oven... and then nothing. The hob and the grill still appear to be working, but now the oven will not heat up.
And so we decided to go out for dinner. As we settled into our seats in our local Italian restaurant and ordered a bottle of Chianti, we suddenly felt carefree and childfree, rather than gloomily childless.
But, over the course of the meal, our conversation inevitably turned to the topic of our infertility - in particular, what we might do should the FET be unsuccessful. I said that I thought that there was still an outside chance that we might conceive spontaneously; we managed it once before, after all. "I think we're about as likely to spontaneously combust," retorted Mr H.
As he himself is fond of telling me, one of the main reasons I married my husband is for his excellent sense of humour!
And so we decided to go out for dinner. As we settled into our seats in our local Italian restaurant and ordered a bottle of Chianti, we suddenly felt carefree and childfree, rather than gloomily childless.
But, over the course of the meal, our conversation inevitably turned to the topic of our infertility - in particular, what we might do should the FET be unsuccessful. I said that I thought that there was still an outside chance that we might conceive spontaneously; we managed it once before, after all. "I think we're about as likely to spontaneously combust," retorted Mr H.
As he himself is fond of telling me, one of the main reasons I married my husband is for his excellent sense of humour!
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
When is enough, enough?
At what point do you decide that enough is enough? When do you accept that it is time to let go, to move on?
Over the past couple of weeks, I've found myself inexplicably drawn to the IF message boards. I spend hours scrolling down through the animated emoticons and the liberal sprinklings of baby dust searching for women in a similar position to myself. What I suppose I'm really looking for is hope: hope that our one embryo may emerge from the freezer unscathed and then implant, hope that I may yet have a better response on a different protocol. I read about wheatgrass, DHEA supplementation and oestrogen priming protocols. I torture myself with stories about those who had repeated cancelled cycles, and who then went on to conceive naturally after a course of acupuncture. The boundaries of what is possible with ART are constantly being pushed forward, and the temptation is to assume that there must be something else out there - a different clinic, an experimental new protocol, or some kind of complementary therapy - that may make the difference for us.
Over the past couple of weeks, I've found myself inexplicably drawn to the IF message boards. I spend hours scrolling down through the animated emoticons and the liberal sprinklings of baby dust searching for women in a similar position to myself. What I suppose I'm really looking for is hope: hope that our one embryo may emerge from the freezer unscathed and then implant, hope that I may yet have a better response on a different protocol. I read about wheatgrass, DHEA supplementation and oestrogen priming protocols. I torture myself with stories about those who had repeated cancelled cycles, and who then went on to conceive naturally after a course of acupuncture. The boundaries of what is possible with ART are constantly being pushed forward, and the temptation is to assume that there must be something else out there - a different clinic, an experimental new protocol, or some kind of complementary therapy - that may make the difference for us.
A few months ago, several British newspapers reported the story of a couple who had eventually conceived after fifteen attempts at IVF. Over a ten year period, they had spent nearly £65,000 on fertility treatment. They had twice remortgaged their home, and had each worked two jobs to cover the cost of those repeated cycles. They finally brought their baby daughter home from the hospital in January of this year. Implicit within this story was the assumption that, if you want it badly enough, and if you just keep going, you'll get pregnant in the end.
It's an assumption which, it seems to me, also haunts the infertility community. I've recently read a couple of posts written by other IF bloggers wondering whether or not to put themselves through another cycle. In these posts, I could not help but detect a certain note of guilt and anxiety lest they should be perceived by others still in the trenches as having 'given up' too soon.
There is no set number of treatments you should have to go through before you decide that enough is enough; each of us has our own individual limits. Given my poor response on these first two cycles, the chances are that I will be prescribed high doses of FSH on any future cycles. I remain concerned about the possible long-term effects of those drugs. If I choose not to put myself through repeated high-dose stimulations, then it doesn't mean that I want a baby any less than someone who is willing to undergo multiple cycles of IVF. Stopping treatment does not in any way deaden the aching desire to become a mother; in many ways, it brings it into even sharper relief.
I'm not ready to let go just yet: while we still have that one embryo on ice, there is still hope. But I think that I am beginning to move towards an ending, and to acknowledge that that ending might not necessarily be the one that I'd hoped for.
Monday, 28 April 2008
The times they are a-changin
Mr H and I both work from home. Every morning, he goes off to the dining room to do his mysterious job in IT, while I retreat to my study, where I pretend to write my PhD. We break for lunch at around 1pm, and occasionally knock off early to go to the gym.
Today, however, I am Home Alone. Mr H is in Rome (once again, I seem to have drawn the short straw). He has been head hunted, and so has been flown out to Italy to meet his new boss and to finalise the details of his contract of employment. This new job is a fantastic career opportunity for him; it is with a small and progressive company, and offers both more responsibility and more money.
The downside? He will be required to travel extensively throughout Europe and the Middle East. He will be away on business for an average of 17 days out of every month. Although we have agreed not to make any decisions in this respect until after I have submitted my PhD, in the longer term, it may well make sense for us to relocate down south - the company's HQ is situated on the outskirts of London, and the chances are that a fair proportion of their UK work will be in the capital. It would also make things easier if we were within commuting distance of an international airport. Proximity to Heathrow also, however, means proximity to his mother and to his endlessly and effortlessly reproducing friends.
Although it is undoubtedly a great opportunity for him, I am also worried about the effect that all of this will have on our relationship. We are in many ways quite a self-contained couple; even before infertility led us to retreat in on ourselves, we preferred time spent together to endless hours socialising with other people. I'm not sure how either of us will cope with spending a lot of time apart - on the one hand, it may encourage us to make the most of what time we do have together; on the other hand, we may end up leading increasingly separate lives.
My major concern, however, is how it will effect our plans to have a child. Having conceived 'spontaneously' before, I still hang on to the hope - however remote - that I may do so again. Our odds will be considerably reduced if Mr H is going to be away much on business much of the time. How will we manage even to fit in another cycle of IVF around his work schedule?
More to the point, what will happen if we do have a baby? I will effectively be a single parent for much of the time. When I'm struggling to cope with little sleep and a crying baby, will I wind up resenting him? Will he feel that he's missing out? Will I unconsciously shut him out?
We have talked and talked about this, and both of us feel that he should take this job - it really is too good an opportunity to turn down. Our relationship is - we hope - strong enough to survive. I am trying to look on the bright side - when he is away, I can have time for all my little projects around the house and garden. I may well sign up for an evening class - I quite fancy learning to sew. Plus, of course, there is the small matter of the PhD - perhaps it will encourage me to knuckle down and get the last chapter finished.
