Barren Mare

A letter from Twoweekwait

Dear Auntie,

Hi! How's it going?

I'll bet you are wondering why I am writing to you, since we usually catch up on all the news during your monthly visit. Well, it's really just that lately, I've been feeling too pissed off to talk much when we meet. And I feel that generally, I have been quite remiss in not even sending you so much as a postcard during this whole extended journey I am on with TTC Adventures Ltd.

And there is something I wanted to ask you- but we'll come to that.

At the moment, as I think you know, I am in Twoweekwait. I've been here lots of times, so I pretty much know my way around. I think I have visited all the local attractions, and frankly, I'm bored. It's not my top choice of destination.

I've been noticing some really odd changes to the landscape. The first time I came here, it seemed much lusher and greener. But now the ground looks all dry and cracked. All the trees have this peculiar gray tinge, and and even though we have had a few big thunderstorms, it never rains. I guess it must be some kind of drought. The tour guides say that happens sometimes.

It's a little worrying though, because the shops don't seem to get any fresh provisions in. I gather some of the supply roads have shut down recently, and there is a rail strike, so no freight can get through. I'm now running low on rations. I've just about used up all my patience, and hope is just about gone too. The shops do have some hope in stock, although I am guessing it's too expensive, since they keep saying I can have it, but there's a high price to pay. Fortunately, I can borrow some courage from one of other tourists, so that should see me through for the short term.

While I'm here, I've put in yet another application for a visa to Pregnancy. I am waiting to hear back from the Home Office. I guess you realise if it's granted, then we won't be seeing each for awhile? But from what they were saying, there is a good chance they'll turn me down again. In which case I'll be deported right back to where I came from. Do not pass go, do not collect baby. Fucking bureaucrats. Oops, sorry Auntie, language, heh heh heh.

Actually, while we are on the subject of requests, that brings me to the thing I wanted to ask you. The Home Office say they might be more inclined to give me a visa if there's nothing in my background check to cause concern. But I think we both know that your input could play a big part in their decision-making process. So I was wondering if you could maybe see your way to giving them the nod, and we can postpone our meeting for a few months? Like, say, nine months?

Now, please don't get insulted. It's just that I so want to move on, to visit Pregnancy. And I know there are so many girls who are actually desperate to see you. Remember when I was one of them? Your visits were such cause for celebration! Maybe you could go spend some time with someone who really wanted you around. Think how nice that would be for both of you!

Well, you can think about it. I probably won't hear back from the Home Office for another week anyway, so that will give you a little time to have that word with them.

I know the mail is a little irregular sometimes, but if we're resourceful, we can work around that. How about we'll just say that if you don't turn up at our usual meeting spot at the designated time, I'll take it that the answer is probably yes. I'll try not to think about it too much until then, since I don't want to use up that cache of hope.

OK, so gotta sign off- the tour guide is waving me over to join a group chat.

Bye for now!

Love,

Mare xxx ooo

Change of pace

The latest developments are this: short of my getting pregnant naturally, there probably won't be any more developments until we have our first consultation at the Ass Con Centre in October. We are preparing to enter hyperspace, the cryosleep chambers are waiting, and we are ready to enter suspended animation as far as any further medical treatment goes, for the next couple months.

We had thought that it would make sense, given E.'s poor morphology result, to have him do another test before we went to "Ass Con 1". We were advised by my lovely GP that this might help give a fuller picture of what we might be dealing with here- at least on his side of things. So E. went back to see his doctor with a view to getting a referral to a private hospital over in the Other City.

There were a couple reasons for going private for the second test. Firstly, it's generally much quicker to get seen on private (i.e. paying) basis. Secondly, given the last experience we don't exactly have shedloads of confidence in that particular NHS hospital lab. And we thought we might be able to get a proper consultation, with a proper report, not just some numbers printed out with nothing to indicate what any of it meant.

E.'s doctor shall henceforth be know as "Doctor Just Do It" since his response to E.'s initial queries about infertility was this:

"Oh, you can always just do IVF."

As a result of that one little comment, it has taken me some time to disabuse E. of the notion that IVF is something you sign up for casually, like a trial gym membership.

Anyway, Dr Just Do It's take on the whole "private test" was not to bother.

"He said it might come back worse and then what we would do?," E. explained as we drove over to the park for an evening run.

"That is the whole point. If it's worse, it might be helpful to know that NOW," I replied, wiping the froth from my mouth.

E. went on to say that Dr Just Do It said we'd have to do another test at the Ass Con Centre regardless. And anyway, Dr JDI didn't really rate the private hospital too much. He said the consultants there were all NHS, and they rushed you through a morning appointment so they could get to their proper jobs.

"He says that if we want the best treatment, there is a place down in X, across the border."

"And how does he know all this, exactly?"

"From personal experience, apparently," E. said, swerving to avoid the teenage mother walking out in front of the car with a baby carriage.

"I doubt that anyone who has been through this would say something like "you can just do IVF," I muttered darkly.

Eventually, we decided to wait. It's maybe not ideal, but we are trying to learn to live with uncertainty.

