Barren Mare

The form

It's been three weeks since my GP said she would refer E. and I to the infertility clinic, and yesterday, voila, a form arrived in the mail.

I have to say, as a first impression of the people who may very well be helping us with our apparent inability to become pregnant, this form does not exactly fill me with confidence. First of all, it says that we must fill out the questionnaire, and send it back within two weeks, or they will assume we don't want the appointment. Gah! Given my pathlogical inability to buy envelopes and stamps, it may be a challenge for me to meet that deadline.

Secondly, the layout of the form itself is irritating. I'm with Tertia, forms should give you an appropriate amount of space on each line for the required information. This one is ridiculous. There is this huuuuge long line for my age (two digits, doesn't take up much space) whereas the line for my doctor's address is indented into the middle of the page, thus leaving even less room for all the detail.

Spacing concerns aside, some of questions seem a little odd. E. and I puzzled over certain items together as I read out the questions to him over the phone.

"Have you been married before, and if so, from when to when? "

"They didn't ask us that, surely?" E. said.

"They did! They ask it right here! For both of us. They also ask if we are married to each other," I told him.

"I'm not answering the first one," E. said.

"No, you have to. You have to answer all the questions, or they won't treat us!"

"But what difference does it make if I was married before?"

"I guess they want to know if you had any children with your previous wife. Sorry, your only wife. Since we are not married, you can't have a previous wife- that would imply you had a wife now. And I'm not your wife, now, am I? No, I am not. "

"Shut up. You're rambling. If they want to know whether I have any children, and with whom, then why don't they just ask that?"

"They ask that as well."

"Oh for God's sake. Just say no. To everything. No wife, no children, no previous treatment. Sperm of dubious quality. Intentions and willingness to procreate with you= v. good."

"But there's no question on the form about your intentions."

"That's what margins are for, my sweet."

I guess we have two weeks to argue about it.

The injustice of it all

Well. Since I am having a shitty time, I am gonna do what I quite often do (no, not eat floor cake, I already did that earlier) and slap myself around the head with a little perspective. I'm going to write about somebody who is having an even crappier time than me.

The court's decision in the case of Evans v Amicus makes for some interesting reading. The story, for those of you who don't like clicking links, is simple and sad. Natallie Evans, upon learning that she had pre-cancerous cells in her ovaries, and on the advice of doctors who advised that she would be rendered infertile by the chemotherapy, decided that the best chance for having a child was to freeze some embryos. Her then fiance Howard, assured her that there was " no chance" of them ever splitting up, so they decided to go ahead and fertilise those embryos with Howard's sperm for future use. So far, so good.

Except that by law here in the UK, consent must be given by both the man providing the sperm and the woman providing the eggs to allow storage and subsequent use of their embryos in IVF treatment. However, if either party withdraws their consent before the embryos have been used, the clinics must allow the embryos to perish.

You can guess where this is going, right?

Sure enough, one day Howard changes his mind, decides Natallie is not the one for him after all, and the frozen embryos...well, thanks but no thanks. Just slip out the back, Jack, make a new plan, Stan. Natallie, who by this point had her ovaries removed altogether in the course of her cancer treatment is understandably distraught at Howard's decision to renege on the deal. Thus, the court action.

Now, if you are at all interested in things legal, this case is a real hotbed of jurisprudential yumminess. There are some real emotive issues at stake here, including about the rights of a party to withdraw their initial consent to IVF treatment, the rights or lack thereof of the embryos (which in Natallie's mind are already her "babies frozen in time"). Whether the embryos can be considered "property" of one or both parties, and if so should one of them be able to make a decision which unilaterally results in the destruction of that property. Add some extra human rights discussion thrown in for good measure- and what you have here is a heady brew of a couple of guys in wigs trying to sort out what is basically just a big mess.

There are some perturbing angles. For example, in reading an article published by Natallie's lawyer, this made me pause:

A woman who conceives naturally has an absolute right of determination over the foetus but, because of her infertility, Natallie is prevented from conceiving naturally. Is she being discriminated against because the Act permits Howard to have the final say? Is she discriminated against on the grounds of disability (her infertility) when compared with women able to conceive naturally and thereby protect their embryos from the whims and wishes of their partner?

