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 random musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random musings. 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.
Monday, 23 June 2008
Halving it all?
Thanks to Bitch PhD, I came across an interesting article in the The New York Times about shared parenting.
In parts, the article makes for depressing reading. It cites some recent research carried out by the University of Wisconsin, which revealed that the average wife does 31 hours of housework a week while the average husband does 14 - a ratio of slightly more than two to one. As one academic interviewed for the article points out, this ratio has not altered substantially over the past ninety years: back in the days when women had to tend fires and put clothes through the wringer and then hang them outside to dry, the average woman spent 50 hours a week on housework, and the average man 20.
The article set me thinking about the division of labour within my own marriage. Our current lifestyle is by and large enabled by two things: Mr H's salary, and my unpaid domestic labour. Although I do some part-time teaching when the opportunity arises, to all intents and purposes Mr H is the sole earner. He has assumed full responsibility for covering all our monthly outgoings while I am writing up my PhD. Looking at other postgraduate students, many of whom are struggling to hold down several part-time jobs while also trying to write up, I realise how lucky this makes me.
In return, I do the bulk of the shopping, cooking, cleaning and laundry. Sometimes I resent this - particularly at weekends, when he is sitting in the living room watching the television, while I am scrubbing the bathroom or changing the bed linen. Once I am able to take on more regular paid work and am contributing to the household finances, the situation will have to change. Either we will have to divide the chores more equally, or we will have to use some of that extra income to pay for extra help around the home.
But how would this change if we were to have a child? For the purposes of the University of Wisconsin survey, housework was defined as things like cooking, cleaning, yardwork and home repairs. Child care was an entirely separate category: where the housework ratio was two to one, the wife-to-husband ratio for child care in the United States turned out to be closer to five to one.
For the NYT article, author Lisa Belkin interviewed a number of couples who were determined to buck the trend, and to take equal responsibility both for parenting and for domestic chores. What I took from the article was just how hard they had to work to achieve this - not because of any ingrained resistance on the part of either partner - but because of a marked reluctance by employers to afford their employees, whether men or women, the right to flexible working.
One of the couples interviewed said that, before having children, they had decided to get a dog. The husband explained that it was a kind of 'test' to see how willing they both were to change their schedules to accommodate this additional responsibility: "we would have to decide who would take the dog out at night, who would walk her early in the morning, who could work with vomit.”
Although Mr H is very good at dealing with vomit, the cat remains by and large my responsibility: I am the one who remembers to buy more cat food, who knows when her vaccinations are due, who arranges to take her to the vet. Interestingly, the cat herself appears to perceive me as her primary care giver: when she decides at 5 o'clock in the morning that it is in fact time for breakfast, it is me who is awoken by a polite but persistent paw tapping at my face!
Would this also be the case if we were to have children? I think that both of us would have to work very hard to ensure that it did not become so. As Bitch PhD points out, if equal parenting is going to work, both parents have to want it equally. On this issue at least, "feminism needs men, which means we *all* have to get over our gender essentialism."
Both Mr H and I are the products of very traditionally gendered relationships: both of our fathers were the sole earners, while our mothers assumed full responsibility for the home and for childcare. For better or worse, that remains our model of a successful marriage. There are moments when - in spite of all our intentions - we tend to fall back upon stereotypical ideas of what constitutes "men's work" and "women's work": he takes out the rubbish and checks the oil in the car, while I do the laundry (I do, however, draw the line at ironing his work shirts!). The knack is, I think, to be aware of what kind of assumptions underlie these decisions, and to continue striving towards a relationship in which we are both equal partners and peers - even if this is sometimes easier said than done.
In parts, the article makes for depressing reading. It cites some recent research carried out by the University of Wisconsin, which revealed that the average wife does 31 hours of housework a week while the average husband does 14 - a ratio of slightly more than two to one. As one academic interviewed for the article points out, this ratio has not altered substantially over the past ninety years: back in the days when women had to tend fires and put clothes through the wringer and then hang them outside to dry, the average woman spent 50 hours a week on housework, and the average man 20.
The article set me thinking about the division of labour within my own marriage. Our current lifestyle is by and large enabled by two things: Mr H's salary, and my unpaid domestic labour. Although I do some part-time teaching when the opportunity arises, to all intents and purposes Mr H is the sole earner. He has assumed full responsibility for covering all our monthly outgoings while I am writing up my PhD. Looking at other postgraduate students, many of whom are struggling to hold down several part-time jobs while also trying to write up, I realise how lucky this makes me.