Infertility makes it extraordinarily difficult to make other plans. I feel like we've been living in limbo for the past five years. We've talked about moving house on several occasions, but have always decided that it wasn't the right time. There is, after all, not much point in buying a much bigger house if it's just going to be the two of us. Now, however, Mr H's new job is making some of these decisions for us. I can only hope that some other pieces of the jigsaw also begin to fall into place.
Today, however, I am Home Alone. Mr H is in Rome (once again, I seem to have drawn the short straw). He has been head hunted, and so has been flown out to Italy to meet his new boss and to finalise the details of his contract of employment. This new job is a fantastic career opportunity for him; it is with a small and progressive company, and offers both more responsibility and more money.
The downside? He will be required to travel extensively throughout Europe and the Middle East. He will be away on business for an average of 17 days out of every month. Although we have agreed not to make any decisions in this respect until after I have submitted my PhD, in the longer term, it may well make sense for us to relocate down south - the company's HQ is situated on the outskirts of London, and the chances are that a fair proportion of their UK work will be in the capital. It would also make things easier if we were within commuting distance of an international airport. Proximity to Heathrow also, however, means proximity to his mother and to his endlessly and effortlessly reproducing friends.
Although it is undoubtedly a great opportunity for him, I am also worried about the effect that all of this will have on our relationship. We are in many ways quite a self-contained couple; even before infertility led us to retreat in on ourselves, we preferred time spent together to endless hours socialising with other people. I'm not sure how either of us will cope with spending a lot of time apart - on the one hand, it may encourage us to make the most of what time we do have together; on the other hand, we may end up leading increasingly separate lives.
My major concern, however, is how it will effect our plans to have a child. Having conceived 'spontaneously' before, I still hang on to the hope - however remote - that I may do so again. Our odds will be considerably reduced if Mr H is going to be away much on business much of the time. How will we manage even to fit in another cycle of IVF around his work schedule?
More to the point, what will happen if we do have a baby? I will effectively be a single parent for much of the time. When I'm struggling to cope with little sleep and a crying baby, will I wind up resenting him? Will he feel that he's missing out? Will I unconsciously shut him out?
We have talked and talked about this, and both of us feel that he should take this job - it really is too good an opportunity to turn down. Our relationship is - we hope - strong enough to survive. I am trying to look on the bright side - when he is away, I can have time for all my little projects around the house and garden. I may well sign up for an evening class - I quite fancy learning to sew. Plus, of course, there is the small matter of the PhD - perhaps it will encourage me to knuckle down and get the last chapter finished.
Infertility makes it extraordinarily difficult to make other plans. I feel like we've been living in limbo for the past five years. We've talked about moving house on several occasions, but have always decided that it wasn't the right time. There is, after all, not much point in buying a much bigger house if it's just going to be the two of us. Now, however, Mr H's new job is making some of these decisions for us. I can only hope that some other pieces of the jigsaw also begin to fall into place.
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
Friendships lost... and found
I've been a bit hopeless at posting over the past week - I begin composing posts in my head, but then never get round actually to writing them. Instead, I've been mulling over all the assvice I received last week from our friends and family - and this in turn has got me thinking about my best friend, Stella.
Stella and I met on our very first day at university. We lived in the same halls of residence, and were doing the same degree course. Our friendship really cemented itself, however, after we left university. We saw each other through shitty jobs and broken hearts. We went out dancing, and stayed up all night talking.
After dating a number of inappropriate men, and crying on each others' shoulders when it all went wrong, we both settled down with our respective partners. Eventually, the inevitable happened - Stella invited us round for lunch, and told us that she and her husband were expecting a baby. I held it together all the way through the meal, but then fell apart in the car on the way home. 'Don't you understand that that's the way it's supposed to happen?' I shouted at Mr H. 'You come off the Pill and then you get pregnant a few months later. It's not supposed to take eighteen fucking months.' Up until then, we'd been doing a pretty good job of pretending that we didn't have a problem - Stella's pregnancy was actually the catalyst that led us to make that first appointment with the doctor.
Eventually, Stella had her baby - a boy. Eighteen months later, she had a little girl. In the meantime, we underwent the standard battery of tests, and were placed on an NHS waiting list for IVF. As time went by, my weekly telephone conversations with Stella became more and more one-sided: she talked about her children, while I listened.
And then I had a miscarriage. We hadn't told anyone about the pregnancy - we'd agreed to wait until we were safely into the second trimester - but Stella was one of the first people I had planned on sharing my news with. After I lost the baby, I couldn't face picking up the phone to let her know what had happened, and so I sent her an email instead. Over a week later, she sent me a text message: 'I hope you're feeling better now'. When she did eventually ring me, I explained that I was a little hurt that she hadn't got in touch sooner. She then proceeded to tell me about an article she'd just read in a magazine, which suggested that a miscarriage was a bit like having a particularly heavy period. After that, I didn't really feel like phoning her again.
That was just over two and a half years ago. Stella has not made any effort to contact me since that last phone call. I've sent her Christmas and birthday cards, but she hasn't responded. I really thought that we would be friends for life, but it turns out that our friendship wasn't strong enough to survive me losing a baby.
As I fell further and further down the rabbit hole of infertility, I felt increasingly isolated. And then one day, I stumbled across the infertility blogosphere. I couldn't believe it - here was a group of articulate, angry, witty, sarcastic women who were just as pissed off as I was! For a long time, I lurked, silently and nervously - it seemed such a tight-knit community, would they let me in?
Eventually, I took a deep breath and started writing. It felt a bit like throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean - I had no idea whether anybody out there was actually reading. But then Melissa actually mentioned something I'd written in one of her Friday roundups! Gradually, the comments started to come and I began to realise that I was in fact part of an extraordinary grass-roots movement. When my first IVF cycle was cancelled and I put out a plea for help on Lost & Found, so many people whose blogs I'd never even visited before rallied round to offer their support and advice. After I'd been away for a few days last week, several people stopped by to say 'welcome home' - and at the moment, this does feel like home. I know that, here in the blogosphere, I will meet with more support and understanding than I have received from the majority of my 'real life' friends. I'm sorry that I haven't been around over the past week - I've been lax at commenting, as well as posting - but just wanted to say thank you, all of you, for being there.
Stella and I met on our very first day at university. We lived in the same halls of residence, and were doing the same degree course. Our friendship really cemented itself, however, after we left university. We saw each other through shitty jobs and broken hearts. We went out dancing, and stayed up all night talking.