Difficult. The court said no. The logic was that in some cases, it may be the woman who has the "final say" in deciding not to proceed. How equally unjust if the law required implantation where the woman had changed her mind.

It's true that an infertile woman has all sorts of barriers and hurdles thrown in the way en route to motherhood, and it does seem completely unfair. But I think, ultimately, the court got it right on the legal points in this case. The law says that for this particular medical procedure, both parties must consent.

Whether or not that law should be revisited is a discussion for another day. My view is that on a point of principle, it simply should not be for the courts to start re-writing the legislation in "hard cases"- because that way disaster lies.

Imagine if their Lordships took it upon themselves to start denying women abortions, or forcing implantations on the unwilling because of a father's emotive plea. It would be unthinkable and in my opinion, it would be unbearable. The law, my friend, is a sharp, sharp, double edged sword.

It doesn't change the fact that this woman got a truly raw deal. Cancer. The end of a relationship. And the loss of the chance to be a mother to her genetic child. She now has less 28 days to appeal to the House of Lords, failing which the embryos will be destroyed. The prospects of success in her legal challenge do not seem good. My heart goes out to her for her loss, for the injustice of it all, which goes beyond the law.

I hope I've not bored all of you good readers with these ramblings. It's just that I feel, increasingly so, that wherever we live, we must pay attention to these issues. To decisions being made by those in power, by those who make and hold the law in their hands.

Because there but for the grace of Jesus Gay go I.

The test

A day or so ago, the lovely lobster girl was asking me when my test date would be. This got me thinking about my unsatisfactory relationship with pregnancy tests, also known as "peesticks of doom".

Firstly I should explain that I only know of their character by reputation. I have heard tales aplenty, told in hushed, bruised tones, of those who dally with tests of that ilk. There are some women who endure rejection after rejection, but still find themselves unable to resist the charms of the box, sitting so benignly on the drugstore shelf. Others hold on until they think that this time, it might be a two way street and they will get some good loving in return. But no. The test stick is unwilling to commit fully, it is holds back, only giving half of what it should. One line, instead of two.

In the entire year of trying to get pregnant, I have never tested. Not once. My peestick adventures have been limited to the equally fickle OPK, but since ovultation for me is quite regular and easy to predict, I have never really felt the need for additional tools there. I have one box of OPKs which my mother gave me last Christmas, and I have only used two.

The reasons are I don't do pregnancy tests are a mix of the mundane and the complex. Firstly, I am more than a little tighfisted about some things. I detest throwing money away for no apparent reason, and certainly not to satisfy the impertinent little itch of my control freakery that wants to know now.

Secondly, I never get past my usual number of luteal phase days, or days past ovulation. Usually around day 13, when I am beginning to entertain the notion of wandering over to the Boots the chemist for a test or three, I get my period. I've never ever gone past 14 days, not once, so there has never really been a real need.

I admit that despite my cool little Scrooge like attitude toward spending money (an attitude which mysteriously disappears when I enter Harvey Nichols), there is a constant clamouring, of wanting and needing to know . At times it roars in the face of my dispassionate analysis of how many days I should wait until it's "worth testing".

But it's precisely and primarily for that reason I hold back.

It's like that feeling when you really really like someone, and are not sure you should call after the date that went so well. You want to phone, so very badly, just to hear that voice on the other end. You know full well that by doing so, you give the game away.

So I play hard to get. I figure, why should I drop my guard and give in to the test, why should I put myself through the anticipation and courtship, only to have my advances thrown back in my face (or arguably, lower down). Why should I demonstrate what I already know- that I am weak, that I have no power in all this, that I am putty in the hands of those who would take my hard earned cash and deliver up a gigantic NO in response.

I keep hoping that one day, when I know the moment is right, the test and I will finally meet. And it will mean all the things it whispers in my ear, the things I want so badly to hear:

"Positive. Pregnant. Mother. Baby. Family. "

Tree stump

I have observed that women of child bearing age can be grouped into three separate categories.

Group A- these are the uber-fertiles. You know the type- "my husband looked at me and I fell pregnant". What is with that expression- "fell pregnant" - anyway? As if pregnancy was something you trip over, like a tree stump, whilst leaving the house to go to work or the gym. When you stand up, after your little tumble- looky here! You're pregnant!