In return, I do the bulk of the shopping, cooking, cleaning and laundry. Sometimes I resent this - particularly at weekends, when he is sitting in the living room watching the television, while I am scrubbing the bathroom or changing the bed linen. Once I am able to take on more regular paid work and am contributing to the household finances, the situation will have to change. Either we will have to divide the chores more equally, or we will have to use some of that extra income to pay for extra help around the home.
But how would this change if we were to have a child? For the purposes of the University of Wisconsin survey, housework was defined as things like cooking, cleaning, yardwork and home repairs. Child care was an entirely separate category: where the housework ratio was two to one, the wife-to-husband ratio for child care in the United States turned out to be closer to five to one.
For the NYT article, author Lisa Belkin interviewed a number of couples who were determined to buck the trend, and to take equal responsibility both for parenting and for domestic chores. What I took from the article was just how hard they had to work to achieve this - not because of any ingrained resistance on the part of either partner - but because of a marked reluctance by employers to afford their employees, whether men or women, the right to flexible working.
One of the couples interviewed said that, before having children, they had decided to get a dog. The husband explained that it was a kind of 'test' to see how willing they both were to change their schedules to accommodate this additional responsibility: "we would have to decide who would take the dog out at night, who would walk her early in the morning, who could work with vomit.”
Although Mr H is very good at dealing with vomit, the cat remains by and large my responsibility: I am the one who remembers to buy more cat food, who knows when her vaccinations are due, who arranges to take her to the vet. Interestingly, the cat herself appears to perceive me as her primary care giver: when she decides at 5 o'clock in the morning that it is in fact time for breakfast, it is me who is awoken by a polite but persistent paw tapping at my face!
Would this also be the case if we were to have children? I think that both of us would have to work very hard to ensure that it did not become so. As Bitch PhD points out, if equal parenting is going to work, both parents have to want it equally. On this issue at least, "feminism needs men, which means we *all* have to get over our gender essentialism."
Both Mr H and I are the products of very traditionally gendered relationships: both of our fathers were the sole earners, while our mothers assumed full responsibility for the home and for childcare. For better or worse, that remains our model of a successful marriage. There are moments when - in spite of all our intentions - we tend to fall back upon stereotypical ideas of what constitutes "men's work" and "women's work": he takes out the rubbish and checks the oil in the car, while I do the laundry (I do, however, draw the line at ironing his work shirts!). The knack is, I think, to be aware of what kind of assumptions underlie these decisions, and to continue striving towards a relationship in which we are both equal partners and peers - even if this is sometimes easier said than done.
Friday, 23 May 2008
In which Ms Heathen lets off steam
Sometimes I wonder, is this really any sort of world to bring a child into?
A Very Nice Man has just been to mend my cooker. 'Don't worry,' he exclaimed, peering into the nether regions of the oven. 'I know exactly what the problem is. I'll have you up and running again in no time.' He explained that the element had gone. 'I see this all the time. How long have you had the oven for?'
'Three years,' I replied.
'That's about the length of time I would have expected,' he answered. 'Manufacturers no longer build these things to last; instead they hope that, when they do break, you'll just go out and buy another one.'
Since he left, I have been thinking about this a lot. Apparently, we now live in such a disposable culture that, when something breaks, we simply replace it with a newer model. But what happens to everything we throw out? We live on an extremely small island; all this rubbish has to go somewhere. All morning, I have been haunted by visions of vast stacks of discarded white goods being piled up in fields across the country. If we do have a child, will it grow up to consider itself fortunate if it finds an abandoned chest freezer to live in?
The ice caps are melting, the polar bears are drowning, and yet we carry on consuming. The way in which we lead our lives really does seem to me fundamentally unsustainable. It is at moments like this when I am sorely tempted to decamp to a small holding somewhere in the wilds of Wales, where I can grow my own vegetables and spin my own yarn...
A Very Nice Man has just been to mend my cooker. 'Don't worry,' he exclaimed, peering into the nether regions of the oven. 'I know exactly what the problem is. I'll have you up and running again in no time.' He explained that the element had gone. 'I see this all the time. How long have you had the oven for?'
'Three years,' I replied.