After dating a number of inappropriate men, and crying on each others' shoulders when it all went wrong, we both settled down with our respective partners. Eventually, the inevitable happened - Stella invited us round for lunch, and told us that she and her husband were expecting a baby. I held it together all the way through the meal, but then fell apart in the car on the way home. 'Don't you understand that that's the way it's supposed to happen?' I shouted at Mr H. 'You come off the Pill and then you get pregnant a few months later. It's not supposed to take eighteen fucking months.' Up until then, we'd been doing a pretty good job of pretending that we didn't have a problem - Stella's pregnancy was actually the catalyst that led us to make that first appointment with the doctor.
Eventually, Stella had her baby - a boy. Eighteen months later, she had a little girl. In the meantime, we underwent the standard battery of tests, and were placed on an NHS waiting list for IVF. As time went by, my weekly telephone conversations with Stella became more and more one-sided: she talked about her children, while I listened.
And then I had a miscarriage. We hadn't told anyone about the pregnancy - we'd agreed to wait until we were safely into the second trimester - but Stella was one of the first people I had planned on sharing my news with. After I lost the baby, I couldn't face picking up the phone to let her know what had happened, and so I sent her an email instead. Over a week later, she sent me a text message: 'I hope you're feeling better now'. When she did eventually ring me, I explained that I was a little hurt that she hadn't got in touch sooner. She then proceeded to tell me about an article she'd just read in a magazine, which suggested that a miscarriage was a bit like having a particularly heavy period. After that, I didn't really feel like phoning her again.
That was just over two and a half years ago. Stella has not made any effort to contact me since that last phone call. I've sent her Christmas and birthday cards, but she hasn't responded. I really thought that we would be friends for life, but it turns out that our friendship wasn't strong enough to survive me losing a baby.
As I fell further and further down the rabbit hole of infertility, I felt increasingly isolated. And then one day, I stumbled across the infertility blogosphere. I couldn't believe it - here was a group of articulate, angry, witty, sarcastic women who were just as pissed off as I was! For a long time, I lurked, silently and nervously - it seemed such a tight-knit community, would they let me in?
Eventually, I took a deep breath and started writing. It felt a bit like throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean - I had no idea whether anybody out there was actually reading. But then Melissa actually mentioned something I'd written in one of her Friday roundups! Gradually, the comments started to come and I began to realise that I was in fact part of an extraordinary grass-roots movement. When my first IVF cycle was cancelled and I put out a plea for help on Lost & Found, so many people whose blogs I'd never even visited before rallied round to offer their support and advice. After I'd been away for a few days last week, several people stopped by to say 'welcome home' - and at the moment, this does feel like home. I know that, here in the blogosphere, I will meet with more support and understanding than I have received from the majority of my 'real life' friends. I'm sorry that I haven't been around over the past week - I've been lax at commenting, as well as posting - but just wanted to say thank you, all of you, for being there.
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
Assvice
Over the course of the past few days, it has been suggested to me that, if only I could 'just relax', I might still manage to conceive 'naturally'. I have been regaled with tales of a friend of a friend of my sister-in-law's who apparently did just that, and who then miraculously fell pregnant just before she was due to start her first cycle of IVF. I have been asked to consider the possibility that perhaps we are not meant to have children of our own and that, given the circumstances, we could always 'just adopt'.
All of the above is, of course, standard assvice. Anyone struggling with infertility will doubtless have heard similar things before from their own friends and family. But why is it considered helpful, or even acceptable, to say these things? Do these stock responses in fact say rather more about their embarrassment and discomfort, than about my infertility? It strikes me that there is at the moment no broader discourse on infertility and loss - or rather, that in the act of telling our stories and sharing our experiences, we are in the process of creating one here in the blogosphere. Unfortunately, however, the ripple effect seems slow to spread. Perhaps in time, people will begin to have greater understanding of the difficulties associated with infertility, and will stop and think before coming out with this crap.
Surprisingly enough, none of this came from my mother-in-law, who managed studiously to avoid the topic of our infertility - instead, she spent much of the weekend criticising Mr H and cooking up the type of highly-processed food that I never buy at home - over the course of the weekend, I've eaten more saturated fat and refined carbohydrates than ever I would in a month of Sundays.
I am accordingly both exasperated and bloated, but indescribably relieved to be back home!
All of the above is, of course, standard assvice. Anyone struggling with infertility will doubtless have heard similar things before from their own friends and family. But why is it considered helpful, or even acceptable, to say these things? Do these stock responses in fact say rather more about their embarrassment and discomfort, than about my infertility? It strikes me that there is at the moment no broader discourse on infertility and loss - or rather, that in the act of telling our stories and sharing our experiences, we are in the process of creating one here in the blogosphere. Unfortunately, however, the ripple effect seems slow to spread. Perhaps in time, people will begin to have greater understanding of the difficulties associated with infertility, and will stop and think before coming out with this crap.
Surprisingly enough, none of this came from my mother-in-law, who managed studiously to avoid the topic of our infertility - instead, she spent much of the weekend criticising Mr H and cooking up the type of highly-processed food that I never buy at home - over the course of the weekend, I've eaten more saturated fat and refined carbohydrates than ever I would in a month of Sundays.
I am accordingly both exasperated and bloated, but indescribably relieved to be back home!
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
My mother-in-law
Mr H's mother is a woman of firm and decided opinions, many of which appear to have been gleaned directly from the pages of the Daily Mail. She is a devout Catholic, I am a committed feminist. There are many issues on which we do not see eye-to-eye: a woman's right to choose, UK immigration policy.... I could go on.
Mr H is one of five children - a fact which may well be attributable to his mother's religious beliefs, rather than to any strong maternal instinct on her part. She fell pregnant with Mr H and his brother soon after getting married and, in her own words, was 'absolutely devastated' to discover that she was carrying twins: 'I didn't want to be pregnant at all, let alone be having two babies'. Ten months after Mr H and his brother were born, she gave birth to a daughter. After what one can only assume to be a period of some twelve years' abstinence, there then followed two further babies - a girl and then, five years later, a boy. Although I can accept that ambivalence plays a necessary and important role in mothering, and that coping with three young children ten months apart in age is in particular a lot to contend with, from what Mr H has told me about his childhood, his mother reminds me of nothing so much as a turtle, who swims up to the beach, lays her eggs and then basically f**ks off and leaves her offspring to get on with it.