Group B- the normal fertiles. These are women who conceive after trying for awhile. Sometimes they need a little extra behavioural modification (drink green tea, have sex even though you are not in the mood). Sometimes a slight medicinal tweakage helps too, like treatment of hypothyroidism- but they generally "achieve pregnancy" (another term I loathe) without invasive rummaging up the fanoir.

Group C- the infertiles. Women who try everything- sex every day for the month, Instead cups, hanging from chandeliers, Clomid, IUI, IVF. Repeat.

The funny thing is, it seems you are not actually restricted to one category for the whole of your life- you can theoretically transfer at anytime. But it's less likely for an infertile to suddenly become an uber-fertile. Far more likely that one day the uber-fertile forgets where she left the tree stump and consquently wanders around staring at the ground with a slightly befuddled look on her face, muttering under her breath. I can see how that would be distressing, too- infertility, at whatever stage in your reproductive life- is a pain in the ass.

I am not sure in which category I belong, because I still don't know what the problem is. My head says Group B, my heart says Group C. Maybe in fact it's somewhere in the middle. Maybe I just don't want to believe that I've been sent straight to Group C without even an audition for Group A. And maybe I don't want to be categorised at all. I'm a person, goddamn it, not a group member.

Oh, and if you see a tree stump near by, will you let me know?

Is there is or is there ain't...a baby?

Newsflash- I hate suspense. This is well documented. I'm the person who was always nagging my parents to open the presents on Christmas Eve, just because I couldn't stand not knowing anymore whether they bought me, for example, the Princess Leia doll (you know, the one with the removable donut rings in her hair).

During horror films, where the pretty student goes wandering around a darkened basement when the psycho murderer hangs out slobbering in the shadows with the big knife, you'll find me somewhere under the sofa with the cushions over my head. I don't mind the gore- I cannot take the pre-gore.

I skip ahead to the last page of mystery novels.

I frequent message boards that post spoilers to movies and TV shows I haven't seen yet.

You get the picture. It's not that I am necessarily impatient- I can wait with great stoicism for certain things- as long as I know when that thing is meant to arrive. What I cannot bear is the unknowing. If I can know, then I can imagine (falsely, of course) that this gives me some measure of control over my circumstances. Or at least it helps me get on with choosing how I want to feel about it- whether to weep in the shower, or say fuck it and have a large glass of wine.

Therefore, the infamous two week wait ( or 2ww, for those of you who are au fait with your acronyms) is to me the equivalent of an alektorophobic in a chicken coop. It's torture.

During the first nine months or so of trying, I feverishly documented every sign or symptom. Every morning at 7.05 precisely, the thermometer went in the mouth- beep beep beep. Chart, chart, chart. Spend hours on end looking at chart and comparing it to those of people who had become pregnant. Run to bathroom to see if boobs have gotten bigger. Stare at weird veins in boobs, hoping this is indicative of something. Ooh, minor twinge- implantation? Sudden craving for obscure cheese. Eat for two. Refuse to lift heavy things, i.e toilet brush-v. bad for the baby.

But not once have I even reached a point where I could justify spending money on a pregnancy test. And my tendency to worry about it obsessively has lessened- it just takes up too much energy. Now I just worry about it a lot.

So here I am again, exactly halfway through, and I want to know. I want to know now. Is there is- or is there ain't- a baby?

The Bathroom Floor

When I was a small child, my mother was quite coy about certain "facts of life". This is ironic in that she went on to become a sex therapist later in life, and embarrass me in all manner of ways by making up for her previous reticence with with regular TMI conversations.

But first she managed to mislead me about a number of key bodily functions & processes. For example, those ads that were on the TV in the 70s during the afternoon soaps for "sanitary napkins". For years she had me convinced that these were a special ladies' version of the thing you find at the dinner table. Luckily she managed to catch me one day before I managed to raid the grocery bags, open the box, and lay out the pads for the two of us (the ladies of the house).

The other thing which I found confusing was how and when babies were made. My mother hadn't gone into detail, since she no doubt thought it inappropriate for someone so young, but I had a rudimentary idea of the mechanics. She did convey the notion that it involved a man & a woman being naked together.