'That's about the length of time I would have expected,' he answered. 'Manufacturers no longer build these things to last; instead they hope that, when they do break, you'll just go out and buy another one.'
Since he left, I have been thinking about this a lot. Apparently, we now live in such a disposable culture that, when something breaks, we simply replace it with a newer model. But what happens to everything we throw out? We live on an extremely small island; all this rubbish has to go somewhere. All morning, I have been haunted by visions of vast stacks of discarded white goods being piled up in fields across the country. If we do have a child, will it grow up to consider itself fortunate if it finds an abandoned chest freezer to live in?
The ice caps are melting, the polar bears are drowning, and yet we carry on consuming. The way in which we lead our lives really does seem to me fundamentally unsustainable. It is at moments like this when I am sorely tempted to decamp to a small holding somewhere in the wilds of Wales, where I can grow my own vegetables and spin my own yarn...
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!
Monday, 12 May 2008
Forbidden fruits
Hidden down a quiet side street, yet only five minutes' walk from the Minster, lies one of York's best-kept secrets: a tiny, but incredibly good, delicatessen that specialises in Italian artisan food. If you venture right to the very back of the shop, you will discover a small terrace, where they serve simple food such as salads and crostini, all made with the very best of ingredients.
We went there for lunch on Saturday, and ordered a selection of cheeses and cured meats from their tasting menu. They brought us ruffled slices of prosciutto and bresaola, a hunk of wild boar pate, a mild yet unbelievably creamy goat's cheese, another, rinded soft cheese that oozed invitingly across the plate, a particularly pungent blue cheese, olives, preserved artichokes, sundried tomatoes, and a basket of wonderfully fresh bread.
They also serve a wide selection of wines by the glass, and are more than happy to offer recommendations based on your own individual preferences: Mr H, who likes big, heavy, full-bodied reds, had a glass of Barolo, while I chose a Sangiovese. One of the benefits of not drinking regularly, we decided, was that the occasional glass of wine feels like far more of a treat.
As we sat out in the sunshine, sipping our glasses of wine and talking about Mr H's new job, the dark cloud of infertility lifted - just for a moment, I felt almost like a normal person again. And so, without agonising about it too much, I ordered a double espresso.
We went there for lunch on Saturday, and ordered a selection of cheeses and cured meats from their tasting menu. They brought us ruffled slices of prosciutto and bresaola, a hunk of wild boar pate, a mild yet unbelievably creamy goat's cheese, another, rinded soft cheese that oozed invitingly across the plate, a particularly pungent blue cheese, olives, preserved artichokes, sundried tomatoes, and a basket of wonderfully fresh bread.
They also serve a wide selection of wines by the glass, and are more than happy to offer recommendations based on your own individual preferences: Mr H, who likes big, heavy, full-bodied reds, had a glass of Barolo, while I chose a Sangiovese. One of the benefits of not drinking regularly, we decided, was that the occasional glass of wine feels like far more of a treat.
As we sat out in the sunshine, sipping our glasses of wine and talking about Mr H's new job, the dark cloud of infertility lifted - just for a moment, I felt almost like a normal person again. And so, without agonising about it too much, I ordered a double espresso.
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
In which Ms Heathen feels sorry for herself (it may well be the meno.pur talking)
I am now on Day 4 of the meno.pur injections, Mr H is still in Rome, and the cat is ill.
I started the nafa.relin nasal spray on Saturday, and the meno.pur injections on Sunday. Because I am taking such a high dose of the meno.pur, the nurse at the Great Big Infertility Clinic recommended that I do two separate injections - each with three vials of powder diluted in one ampoule of solvent. If I did a single injection containing all six vials of powder, I ran the risk of boils at the injection site, she explained. Superstitiously, I aim one injection in the general direction of each ovary. The increased dose does seem to be bringing with it increased side effects - nausea, an angry rash at the injection site, and tenderness in my abdomen (not ovulation pain, more a feeling of soreness), but only time will tell if it also results in more follicles.
Mr H phoned yesterday afternoon to say that the new firm was asking him to commit for a minimum of three years. How did I feel about that? I explained once again that I was concerned about how it would affect our relationship, particularly our plans for a family. He said that he would talk things over again with his new boss. When he rang back again, he said that he had told his boss that we were currently undergoing fertility treatment, and that we were very much hoping to have a baby. His boss had reassured him that family was the most important thing, and that, providing he gave them notice, his schedule could be adjusted to fit around treatments.