I will draw a veil over many of the more tactless remarks she has made over the time we've been struggling with infertility - suffice it to say that our difficulties in conceiving have not met with any degree of understanding or compassion from Mr H's mother. After I miscarried, she sent Mr H an email (she apparently could not be bothered to pick up the phone to speak to either of us in person). One particular sentence will forever be engrained on my memory (and please bear in mind that, at that stage, we thought we were dealing with male factor issues only): 'it is good that Ms H has finally relaxed enough in order to be able to conceive. Maybe next time, when she is less stressed about her studies, she will manage to carry to term.'
I was - and still am - speechless at her insensitivity. Had she perhaps been reading one of the many Victorian medical textbooks that warn of the dire effects of intellectual work upon a woman's reproductive system, or was this something she'd picked up from the Daily Mail? Does she in all honesty believe that my eggs have been addled by too much thinking?
Mr H has a few days' holiday left, which have to be taken by the end of the month. We are accordingly going down south to spend a long weekend with his parents. When you also factor in the smug fertiles and their intrusive questions, I think it will be a miracle if I get through the next four days without losing my temper and telling someone exactly what I think of them.
Mr H is one of five children - a fact which may well be attributable to his mother's religious beliefs, rather than to any strong maternal instinct on her part. She fell pregnant with Mr H and his brother soon after getting married and, in her own words, was 'absolutely devastated' to discover that she was carrying twins: 'I didn't want to be pregnant at all, let alone be having two babies'. Ten months after Mr H and his brother were born, she gave birth to a daughter. After what one can only assume to be a period of some twelve years' abstinence, there then followed two further babies - a girl and then, five years later, a boy. Although I can accept that ambivalence plays a necessary and important role in mothering, and that coping with three young children ten months apart in age is in particular a lot to contend with, from what Mr H has told me about his childhood, his mother reminds me of nothing so much as a turtle, who swims up to the beach, lays her eggs and then basically f**ks off and leaves her offspring to get on with it.
I will draw a veil over many of the more tactless remarks she has made over the time we've been struggling with infertility - suffice it to say that our difficulties in conceiving have not met with any degree of understanding or compassion from Mr H's mother. After I miscarried, she sent Mr H an email (she apparently could not be bothered to pick up the phone to speak to either of us in person). One particular sentence will forever be engrained on my memory (and please bear in mind that, at that stage, we thought we were dealing with male factor issues only): 'it is good that Ms H has finally relaxed enough in order to be able to conceive. Maybe next time, when she is less stressed about her studies, she will manage to carry to term.'
I was - and still am - speechless at her insensitivity. Had she perhaps been reading one of the many Victorian medical textbooks that warn of the dire effects of intellectual work upon a woman's reproductive system, or was this something she'd picked up from the Daily Mail? Does she in all honesty believe that my eggs have been addled by too much thinking?
Mr H has a few days' holiday left, which have to be taken by the end of the month. We are accordingly going down south to spend a long weekend with his parents. When you also factor in the smug fertiles and their intrusive questions, I think it will be a miracle if I get through the next four days without losing my temper and telling someone exactly what I think of them.
Monday, 10 March 2008
Letter to my body
We've been together a long time, you and I. Like many long-term relationships, ours has shifted and developed over time.
In my teenage years, I was very bothered about how you looked. I spent a lot of time comparing you to other women's bodies. I measured you against the bodies of my friends, and against the bodies of the airbrushed models in fashion magazines, and I felt inadequate in comparison - somehow, you didn't quite seem to measure up. At that stage in my life, I was hung up on external appearances; your internal rhythms remained a mystery to me; your monthly bleeds were nothing more than a messy inconvenience.
In my twenties, a late period was a cause for panic, rather than optimism. The decade seemed to pass by in a whirl. I stayed out late, and subsisted on coffee and KitKats. I took it for granted that you could handle whatever I threw at you. I didn't treat you with the respect you deserved. For all the Big Macs and the tequila slammers, I am truly sorry.
In my thirties, I began to take better care of you. I ate right, and exercised. And I grew increasingly angry with you when you failed to repay that care. I felt frustrated and betrayed by your inability to do what you were designed to do - to conceive and sustain new life. Paradoxically, it was only after I suffered a miscarriage that I was able to let some of those negative feelings go. The only way I could begin to come to terms with having lost a baby was by trusting in you - by accepting the fact that you had recognised that the foetus was not viable, and so had dealt with it as quickly and efficiently as you could. I decided that I needed to have a little more faith in you; I learnt to respect your rhythms and chart your cycles. But the odds were stacked against us - tests had revealed that there were fairly major problems with Mr H's sperm. And so we felt we had no option but to turn to ART - ICSI, to be precise.
Over the past three months, I've put you through a lot. I've pumped you full of artificial hormones designed to put you into a temporary menopause. As if that wasn't enough, I then took even more drugs designed to make you work overtime, and to produce more eggs than ever you would when left to your own devices. And, perhaps understandably, you rebelled. You failed to respond to those drugs.
Next month, I'm going to ask you to do the same thing all over again - only we'll be using even more drugs. And this time round, I need you to trust me; as alien and as counter-intuitive it might feel to you, this seems to be the only way for us to have a baby. Please, please work with me on this next cycle.
Yours, hopefully,
Ms H xx
The Letter to My Body project was initiated over at BlogHer. My own letter was prompted by Melissa's thoughtful post on how infertile women in particular view their bodies. You can read Mel's own letter, as well as links to those of other women struggling with infertility and loss by following this link.
In my teenage years, I was very bothered about how you looked. I spent a lot of time comparing you to other women's bodies. I measured you against the bodies of my friends, and against the bodies of the airbrushed models in fashion magazines, and I felt inadequate in comparison - somehow, you didn't quite seem to measure up. At that stage in my life, I was hung up on external appearances; your internal rhythms remained a mystery to me; your monthly bleeds were nothing more than a messy inconvenience.
In my twenties, a late period was a cause for panic, rather than optimism. The decade seemed to pass by in a whirl. I stayed out late, and subsisted on coffee and KitKats. I took it for granted that you could handle whatever I threw at you. I didn't treat you with the respect you deserved. For all the Big Macs and the tequila slammers, I am truly sorry.