It's also opened the door for a lot more of those "what if?" discussions. What we will do if one or both of us can't physically deliver the goods. On one hand, those "what if" discussions seem like a pointless waste of energy- dwelling on potential avenues that we may never need to take. But on the other hand, it's good, because it helps E. understand a bit more of what is at stake here, what it might take to achieve that, and gets both of us considering how far we are willing to go. And maybe if we sit with that for the next couple months, letting it marinate, we won't be wracked with indecision when the time comes to make up our minds.

It's hard to know. Every day I wake up and feel differently. Or something will happen to change my focus. A year ago, if you told me that E. really wants his child to carry a genetic link to him (but not necessarily to me), I would have been very reluctant to even consider the options, i.e. egg donation. I might have just closed down that route, thinking among other things, that it's both of us or nothing.

But that night, we went running. We ran during that lovely hour when it's not close to being dark, but the day is finally over, and slipping towards night. We took a new route, me huffing and puffing behind E., trying to keep up. I looked ahead, and saw his strong graceful strides, his retreating back against the silver summer sky.

I thought, he is so beautiful when he runs.

And I suddenly realised that if it did come to that, I don't know how I would be able to let that end with him.

So beautiful.

Negative population growth

A few weeks ago, E. and I went out to one of those big DIY superstores. We needed an obscure piece of cable or wire in order to further be-gadget our living room. Rather than drive around to every crappy wee hardware store in town, we thought we'd cut to the chase and supersize it.

The store was massive. And it was deserted.

Apart from the aisle where said obscure wirethingummy was located. Apart from the space directly in front of obscure wire. Where six or seven people stood, jostling to inspect every single one of the items on the shelf, and in so doing blocked our access to our intended purchase. So we loitered around in the paint department for a few minutes, waiting for the crowd to clear. Came back 10 minutes later to find a new set of six or seven people had now parked themselves in the same spot.

Given the propensity for somebody to be in my way everywhere I go, I sometimes find it hard to give credence to the almost daily reports of Scotland's population crisis. This country is obsessed with population statistics. It's up! It's down! It's worseningby the day. Or not.

Whether or not the population is in fact slowly ebbing away, there does seem to be a consensus that there is a problem with fertility. According to the Registrar General (the people you tell about births and deaths, respectively) in 2002, Scottish fertility reached a historic low. I don't think it has gotten much better since then.

The causes would appear to be complex. Everything from the biological (decline in semen quality) to social (women having careers and not babies). And the solution- well, having looked at the various pronatalist strategies in other countries such as Singapore and Sweden- the solution is apparently not straightfoward.

The government is currently focused on dealing with the problem by attracting immigrants. To that end there is talk of gaining some control over things like immigration policy, which at this time remains firmly under the iron grip of the Home Secretary. For those of you not versed in the finer points of the devolution settlement, that means that the UK Parliament can tell Scotland what to do about immigration, and we have to go along with it. Viva la pseduo-independence.

Now. Having more immigrants is all well and good, except the Scottish government is rather preoccupied with getting "the right sort of people." That basically means they want "more skilled people from other countries to resettle here" as part of the Fresh Talent initiative (whatever that is. No Stale Talent required, thanks).

What they don't really say out loud is that what they think Scotland wants is more skilled white people. As long as they are not English. Or possibly German. And even if the government don't say it, that is precisely what your average bigot in Auchertfacthermachauter (or Glasgow) thinks. I don't want to make a generalisation, and there have been some strides in the right direction, but I do notice a degree of unacceptable prejudice and bigotry in Britain as a whole. That, if nothing else, is going to hinder immigrants wanting to come here, or wanting to stay. And that's before they discover the rotten weather, appalling public transport, and weird tendency to deep fry everything (i.e pizza, or Snickers bars).

It seems to me that in addition to luring immigrants here, a solution to the Population! Crisis! might be to improve access to and availability fertility treatment in Scotland. Reduce waiting lists. Make treatment cheaper, or better yet, free in certain circumstances. Increase awareness as to fertility issues. I'm not even talking about reproductive incentives for all women in this country (like decent, open maternity wards). I'm talking about some real assistance for those of us who are desperately trying and are unable to manage it, for some reason.

But the government get all twitchy as soon as the word fertility is mentioned, not wanting to suggest that women should give up careers, not wanting to look as if we are a backward looking nation, forcing women back to being pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen for the good of Scotland. Plus if women do try to work and have familiies, nobody is clear how it is really meant to function in terms of the much ballyhooed work/life balance. At which point they start talking about immigration again.

All I know is we're having our own little population crisis right here at home. And meanwhile everywhere I go, someone stands in front of the thing I need to reach.

Ice breaker

I'm having one of those weeks where everything feels like a huge effort. Getting out of bed, getting dressed, going to work, making a cup of coffee, answering the telephone, stringing a sentence together. My body and spirit feel as if I am halfway through a polar trek across Antarctica without a dog team- just me, a big backpack full of freeze dried rations, and miles and miles of glacial sea.