As several of you said in your comments, a potential move down south may well bring new opportunities. I've felt for some time that, once I've submitted my thesis, I would like to make a clean break from the Shit Hot Critical Theory Department. The Shit Hot Critical Theory Department seems to be full of recently qualified PhDs, who hang around like dogs at dinner time fighting over any scraps of teaching that are handed out, hoping against hope that they will be offered a permanent contract. The longer they stay, the more bitter they become. I'd far rather submit, and move on to somewhere where I may be seen as an academic in my own right, rather than 'Professor So-and-So's student'. A move down south would take me closer not only to a number of other universities, but also to the major museums and galleries, which would open up a whole range of new career opportunities. As shinejil says, it would also mean that I could look for a more responsive clinic. I also quite liked Luna's suggestion that I could possibly accompany Mr H on some of his trips so that we can keep trying naturally - but knowing my luck, I wouldn't get to go to Paris or Rome, but would probably end up trying to plan a romantic tryst in a Travel Lodge somewhere near Milton Keynes!
The decision has now been made, for better or worse: we talked it through again yesterday afternoon, and came to the conclusion that Mr H should take the job. He has now signed the contract, and is flying home later this afternoon.
Amongst everything else, the cat is ill. She seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time in her litter box, but doesn't appear to be peeing. I'm assuming that she may have a urinary infection, and so have booked an appointment at the vet's later on today. She is currently asleep in a small patch of sun at the end of the bed, unaware of the trauma that awaits!
I started the nafa.relin nasal spray on Saturday, and the meno.pur injections on Sunday. Because I am taking such a high dose of the meno.pur, the nurse at the Great Big Infertility Clinic recommended that I do two separate injections - each with three vials of powder diluted in one ampoule of solvent. If I did a single injection containing all six vials of powder, I ran the risk of boils at the injection site, she explained. Superstitiously, I aim one injection in the general direction of each ovary. The increased dose does seem to be bringing with it increased side effects - nausea, an angry rash at the injection site, and tenderness in my abdomen (not ovulation pain, more a feeling of soreness), but only time will tell if it also results in more follicles.
Mr H phoned yesterday afternoon to say that the new firm was asking him to commit for a minimum of three years. How did I feel about that? I explained once again that I was concerned about how it would affect our relationship, particularly our plans for a family. He said that he would talk things over again with his new boss. When he rang back again, he said that he had told his boss that we were currently undergoing fertility treatment, and that we were very much hoping to have a baby. His boss had reassured him that family was the most important thing, and that, providing he gave them notice, his schedule could be adjusted to fit around treatments.
As several of you said in your comments, a potential move down south may well bring new opportunities. I've felt for some time that, once I've submitted my thesis, I would like to make a clean break from the Shit Hot Critical Theory Department. The Shit Hot Critical Theory Department seems to be full of recently qualified PhDs, who hang around like dogs at dinner time fighting over any scraps of teaching that are handed out, hoping against hope that they will be offered a permanent contract. The longer they stay, the more bitter they become. I'd far rather submit, and move on to somewhere where I may be seen as an academic in my own right, rather than 'Professor So-and-So's student'. A move down south would take me closer not only to a number of other universities, but also to the major museums and galleries, which would open up a whole range of new career opportunities. As shinejil says, it would also mean that I could look for a more responsive clinic. I also quite liked Luna's suggestion that I could possibly accompany Mr H on some of his trips so that we can keep trying naturally - but knowing my luck, I wouldn't get to go to Paris or Rome, but would probably end up trying to plan a romantic tryst in a Travel Lodge somewhere near Milton Keynes!
The decision has now been made, for better or worse: we talked it through again yesterday afternoon, and came to the conclusion that Mr H should take the job. He has now signed the contract, and is flying home later this afternoon.
Amongst everything else, the cat is ill. She seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time in her litter box, but doesn't appear to be peeing. I'm assuming that she may have a urinary infection, and so have booked an appointment at the vet's later on today. She is currently asleep in a small patch of sun at the end of the bed, unaware of the trauma that awaits!
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.
Sunday, 24 February 2008
Bloggering off!
For much of the past week, York has been enveloped in a fog of Dickensian density - and so we are fleeing south to warmer climes for a week's holiday.