In my thirties, I began to take better care of you. I ate right, and exercised. And I grew increasingly angry with you when you failed to repay that care. I felt frustrated and betrayed by your inability to do what you were designed to do - to conceive and sustain new life. Paradoxically, it was only after I suffered a miscarriage that I was able to let some of those negative feelings go. The only way I could begin to come to terms with having lost a baby was by trusting in you - by accepting the fact that you had recognised that the foetus was not viable, and so had dealt with it as quickly and efficiently as you could. I decided that I needed to have a little more faith in you; I learnt to respect your rhythms and chart your cycles. But the odds were stacked against us - tests had revealed that there were fairly major problems with Mr H's sperm. And so we felt we had no option but to turn to ART - ICSI, to be precise.
Over the past three months, I've put you through a lot. I've pumped you full of artificial hormones designed to put you into a temporary menopause. As if that wasn't enough, I then took even more drugs designed to make you work overtime, and to produce more eggs than ever you would when left to your own devices. And, perhaps understandably, you rebelled. You failed to respond to those drugs.
Next month, I'm going to ask you to do the same thing all over again - only we'll be using even more drugs. And this time round, I need you to trust me; as alien and as counter-intuitive it might feel to you, this seems to be the only way for us to have a baby. Please, please work with me on this next cycle.
Yours, hopefully,
Ms H xx
The Letter to My Body project was initiated over at BlogHer. My own letter was prompted by Melissa's thoughtful post on how infertile women in particular view their bodies. You can read Mel's own letter, as well as links to those of other women struggling with infertility and loss by following this link.
Monday, 3 March 2008
The (Infertility) Time Warp
Last week, I stepped off the treatment treadmill. I drank coffee! And wine! Had I been able to find anywhere in Granada that served sushi, I'd have probably eaten that as well... but instead, I gorged myself on tapas - salt cod croquetas, albondigas, calamares and pulpo alla gallega. We visited the Alhambra, and had a memorable meal in a Lebanese restaurant in El Albaicin, the old Moorish quarter of Granada (as you may be able to tell, Mr H and I lay down our holiday memories in terms of what we ate - a week in Nice, for example, is now largely defined by an exceptional tarte au chocolat, which still sparks fond reminiscences two and a half years later).
But the best thing about going away? Spending time with my husband. Infertility, I have come to realise, can make it extraordinarily difficult for one to live fully in the present. Instead, I seem to spend much of my time trying to second-guess what the future may hold. The reality is that at the moment we simply don't know whether we will have a child or not, and so we have endless conversations about whether we should move house, or whether we should wait until things have resolved themselves one way or another. I worry about whether I should go all out to get a permanent job, or whether I should put my career plans on hold while I focus on IVF.
As soon as I realised that our first cycle of IVF was going to have to be cancelled due to my poor response, I was looking to the next cycle. What will we do differently next time? How soon can I start treatment again? Even when we are not undergoing treatment, I find it difficult not to think in two-week increments; either I am awaiting the moment when I am ovulating, or I am looking out for the signs of early pregnancy - and then my period starts, and the whole cycle of hope and disappointment begins all over again.
I'm so busy thinking about what is currently missing from my life that I don't spend nearly time appreciating what I do have. But last week, I realised how lucky I am. I am married to a wonderful man, who makes me laugh. Even after seven and a half years, I can still get butterflies in my stomach when I look at Mr H across a room. We can stay up late into the night talking, but equally we can sit in companionable silence, each lost in our respective books. Things will undoubtedly be different if we don't have children, but our lives will not be over. And so I have resolved to stop endlessly trying to project myself into the future, and to focus more on enjoying what is going on in the here-and-now.
But the best thing about going away? Spending time with my husband. Infertility, I have come to realise, can make it extraordinarily difficult for one to live fully in the present. Instead, I seem to spend much of my time trying to second-guess what the future may hold. The reality is that at the moment we simply don't know whether we will have a child or not, and so we have endless conversations about whether we should move house, or whether we should wait until things have resolved themselves one way or another. I worry about whether I should go all out to get a permanent job, or whether I should put my career plans on hold while I focus on IVF.
As soon as I realised that our first cycle of IVF was going to have to be cancelled due to my poor response, I was looking to the next cycle. What will we do differently next time? How soon can I start treatment again? Even when we are not undergoing treatment, I find it difficult not to think in two-week increments; either I am awaiting the moment when I am ovulating, or I am looking out for the signs of early pregnancy - and then my period starts, and the whole cycle of hope and disappointment begins all over again.
I'm so busy thinking about what is currently missing from my life that I don't spend nearly time appreciating what I do have. But last week, I realised how lucky I am. I am married to a wonderful man, who makes me laugh. Even after seven and a half years, I can still get butterflies in my stomach when I look at Mr H across a room. We can stay up late into the night talking, but equally we can sit in companionable silence, each lost in our respective books. Things will undoubtedly be different if we don't have children, but our lives will not be over. And so I have resolved to stop endlessly trying to project myself into the future, and to focus more on enjoying what is going on in the here-and-now.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Other people's children
I tend increasingly to make excuses not to see friends with children. As time has gone by, I find that we have less and less in common. Where they have progressed smoothly down the road to parenthood, we somehow took a wrong turn and found ourselves on the lonely and inhospitable path marked 'infertility'.
On Sunday, however, our friends Jonathan and Amanda came over for the day, bringing with them their son Richard, who will be three in April.
Luna and Pamela Jeanne have both recently written thoughtful posts on this very topic, in which they suggested that what is difficult isn't necessarily the children themselves, but rather their parents. Mr H has a tight knit circle of friends who I have labelled 'the smug fertiles'. Since the first couple announced they were expecting a child, there has been something of a domino effect amongst the smug fertiles - whenever we see them, someone else is either pregnant or has just recently had a baby. Last time round, it was Mr H's best friend and his wife who were expecting - after telling us the news, he actually said to us, 'don't worry, I'm sure you'll be next.' ('I'm sorry,' I replied acidly, 'I didn't realise that it was a race to the finish.') To some of the smug fertiles, our infertility has become the elephant in the room - they will go to any lengths to avoid mentioning it. To Mr H's best friend, on the other hand, it appears to be a source of some considerable fascination - he likes to ask detailed questions about our treatment plans, most particularly about their cost. Perhaps he is trying to show concern, but his questioning comes across as, at best, patronising, and, at worst, prurient.
Jonathan and Amanda, on the other hand, are different. Jonathan was left completely infertile after treatment for testicular cancer at the age of eighteen, and Richard was conceived on their fifth and final attempt at IUI using donor sperm. Unlike the smug fertiles, who appear to see parenthood as an automatic right, they take nothing for granted. On our walk into town, Amanda confided in me that she would never forget what they had to go through to build their family. And this is why I find it far easier to be around them, and to share in the joy they have in Richard. The last time I saw him, he was still a baby. Now, however, he is an excellent conversationalist, who asks questions ('why don't you have a playroom? where do you keep your toys?') and has decided opinions ('this isn't fizzy water; it tastes like it's from the tap').