So I thought about when I was most likely to be naked, figuring that was the same for grown ups. What I concluded was that I was usually naked at three points in the day: getting dressed in the morning, getting undressed at night, and whilst having a bath.

Morning made no sense as the likely time- you had to get to school or work or downstairs to watch Saturday morning cartoons. Nighttime, likewise, you would be sleepy, (and in our house, where heat was considered to be a luxury item) freezing cold. You'd want to get into your jammies quick quick quick and into bed.

Therefore, I deduced- it must be in the bathroom.

Naturally, I realised some years later that my reasoning was flawed, and in fact, the boudoir was the more likely venue.

However, E. and I have been required to undertake our babymaking activities in the bathroom on a number of key dates in the last year. This is primarily because there have been other people in the house, and E. is utterly paranoid about being overheard. He tends to figure we can drown out the noise of our lurrrve by the sound of running water.

The most memorable occasion was at my parent's house last winter, where I flailed for something to hold onto, grabbed the towel rail and snapped it clean off. It's a wonder neither of us concussed ourselves on the side of the bathtub.

And most recently, during their extended stay, we availed ourselves of the relative privacy of our ensuite. I lay on the floor with my feet up on the toilet afterwards. If nothing else, it was a change of scene.

So I wonder, if I somehow conceive after our efforts this cycle, what will I tell my child about where babies are made?

We are Not Married

E. and I are not married. Both of us had mini-marriages- that is , a short term marriage which you undertake at a point in your life where you are too young and too stupid to know better than to shackle yourself to a wholly unsuitable individual for the rest of your days.

Mini-marriages end approximately a year and half later when you realise that it may be embarrassing announcing the divorce to all the people who you have not yet got around to thanking for the wedding presents, but that you are willing to suffer any amount of social humilation to secure your freedom and sever any connection to the unfortunate match.

I managed to extract myself from my brief and unsuccessful marital state with a relatively minimal amount of fuss and bother. The Ex slunk off with that long hangdog look on his face that used to bug me so much, found himself a new girlfriend within 2 months, and is now happily married to her. In fact, I keep waiting for him to e-mail announcing his impending fatherhood or somesuch. So, except for the minor inconvenience of having burned all bridges and emigrated to a foreign country to live him, it was all pretty much OK.

E. did considerably less well out of his mini-marriage. His fruitloop of an ex-wife (well, I am sure he drove her crazy as only he can) made off with (shock!) half of everything and perhaps a bit more. Worse, she left him with a bad taste in his mouth when it came to relationships, women, and matrimony. Even worse, she has the same name as me!

We have been together for five years, and during that time, there have been various discussions about our unmarried state. He has made it clear that he is in no particular rush to get married, ever. This has led to a series of tantrums on my part. For all my proclamations of how unconventional I am, I really want to get married. To him. And his refusal to do so irritates me. The more I push about it, the more resistant he has become to the whole notion.

You want me to be the mother of your children, but you don't want to marry me?

That's right, he says. Although I would probably marry you if we did have kids.

OK, so no extra pressure there.

My mother, who frequently expresses thoughts out loud like "You can't hold onto your man," and "how are you going to have a baby? you're divorced!" would probably fall over in a faint if E. and I ever did get married. Secretly she thinks he's never going to commit, that he's off womanising in the Other City when he's not with me, that he's going to dump me the first chance he gets. E. simply rolls his eyes when I tell him this, and says (quite rightly, too) that my mother's insanity is simply not inducement enough to wed.

For the most part I have given up though. Marriage has begun to feel like something that will happen, or it won't. Except I think I can live with the idea of never being married again. I did that, I had the big meringue dress, the candlelit venue, the cheesy disco. And although I know a wedding to E. would be infinitely more special, because I love him with every fiber of my being, a part of me can rest on the memory of the wedding that was. Because I know he loves me back, and our life together is whole and fine and good as it.

Plus, we have a joint mortgage, how much more commitment does one need?

I'm not so sure I can live without ever having children. I'm not sure how whole and fine and good things are going to be if the worst case scenario comes to pass. And I wonder, during those really dark 2am moments when you find yourself confronting the worst thoughts- if maybe it would be all too easy for him to leave me after all, for someone more fertile. Proving my mother right in the bargain.