We've managed to get a cheap flight to Malaga, and from there plan to make our way to Granada.
Sunshine and tapas here we come!
We've managed to get a cheap flight to Malaga, and from there plan to make our way to Granada.
Sunshine and tapas here we come!
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Does my bum look big in this?
Yesterday, I called in at the supermarket. In addition to a vast array of highly processed food stuffs, it also sells a range of clothing for both children and adults. It currently has in stock some long sleeved tops designed for little girls of age 5 and under. Emblazoned across the front of these tops, in pink glittery writing, is the question 'does my bum look big in this?'
Do we really need to instil body consciousness in children so young? Or is that in fact the way the beauty/diet industry works - by catching them at such a tender age? By the time our girl children start school, have they already learnt to measure their own bodies against the airbrushed images offered up to them by an ever-more celebrity obsessed culture? Do they even then feel inadequate in comparison?
Do we really need to instil body consciousness in children so young? Or is that in fact the way the beauty/diet industry works - by catching them at such a tender age? By the time our girl children start school, have they already learnt to measure their own bodies against the airbrushed images offered up to them by an ever-more celebrity obsessed culture? Do they even then feel inadequate in comparison?
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Tagged!
The lovely Luna over at Life From Here (who has just won a well-deserved E for Excellence Award) has challenged me to tell you a few random facts about myself. The rules are as follows:
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules.
3. Share 6 non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
4. Tag at least 3 people.
5. Make sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting on what you did.
So, here goes:
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules.
3. Share 6 non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
4. Tag at least 3 people.
5. Make sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting on what you did.
So, here goes:
- I am extremely allergic to horses (think full-on asthma attack!). In adult life, this is not a major problem; I simply give them a wide berth. As a child, however, I took it very badly. I read every single one of the Jill of the Gymkhana books, and bitterly regretted the fact that I too could not be off having jolly pony-related adventures.
- In the last year of my undergraduate degree, I applied to go to law school. I was offered a place, but then at the last minute I decided to do an MA in Feminism & the Visual Arts instead. I have never regretted not pursuing a career in the legal profession.
- I have ridiculously small feet (a UK size 2.5, continental size 35). This means I struggle to find shoes that fit me. People tell me that I am fortunate because I can buy cheaper, children's trainers. But I do not always want to wear kids' shoes. Sometimes, I want to wear impractical, high heeled, strappy evening sandals.
- According to Mr H, I compensate for not being able to find shoes that fit by buying Too Many Handbags. Mr H and I have very different ideas about what constitutes Too Many Handbags. Mr H does not understand that different occasions may require different handbags; one handbag should, he thinks, cover all eventualities.
- My life increasingly revolves around what's for dinner. I cannot walk by a restaurant without stopping to read the menu; I always like to choose what I would have if we were to eat there. I also love to leaf through recipe books and plan what I could hypothetically make to eat. In my mind, I plan fancy dinners which are far more elaborate than anything I would normally cook.
- I am a nervous flier. As soon as I get on board, I read the safety card. I also always check that my life jacket is in fact under my seat where it's supposed to be. Once up in the air, I like to remain in my seat, gripping the armrests, with my seatbelt firmly fastened. If at all possible, I will avoid going to the toilet during the flight - I am frightened that I may somehow get sucked out of the plane, or that we will crash while I'm in the loo, and that my body will be found in a tree, forever frozen in the act of hitching my knickers up (my anxieties in this last respect are not helped by Mr H, who likes to reassure me that, were the plane to plummet from the sky, the chances are that the sudden loss of pressure would cause my body to disintegrate before hitting the ground).
This particular meme does seem to have done the rounds quite thoroughly, but I'm going to tag Lisa at Infertile Ground, Malloryn at Quest for a Lifetime and the anonymous lady over at My Baby Quest, in the hopes that they will be up for the challenge.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Give us this day our daily bread (but no sodium stearoyl-2-lactylate)
I read a lot. Weighty academic tomes. Impenetrable critical theory. Students' essays. Other people's blogs. Recipe books. The occasional magazine. Contemporary fiction. I have a particular weakness for vast, sprawling, nineteenth-century novels and for biographies of obscure women modernists.
When there is no other printed material to hand, I will even read the small print on the backs of packets and jars. And so it was that I discovered that the loaf of bread I bought from the supermarket last week contained stoneground wholemeal wheat flour, water, yeast and salt. No surprises so far, then (although I would not necessarily expect a single slice of bread to contain nearly 1 gram of salt).