Within five minutes of their arriving, the living room was strewn with toys. I tried not to wince as Postman Pat's van was crashed at high speed into my antique side table. After they had left, we scraped the mashed banana out of the carpet, cleaned the sticky hand prints off the TV screen and spent half an hour coaxing the cat down from on top of the wardrobe, whence she had fled in fright from Richard. Parenting a toddler was, we decided, a non-stop activity.
After a day in Richard's company, we were both struck by the enormity of how much our lives would change should we be lucky enough to have a child. We would surely learn to be less precious about the house. Time to ourselves, both individually and as a couple, would become a thing of the past. We would make sacrifices, and in return we would be rewarded by watching our child grow. Yet the moments of joy and unconditional love would doubtless be tempered by moments of boredom and frustration. And I could not help but wonder, am I ready to become a mother? I have spent the last seven years slogging away writing a PhD. I have just had my first piece of research published. How would I balance an academic career and a child? If I have a baby, would there perhaps come a moment when I longed to leave it to cry, to go into my study, shut the door and get on with my research?
On Sunday, however, our friends Jonathan and Amanda came over for the day, bringing with them their son Richard, who will be three in April.
Luna and Pamela Jeanne have both recently written thoughtful posts on this very topic, in which they suggested that what is difficult isn't necessarily the children themselves, but rather their parents. Mr H has a tight knit circle of friends who I have labelled 'the smug fertiles'. Since the first couple announced they were expecting a child, there has been something of a domino effect amongst the smug fertiles - whenever we see them, someone else is either pregnant or has just recently had a baby. Last time round, it was Mr H's best friend and his wife who were expecting - after telling us the news, he actually said to us, 'don't worry, I'm sure you'll be next.' ('I'm sorry,' I replied acidly, 'I didn't realise that it was a race to the finish.') To some of the smug fertiles, our infertility has become the elephant in the room - they will go to any lengths to avoid mentioning it. To Mr H's best friend, on the other hand, it appears to be a source of some considerable fascination - he likes to ask detailed questions about our treatment plans, most particularly about their cost. Perhaps he is trying to show concern, but his questioning comes across as, at best, patronising, and, at worst, prurient.
Jonathan and Amanda, on the other hand, are different. Jonathan was left completely infertile after treatment for testicular cancer at the age of eighteen, and Richard was conceived on their fifth and final attempt at IUI using donor sperm. Unlike the smug fertiles, who appear to see parenthood as an automatic right, they take nothing for granted. On our walk into town, Amanda confided in me that she would never forget what they had to go through to build their family. And this is why I find it far easier to be around them, and to share in the joy they have in Richard. The last time I saw him, he was still a baby. Now, however, he is an excellent conversationalist, who asks questions ('why don't you have a playroom? where do you keep your toys?') and has decided opinions ('this isn't fizzy water; it tastes like it's from the tap').
Within five minutes of their arriving, the living room was strewn with toys. I tried not to wince as Postman Pat's van was crashed at high speed into my antique side table. After they had left, we scraped the mashed banana out of the carpet, cleaned the sticky hand prints off the TV screen and spent half an hour coaxing the cat down from on top of the wardrobe, whence she had fled in fright from Richard. Parenting a toddler was, we decided, a non-stop activity.
After a day in Richard's company, we were both struck by the enormity of how much our lives would change should we be lucky enough to have a child. We would surely learn to be less precious about the house. Time to ourselves, both individually and as a couple, would become a thing of the past. We would make sacrifices, and in return we would be rewarded by watching our child grow. Yet the moments of joy and unconditional love would doubtless be tempered by moments of boredom and frustration. And I could not help but wonder, am I ready to become a mother? I have spent the last seven years slogging away writing a PhD. I have just had my first piece of research published. How would I balance an academic career and a child? If I have a baby, would there perhaps come a moment when I longed to leave it to cry, to go into my study, shut the door and get on with my research?
Monday, 28 January 2008
Facing the future
Reading other peoples' blogs, I am struck by how many of you feel that infertility has brought you closer to your partner. Our difficulties in conceiving have, I think, ultimately strengthened our relationship, but they have also at times stretched it to breaking point. We have very different ways of coping - where I search for a reason as to why this had to happen to us, Mr H has somehow managed to achieve what seems to me a zen-like level of acceptance.
Over dinner last night, we had a variation on a conversation that we've already had several times before, and which neatly encapsulates our different approaches.
Me: Do you think that we will ever have a baby?
Mr H: I can't answer that question. We'll have to wait and see.
Me: But what happens if we don't? What happens if a different protocol doesn't work? What happens if IVF isn't an option for us? What happens if we go through this whole process, and we don't end up with a baby at the end of it all?
Mr H: Then our lives will follow a different path from the one we had originally envisaged.
Me: But won't you regret not having had a child? Don't you feel that something will always be missing from our lives?
Mr H: That's a difficult question to answer. How can I know if I'll miss having something I never had in the first place?
When I was nineteen, my mother died of breast cancer. Over the past sixteen years, I have grieved deeply for her. It was a shock to realise that last year would have been her sixtieth birthday. I realised that I had very little sense of what she might have been like as a sixty-year-old woman; in my imagination, she is forever frozen at 44. I do not know what kind of relationship I might have had with her as an adult woman. But I do know that I miss her. I missed the fact that she was not there to help me plan my wedding. I miss the fact that, if I have a child, she will not be there to hold her grandchild, or to offer me advice, or to tell me that I used to do the same thing as a baby.
And in the same way I know that, even if I never fall pregnant again, I will still miss not having a child. Watching other people's children grow up, I will always be reminded of the baby I lost, of the children I might have had. I'm not sure whether it is ever possible fully to come to terms with involuntary childlessness. I may learn to live with it, but I know that I will always carry a certain sense of loss with me, in much the same way as my grief at my mother's premature death has become woven into the very fabric of my being. Like that other, earlier loss, it will shift and change as I shift and change.
Loribeth recently wrote a courageous post about finding her voice as a childless/free woman. She spoke about the social stigma attached to involuntary childlessness:
Loribeth went on to suggest - and here I hope that I am not putting words into her mouth - that the discomfort that surrounds those living childless/free after loss and infertility is sometimes particularly marked here within the IF community. 'I'm not always entirely sure,' she writes, 'that fellow infertiles want to hear what we have to say about life beyond infertility treatment (and there IS one out there!!). I can remember, on one of the boards I post on, that someone once wryly referred to us as "the black sheep of the infertility community."'