I strongly suspect that one reason for this is that in addition to all the infertility crap, work is not exactly a barrel of laughs at the moment. It looks to get worse before it gets better. Depending on a number of decisions taken by others (over which I have absolutely no control), it may then get even worse. I find that thought so dispiriting I cannot even begin to contemplate it.

So I dragged my ass home today across the pack ice, trying to remember when the last time I really laughed (other than at the wry wit of my infertility sisters). Then I remembered something I read on the internet awhile back that, at the time, was one of the funniest things I had ever come across. I went searching for it again. And it's still, even in my present frostbitten state of mind, hilarious. Particularly if you like cats. Or don't like cats.

I imagine there are a few of us who could do with a chuckle, so I thought I would share it with you. Enjoy.

Prelude to a Kiss

I was reading about the recent spectacular testicular adventures over at Karen's site, and it got me thinking about the possibility of a varicocele here at the Barn. I'd heard of a varicocele, but didn't really know what one was, exactly- much less how to pronounce it. While E.'s count and motility results were excellent, the morphology was poor. And so after reading, I sprung into Google mode.

What I found in my various searches then led to me concur it was possible that this was something E. might have. As I mentioned awhile ago, E. suffered some trauma about a decade ago during a sporting event. A firm blow to the nuts by one of the opposing thugs, I mean, team members. He's loathe to discuss what went on in the aftermath, but I am given to understand it involved some pretty hideous "probes". Since he won't talk about it, I have had no choice but to subpoena his medical records, but I haven't yet gotten them.

According to Google School of Medicine, I was right in thinking that trauma of this type could, apparently, lead to a varicocele, and that could in turn potentially cause infertility. What if, what if, what if.

Then I read that one symptom is that when the man is standing up, the testicle in question has a feeling like "a bag of worms."

Scene: Summer. Evening. Barn living room. E. and I both in our jammies, watching telly.

Mare: Hon, could you stand up for a minute?

E: Why?

Mare: I'll tell you in a minute. On your feet, soldier.

E. obligingly stood. I shoved my hand down his pajama bottoms and had a rummage.

E: (in startled tones) What exactly are you doing?

Mare: Nope, no worms there.

Cue long explanation.

We're not going to rule out the possibility that there still might be something there, since quite often, according to Google, there are no symptoms. It could have happened independent of any trauma. I couldn't find anything resembling a bag of worms, so who knows....

E. and I were already planning on a further SA for him, and depending on those results, further consultation with specialists. I expect we'll ask some questions about varicoceles while we're at it. And if nothing else, I have discovered a new excuse for foreplay- huzzah!

Olympian

Great news! Today I received a letter from the British Olympic Committee, informing me that a space has opened up on the Olympic Worrying Team, and they want me, Barren Mare, to join them at the Winter games as a member!

I don't know why I am surprised at the accolade. I mean, I earned this. I have been training extra hard lately, really racheting up the intensity that little bit more. Well, clearly the efforts have paid off, and I'm in.

I knew I was meant for international worrying greatness from a young age. My mother is a championship fretter herself, so you might say it's in the blood. But I have that extra ability to turn a normal situation into a brow-furrowing sleepless night. As a child, I began with the simple things- would my Christmas presents include the Mandy doll that I so longed for? Would I have my colouring assignment placed up on the "Best Of" wall in Mrs Yikers' First Grade class? Would I win the spelling bee, or be picked last for the volleyball team?

By adolescence, the seeds of a worrying winner were well sown. I managed to fret my way right into the regional championships, as the judges were hugely impressed by my efforts in the "Will Ricky ever kiss me, or does he like Amy better?" episode. And all through college, the medals lined the walls, as I wrestled with (what was then) one seemingly awful decision after another.

But it was really when I went to graduate school that my Olympic potential was first realised. A number of fairly horrendous things did go on-for example, harrassment by a professor and being threatened with a shotgun whilst being evicted from my apartment by my psycho landlord. Since it seemed that bad things were really happening at last (and not just ones I dreamed up), I worried my way through each incident with considerable aplomb.

However, I didn't quite make the grade. True, I was in the running, briefly, during the divorce. And I was actually an Team alternate during my three hellish years back at university when I gambled everything on re-training and achieving a qualification that would allow me to get a "real job".

Then I slacked off. I met E., who is a medal winner himself.

We used to compete with each other once in a while, just to maintain our form, but I usually won, which he hated. We also realised that our worrying matches took up a lot of time, and though our love of the sport was strong, it also interfered with our ability to get anything done, or make any decisions. We didn't have the sponsorships to turn pro, and lacked the funding to train full time as amateurs. I began to resign myself to the idea that history would always mark me down as a contender, but not a winner.

So thank God for infertility! It's given me that extra boost I needed to achieve my dream of Gold Medalist. I know the competition is fierce, but I have a couple of months to hone my skills before we have our appointment at the Ass-Con Centre, including worrying that the appointment won't go ahead on schedule. And depending on what we find out (assuming we actually do get anything resembling an answer), I may have even more material to work with.

I won't say anymore-I wouldn't like to give too many training tips away to my rivals. But I'd like to know what I'm up against. If any of you out there have been picked to represent your country, could you let me know?