But then I continued to read the list of ingredients. In addition to the above, my '100% wholemeal, farmhouse loaf' also contained mono- and diacetyl tartaric esters, sodium stearoyl-2-lactylate, calcium suphate and calcium propionate.
I do not know what any of the above are, but they sound like they belong in a chemistry lab, and not in a loaf of bread - 'farmhouse batch' or not.
Like many people we try to live sustainably. Wherever possible I buy locally produced, seasonal produce; bread is one of the few 'ready made', processed foods I still purchase from the supermarket.
The sodium stearoyl-2-lactylate is, however, the Last Straw. I have gone online and ordered a bread maker. From now on, I will bake my own bread - that way, I can be sure of what has gone in it.
And OK, I admit it - it did also cross my mind that the nasty chemicals we've been consuming along with our daily bread may be responsible for both Mr H's wonky sperm and my recalcitrant ovaries. There is a small part of me that is hoping cutting them out may obviate the need for further medical intervention!
When there is no other printed material to hand, I will even read the small print on the backs of packets and jars. And so it was that I discovered that the loaf of bread I bought from the supermarket last week contained stoneground wholemeal wheat flour, water, yeast and salt. No surprises so far, then (although I would not necessarily expect a single slice of bread to contain nearly 1 gram of salt).
But then I continued to read the list of ingredients. In addition to the above, my '100% wholemeal, farmhouse loaf' also contained mono- and diacetyl tartaric esters, sodium stearoyl-2-lactylate, calcium suphate and calcium propionate.
I do not know what any of the above are, but they sound like they belong in a chemistry lab, and not in a loaf of bread - 'farmhouse batch' or not.
Like many people we try to live sustainably. Wherever possible I buy locally produced, seasonal produce; bread is one of the few 'ready made', processed foods I still purchase from the supermarket.
The sodium stearoyl-2-lactylate is, however, the Last Straw. I have gone online and ordered a bread maker. From now on, I will bake my own bread - that way, I can be sure of what has gone in it.
And OK, I admit it - it did also cross my mind that the nasty chemicals we've been consuming along with our daily bread may be responsible for both Mr H's wonky sperm and my recalcitrant ovaries. There is a small part of me that is hoping cutting them out may obviate the need for further medical intervention!
Friday, 28 December 2007
The devil makes work for idle hands
Mr H has taken the period between Christmas and New Year off work. He has decided to take this opportunity to re-build our home PC, and to upgrade to Windows Vista.
When I work, I surround myself with pieces of paper - previous drafts of chapters, photocopied articles - as well as great tottering stacks of books. I look at my desk, and see a carefully ordered work in progress. Mr H looks at my desk, and sees a mess, which needs to be cleared out of the way before he can begin to check his email or do anything else on the computer.
The Great Upgrade has been going on for several days, and is apparently now pretty much complete. The PhD has survived intact, and I now have email again. Chapter Three, however, is still randomly piled up in a corner of my study.
All this does explain why I have not had a chance to thank all those who took the time to stop by and wish me luck for our first appointment. I really do appreciate all your kind words of support: somehow, it is easier knowing that I am not the first person to go through this process.
When I work, I surround myself with pieces of paper - previous drafts of chapters, photocopied articles - as well as great tottering stacks of books. I look at my desk, and see a carefully ordered work in progress. Mr H looks at my desk, and sees a mess, which needs to be cleared out of the way before he can begin to check his email or do anything else on the computer.
The Great Upgrade has been going on for several days, and is apparently now pretty much complete. The PhD has survived intact, and I now have email again. Chapter Three, however, is still randomly piled up in a corner of my study.
All this does explain why I have not had a chance to thank all those who took the time to stop by and wish me luck for our first appointment. I really do appreciate all your kind words of support: somehow, it is easier knowing that I am not the first person to go through this process.
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Literary confessions & opening lines
In one of David Lodge's comic novels about academia, a group of English literature professors play a parlour game in which they each have to name a book which they really should have read, but haven't. As Lodge recognises, academics cannot resist a bit of professional one-upmanship, and so they are all only too ready to admit to the gaps in their literary knowledge. The game culminates in one of them confessing that he has never read Hamlet and, if my memory serves me correctly, losing his job as a result.