My own recent experiences have brought home the fact that, where infertility is concerned, there are no guarantees. A life without children suddenly seems a far more vivid possibility.
And this is precisely why I am grateful to women such as Loribeth and Pamela Jeanne, who tell their stories with such honesty and courage. This post has perhaps been a rather roundabout way of saying that, although I may lurk more often than I comment on their blogs, I think that they are a very important part of the IF community - as Melissa said in her comment on Loribeth's post, maybe if more people spoke positively about their childlessness, and if there was more support available for those who decided to stop treatment, then maybe it would become easier to accept childless/free living as a potentially creative way out of the pain of infertility.
Over dinner last night, we had a variation on a conversation that we've already had several times before, and which neatly encapsulates our different approaches.
Me: Do you think that we will ever have a baby?
Mr H: I can't answer that question. We'll have to wait and see.
Me: But what happens if we don't? What happens if a different protocol doesn't work? What happens if IVF isn't an option for us? What happens if we go through this whole process, and we don't end up with a baby at the end of it all?
Mr H: Then our lives will follow a different path from the one we had originally envisaged.
Me: But won't you regret not having had a child? Don't you feel that something will always be missing from our lives?
Mr H: That's a difficult question to answer. How can I know if I'll miss having something I never had in the first place?
When I was nineteen, my mother died of breast cancer. Over the past sixteen years, I have grieved deeply for her. It was a shock to realise that last year would have been her sixtieth birthday. I realised that I had very little sense of what she might have been like as a sixty-year-old woman; in my imagination, she is forever frozen at 44. I do not know what kind of relationship I might have had with her as an adult woman. But I do know that I miss her. I missed the fact that she was not there to help me plan my wedding. I miss the fact that, if I have a child, she will not be there to hold her grandchild, or to offer me advice, or to tell me that I used to do the same thing as a baby.
And in the same way I know that, even if I never fall pregnant again, I will still miss not having a child. Watching other people's children grow up, I will always be reminded of the baby I lost, of the children I might have had. I'm not sure whether it is ever possible fully to come to terms with involuntary childlessness. I may learn to live with it, but I know that I will always carry a certain sense of loss with me, in much the same way as my grief at my mother's premature death has become woven into the very fabric of my being. Like that other, earlier loss, it will shift and change as I shift and change.
Loribeth recently wrote a courageous post about finding her voice as a childless/free woman. She spoke about the social stigma attached to involuntary childlessness:
Society at the moment is so fixated on pregnancy & parenthood that a baby is seen as the only outcome of fertility treatment that can be considered a success. Childfree living just doesn't provide the requisite happy, fairytale ending - even though most of us (eventually) go on to lead happy & productive lives after we abandon treatment - & our dreams of having a family.
Loribeth went on to suggest - and here I hope that I am not putting words into her mouth - that the discomfort that surrounds those living childless/free after loss and infertility is sometimes particularly marked here within the IF community. 'I'm not always entirely sure,' she writes, 'that fellow infertiles want to hear what we have to say about life beyond infertility treatment (and there IS one out there!!). I can remember, on one of the boards I post on, that someone once wryly referred to us as "the black sheep of the infertility community."'
My own recent experiences have brought home the fact that, where infertility is concerned, there are no guarantees. A life without children suddenly seems a far more vivid possibility.
And this is precisely why I am grateful to women such as Loribeth and Pamela Jeanne, who tell their stories with such honesty and courage. This post has perhaps been a rather roundabout way of saying that, although I may lurk more often than I comment on their blogs, I think that they are a very important part of the IF community - as Melissa said in her comment on Loribeth's post, maybe if more people spoke positively about their childlessness, and if there was more support available for those who decided to stop treatment, then maybe it would become easier to accept childless/free living as a potentially creative way out of the pain of infertility.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Forward planning
Normally, when I get to the end of a box of tampons, I buy another box – that way, I won’t get caught short the following month.
This month, however, I paused and thought about it some more. If I get a period next month, it will be because this cycle of IVF has failed. Should I remain optimistic, and work on the assumption that I may not need said tampons? If I buy the tampons, am I admitting to myself that I won’t get pregnant as a result of the treatment? Will this then become a self-fulfilling prophecy?
I want – no, I need – to believe that this will work. I do not want to think about how I will feel if I get a negative result. I am terrified by the thought that I could put myself through all this, and still be left with nothing at the end of it. And yet I know that, statistically speaking, a negative is a more likely outcome than a positive. Obviously, there are plenty of stories with a happy ending out there. But there are lots of others that don’t end so well: I am not naïve enough to think that this will definitely work out for me.
Mr H tells me that I am a born pessimist - that I could make Eeyore look cheerful. But experience has taught me that shit does happen, and that it’s best to be prepared. And so I bought the box of tampons.
This month, however, I paused and thought about it some more. If I get a period next month, it will be because this cycle of IVF has failed. Should I remain optimistic, and work on the assumption that I may not need said tampons? If I buy the tampons, am I admitting to myself that I won’t get pregnant as a result of the treatment? Will this then become a self-fulfilling prophecy?
I want – no, I need – to believe that this will work. I do not want to think about how I will feel if I get a negative result. I am terrified by the thought that I could put myself through all this, and still be left with nothing at the end of it. And yet I know that, statistically speaking, a negative is a more likely outcome than a positive. Obviously, there are plenty of stories with a happy ending out there. But there are lots of others that don’t end so well: I am not naïve enough to think that this will definitely work out for me.
Mr H tells me that I am a born pessimist - that I could make Eeyore look cheerful. But experience has taught me that shit does happen, and that it’s best to be prepared. And so I bought the box of tampons.
Monday, 31 December 2007
Taking stock
When we first decided that we wanted to have a child together, we thought that we'd just stop using contraception and wait and see what happened. A few months went by, and I didn't get pregnant. Christmas came and went, and we told ourselves, 'maybe this time next year, we'll have a baby.' Since then, another four Christmases have gone by. Many of our friends now have children, while we have gone for appointment after appointment, endured test after test, and been put on waiting list after waiting list. Our conversations about our future have slipped from 'when we have children' to 'if we have children.'
When you are dealing with infertility, Christmas, New Year, birthdays and anniversaries become endowed with a new significance: they remind you that another twelve months have gone by, but you are still no closer to fulfilling your dream of becoming a parent.