Hello darkness, my old friend

The parentals have gone, and in the first quiet moment of the last month, I exhaled.

With the next breath, I suddenly felt a great wave of depression come over me. I have spent the past four weeks making sure that my guests were happy, well-fed, entertained.

Now that they are gone, my urges to weep uncontrollably for no apparent reason have returned with a vengeance. Oh look, the phone bill has arrived- tears. The light bulb in the bathroom has burned out- more tears. The poppies are wilting and the rosemary pot has blown over- sob sob sob.

I think it has something to do with the fact that I know this month is a goner as far as our opportunities for catching the egg are concerned. I think- no, I know- that I am ovulating, like, right NOW.

You see, E. and I don't see each other much during the week. He works in the Other City, and the commute is so hellish that he can't face getting up at 5am to be at work on time. So he keeps a flat there, and stays there Monday to Thursday. Then he comes here to the flat we own together. It's an insane arrangement that we can do nothing about.

So to do anything about said ovulation means me getting on a bus to the Other City. Having woken at 4am to get my parents to the airport, then worked a grizzly 9 hour day, it's safe to say I ain't in the mood for a two hour bus journey, much less the act of babymaking.

Or I could phone up E., who is also having a nightmare week (and it is only Tuesday) and ask him to drive through to This City. What are the chances?

I'm a wimp. I should be more motivated. He should be more motivated too. I'm exhausted. I am pretty sure he is.

There is chocolate ice cream in the freezer. I'm going to go eat some while sitting on the kitchen floor, my answer to floor cake, not that my circumstances can really said to be considered floor cake worthy. But I'll cry if I want to.

National Infertility Day

Today is National Infertility Day in the United Kingdom. I was unaware of this until I heard it on the radio this morning while I was attempting to unblock the milk frother on the cappuccino machine with a bit of fuse wire. It was a two second blurb, really, except there was a sound byte of some woman talking about how everyone should be entitled to at least one cycle of IVF for free.

My excitement of having a such a day was fleeting, tempered the cynical realisation that there are about a babillion National This & That days and nobody gives a monkey's.

For example, did you know of the existence of:

National Salt Awareness Day
National Day to Prevent Teen Pregnancy
National Moth Night
National Corndog Day
Cow Appreciation Day
National Ample Time Day
Panic Day (March 9, must mark calendar for that one)
International End Gossip Day (don't tell anyone I told you about that)
International Aura Awareness Day

My favourites include:

Coping with Uncertainty Day - November 17 (a date which happily coincides with National Homemade Bread Day)
International Nagging Day on August 14.

Tomorrow is International Skeptics Day. Look it up on Google if you don't believe me.

I'm not thrilled to be celebrating National Infertility Day, and I don't imagine others in the same boat as me are either (I should have saved that last bit for Cliche Day). But I am happy to know that tomorrow is likely to bring a National Day of something even more stupid, pointless and meaningless, by which point this one will seem like a distant memory.

Another needle moment with the good doctor

I think I may have mentioned before that I am not a big fan of needes. Except when Dr Best Friend is doing the sticking.

I went to see the good doctor today to get my thyroxine prescription filled, and to give her the low down on my visit to Dr Endocrine.

He's really good, I said. And a really big deal when it comes to all things endocrine. (I kept the magic throttling moment private though, since some things are too good to be shared. )

Oh, he is good, Dr Best Friend said. You know he discovered TSH?

Eh? Really? Cause, you know, wow. (surely not. Surely my Dr. E didn't actually discover TSH? Must look into that one).

Oh yes, she says. That's why I went to him.

I'm not sure if she meant she personally went to him, or if she went to him as in sending me. I rather thought from the inflection on the "I" that she, herself, has had a taste of a little thyroid difficulty, but one can never ask these things without sounding nosey.

Meanwhile she is sneaking over to the cupboard for weapons, and before I know it there is a needle plunged into my arm. For checking that the MMR worked. I didn't feel a thing. Moreover, I felt like our little needle moments were at last becoming something to look forward to.

I love Dr Best Friend. She sends me to reknowned endocrinologist specialists for free (well- NHS, let's not get carried away) and is referring E. and I to the infertility clinic for further tests. And when she says call any time, I think she means it. Well, she might not mean it so much if I really DID call all the time, but it's a nice thought.