Because I blog anonymously (Ms Heathen is not in fact my real name, nor is it to be read as a statement about my religious beliefs), I can here confess with impunity that I have never in my life read a word of Derrida. I am writing up my PhD in a department that has a formidable reputation when it comes to critical theory, and this would be considered a scandalous oversight by many of my peers. I am sure that one day I will be caught out: I will be asked a tricky question about deconstruction at a graduate seminar, and my ignorance will be exposed for all to see.
I have also never read anything by any of the great Russian novelists. It was with this in mind that last week I bought a copy of Anna Karenina (Derrida, on the other hand, I think I can manage without).
I was hooked from the moment I read the opening line:
"All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
Along with Gertrude Stein's "rose is a rose is a rose is a rose", this is one of the sentences I would most like to have written. On its own, it stands as a concise yet profound statement on the intricate dynamics of our relationships with those to whom we are inextricably tied by our upbringing. As the first sentence of a novel, it introduces a theme and opens up a world for me. Already I know that, whatever unhappy family I am to encounter between the pages of this novel, it will be more interesting than any conventionally happy family.
Because I blog anonymously (Ms Heathen is not in fact my real name, nor is it to be read as a statement about my religious beliefs), I can here confess with impunity that I have never in my life read a word of Derrida. I am writing up my PhD in a department that has a formidable reputation when it comes to critical theory, and this would be considered a scandalous oversight by many of my peers. I am sure that one day I will be caught out: I will be asked a tricky question about deconstruction at a graduate seminar, and my ignorance will be exposed for all to see.
I have also never read anything by any of the great Russian novelists. It was with this in mind that last week I bought a copy of Anna Karenina (Derrida, on the other hand, I think I can manage without).
I was hooked from the moment I read the opening line:
"All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
Along with Gertrude Stein's "rose is a rose is a rose is a rose", this is one of the sentences I would most like to have written. On its own, it stands as a concise yet profound statement on the intricate dynamics of our relationships with those to whom we are inextricably tied by our upbringing. As the first sentence of a novel, it introduces a theme and opens up a world for me. Already I know that, whatever unhappy family I am to encounter between the pages of this novel, it will be more interesting than any conventionally happy family.
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Countdown to Christmas
Christmas is a difficult time for those struggling with infertility - somehow it reminds you of all the things you can't have. A while ago, Loribeth had a great post which neatly captured all poignancy of a Christmas without children, which I went back and read as I began to think about our own plans for the holiday season.
Over the years, Mr H and I have created our own Christmas routine. We try not to get caught up in the relentless consumerism that appears to grip the entire country at this time of year. Going round the supermarket yesterday, I was faintly sickened by the excess of it all - the shelves were groaning with processed, over-packaged, fat-laden, Christmas-themed goodies (stilton & cranberry flavoured crisp anyone, or perhaps a white chocolate topped mince pie?). People were already beginning to stockpile loaves of bread, and a couple were having a bitter exchange of words next to the packets of bread sauce mix. Looking around at the overflowing trolleys in the queues for the checkouts, I couldn't help but wonder: how much of this food will go uneaten into landfill sites when people clear out their fridges and cupboards in the new year?
We don't bother with turkey and all the trimmings; for the last couple of years, we have instead had a shellfish platter from the fabulous Ramus Seafood Emporium. We generally treat ourselves to a bottle of champagne, or else a really good dry white wine, and buy each other one small gift each. We spend most of the day lazing in front of an open fire, reading, chatting or watching the television (if I have my way, we will also play board games, although Mr H is not as keen as I am!) If the weather is nice, we may go for a walk in the afternoon.
This year, however, I am counting down to Christmas for a very different reason: our Day 21 appointment is scheduled for 8.20am on Christmas Eve.
Over the years, Mr H and I have created our own Christmas routine. We try not to get caught up in the relentless consumerism that appears to grip the entire country at this time of year. Going round the supermarket yesterday, I was faintly sickened by the excess of it all - the shelves were groaning with processed, over-packaged, fat-laden, Christmas-themed goodies (stilton & cranberry flavoured crisp anyone, or perhaps a white chocolate topped mince pie?). People were already beginning to stockpile loaves of bread, and a couple were having a bitter exchange of words next to the packets of bread sauce mix. Looking around at the overflowing trolleys in the queues for the checkouts, I couldn't help but wonder: how much of this food will go uneaten into landfill sites when people clear out their fridges and cupboards in the new year?