This last day of 2007 thus seems an appropriate time for taking stock. Looking back over the past year, I realise how much of my energy has gone into trying - and failing - to conceive a child. I never knew how exhausting infertility could be - and here I don't just mean the countless trips backwards & forwards from the clinic, or else the invasive and painful procedures which many of us have to endure in order to have a child, but also the endless cycle of hope and disappointment that one lives through on a monthly basis.
If infertility has taught me one thing, it is that, even with the best will in the world, you cannot always achieve what you set out to do. This year, I won't be making any new year's resolutions. Instead, I will hope...
I will hope that this cycle of IVF takes us one step closer to our dream of having a baby.
And I will hope that all of you out there who are longing for exactly the same thing will finally get that BFP.
When you are dealing with infertility, Christmas, New Year, birthdays and anniversaries become endowed with a new significance: they remind you that another twelve months have gone by, but you are still no closer to fulfilling your dream of becoming a parent.
This last day of 2007 thus seems an appropriate time for taking stock. Looking back over the past year, I realise how much of my energy has gone into trying - and failing - to conceive a child. I never knew how exhausting infertility could be - and here I don't just mean the countless trips backwards & forwards from the clinic, or else the invasive and painful procedures which many of us have to endure in order to have a child, but also the endless cycle of hope and disappointment that one lives through on a monthly basis.
If infertility has taught me one thing, it is that, even with the best will in the world, you cannot always achieve what you set out to do. This year, I won't be making any new year's resolutions. Instead, I will hope...
I will hope that this cycle of IVF takes us one step closer to our dream of having a baby.
And I will hope that all of you out there who are longing for exactly the same thing will finally get that BFP.
Thursday, 22 November 2007
1 in 6?
Sometimes I wonder: where are all the other one in six couples who have difficulty in conceiving? When everyone around you seems to be reproducing effortlessly, it's difficult not to think that you're the only ones going through all this. But then last night, we went to an information evening hosted by the unit where we're going for treatment, and suddenly we were surrounded by other infertiles - a whole lecture theatre full of them, in fact. Like us, all of the other couples there were pinning their hopes and dreams on the three figures who were there to talk us through a typical IVF cycle. My god, the air in that room was thick and heavy with heartbreak.
The lights went down, and the entire procedure flashed before my eyes in a series of bullet points and diagrams. And I had to stop myself from holding up my hand and saying, 'Excuse me, but I think there's been a mistake. I don't really think we're supposed to be here. This isn't the way we'd planned on conceiving a child.'
The lights went down, and the entire procedure flashed before my eyes in a series of bullet points and diagrams. And I had to stop myself from holding up my hand and saying, 'Excuse me, but I think there's been a mistake. I don't really think we're supposed to be here. This isn't the way we'd planned on conceiving a child.'
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
A blogging hiatus
When I started this blog, I was thinking a lot about infertility, and wanted to create a space where I could explore those feelings. But then I realised that, slowly and insidiously, it was taking over my life. So much of my energy was going into trying, and wishing, and hoping for a baby. My sense of self was becoming more and more bound up with my failure to conceive.
And so I decided to take a break from it all - the charting, the endless monthly cycles of hope and disappointment. I tried to push it to the back of my mind, and get on with other things - teaching and writing. I decided to stop Trying, and have sex for recreational, rather than purely procreational, purposes. Maybe other people were right - if I could relax a little more, it might 'just happen.'
But then I realised that it doesn't work like that. Once infertility has you in its clutches, it doesn't just let you go. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of not thinking about it, but then it crept up on me in the supermarket. In the queue for the checkout, a baby girl looked at me and smiled, and suddenly the grief, the anger and the futility of it all hit me again, square in the guts. And that's when I realised - this isn't going to go away.
And so I decided to take a break from it all - the charting, the endless monthly cycles of hope and disappointment. I tried to push it to the back of my mind, and get on with other things - teaching and writing. I decided to stop Trying, and have sex for recreational, rather than purely procreational, purposes. Maybe other people were right - if I could relax a little more, it might 'just happen.'
But then I realised that it doesn't work like that. Once infertility has you in its clutches, it doesn't just let you go. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of not thinking about it, but then it crept up on me in the supermarket. In the queue for the checkout, a baby girl looked at me and smiled, and suddenly the grief, the anger and the futility of it all hit me again, square in the guts. And that's when I realised - this isn't going to go away.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Other people's news
We had friends to stay over the weekend. They arrived early, so we were still frantically stashing things in the cupboard under the stairs in the vain hope of making the house seem bigger/tidier. After Mr H and his friend M had had one of those pointless male conversations about which route they had taken - the A1 or the M1 - M & P looked at each other expectantly. 'You tell them.' 'No, you tell them.' I've been in this situation enough times to know what is coming, and so I begin trying to arrange my features into what I hope is an expression of pleased excitement, for yes - M & P have some news to tell us; they are going to have a baby. Of course I am happy for them, but there is a part of me that thinks, 'why can't we have our own announcement to make? why did this have to happen to us?'
I manage not to cry in front of M & P, but save my tears for bedtime, when it seems that a long, empty and childless future stretches out before me. Perhaps we will find a way of coming to terms with not having children - I will focus on my career; I may even write the novel that has been rattling around the back of my mind all the time I've been supposed to be writing up my PhD. But then another image flashes into my mind - we will be invited to other people's children's birthday parties, which will serve as a constant reminder to us of what we could have had, and my plans for a childfree future collapse around me. 'Everyone we know is having babies,' I wail. 'We're going to be the only ones without a child. People will invite us to their kid's parties just to feel sorry for us.'
At this point, Mr H kindly points out to me that not everyone we know is pregnant. He goes on to list every single one of our acquaintances who does not have a baby.
I do love him, but there are times when I want to smack him.
I manage not to cry in front of M & P, but save my tears for bedtime, when it seems that a long, empty and childless future stretches out before me. Perhaps we will find a way of coming to terms with not having children - I will focus on my career; I may even write the novel that has been rattling around the back of my mind all the time I've been supposed to be writing up my PhD. But then another image flashes into my mind - we will be invited to other people's children's birthday parties, which will serve as a constant reminder to us of what we could have had, and my plans for a childfree future collapse around me. 'Everyone we know is having babies,' I wail. 'We're going to be the only ones without a child. People will invite us to their kid's parties just to feel sorry for us.'
At this point, Mr H kindly points out to me that not everyone we know is pregnant. He goes on to list every single one of our acquaintances who does not have a baby.
I do love him, but there are times when I want to smack him.
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