We don't bother with turkey and all the trimmings; for the last couple of years, we have instead had a shellfish platter from the fabulous Ramus Seafood Emporium. We generally treat ourselves to a bottle of champagne, or else a really good dry white wine, and buy each other one small gift each. We spend most of the day lazing in front of an open fire, reading, chatting or watching the television (if I have my way, we will also play board games, although Mr H is not as keen as I am!) If the weather is nice, we may go for a walk in the afternoon.
This year, however, I am counting down to Christmas for a very different reason: our Day 21 appointment is scheduled for 8.20am on Christmas Eve.
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
Dashing about...
Over the course of the past ten days, I have:
1. Driven from York to London.
2. Coped with my mother-in-law for three days (coping with Mr H's mother in fact warrants a separate post in its own right, or even a separate blog - possibly entitled 'You'll never believe what my mother-in-law has just said').
3. Been asked a series of intrusive and insensitive questions about our forthcoming fertility treatment by Mr H's friends, who are henceforth to be known (with a nod to Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones's Diary) as 'the smug fertiles'.
4. Held & admired the smug fertiles' six month old baby.
5. Dealt with nos. 2, 3 & 4 without losing my temper or crying.
6. Taken a group of 15 students around the Louise Bourgeois show at Tate Modern.
7. Driven back to York from London.
8. Spent a day battling around the shops in York looking for something suitable to wear to a funeral.
9. Spent £50 on a black jacket I didn't particularly want, and couldn't particularly afford.
10. Been awarded a £30 parking ticket (suddenly, that jacket got even more expensive).
11. Driven from York to Shropshire in order to attend a family funeral.
12. Driven back from Shropshire to York.
13. Prepared for and taught a four hour class on women's art practice in the 1960s & 70s.
In the midst of all this dashing about from one end of the country to another, I have lain awake at night, my mind racing with all the things I have to do and places I have to be, my body tense with stress. I always thought that I would reach some magic place where I felt physically & emotionally ready to undertake IVF. Instead, I'm going into it exhausted from a term's teaching, and worried about the fact that I have been too busy teaching to make as much progress as I would have liked on my PhD. So now I'm lying awake at night, going over and over the possibility that, if the IVF doesn't work, it will be because I'm too stressed... and if Mr H's mother tells me once more that, maybe if I just relaxed and stopped working so hard, I would somehow magically manage to conceive, then I really will find it difficult not to tell her exactly what I think of her!
1. Driven from York to London.
2. Coped with my mother-in-law for three days (coping with Mr H's mother in fact warrants a separate post in its own right, or even a separate blog - possibly entitled 'You'll never believe what my mother-in-law has just said').
3. Been asked a series of intrusive and insensitive questions about our forthcoming fertility treatment by Mr H's friends, who are henceforth to be known (with a nod to Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones's Diary) as 'the smug fertiles'.
4. Held & admired the smug fertiles' six month old baby.
5. Dealt with nos. 2, 3 & 4 without losing my temper or crying.
6. Taken a group of 15 students around the Louise Bourgeois show at Tate Modern.
7. Driven back to York from London.
8. Spent a day battling around the shops in York looking for something suitable to wear to a funeral.
9. Spent £50 on a black jacket I didn't particularly want, and couldn't particularly afford.
10. Been awarded a £30 parking ticket (suddenly, that jacket got even more expensive).
11. Driven from York to Shropshire in order to attend a family funeral.
12. Driven back from Shropshire to York.
13. Prepared for and taught a four hour class on women's art practice in the 1960s & 70s.
In the midst of all this dashing about from one end of the country to another, I have lain awake at night, my mind racing with all the things I have to do and places I have to be, my body tense with stress. I always thought that I would reach some magic place where I felt physically & emotionally ready to undertake IVF. Instead, I'm going into it exhausted from a term's teaching, and worried about the fact that I have been too busy teaching to make as much progress as I would have liked on my PhD. So now I'm lying awake at night, going over and over the possibility that, if the IVF doesn't work, it will be because I'm too stressed... and if Mr H's mother tells me once more that, maybe if I just relaxed and stopped working so hard, I would somehow magically manage to conceive, then I really will find it difficult not to tell her exactly what I think of her!
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