Barren Mare

Baby or the Tiger

This is a difficult post for me to write. We're at something of a crossroads here. And while we've now finally made a decision about which way to go, I confess it has taken its toll on me. I'm feeling a little emotionally exhausted, to be honest.

While I've been building up to this for awhile, I am a bit tentative about discussing our options. I've been doing a lot of information and data gathering, but am still not sure I have all the right pieces. So to add a gigantic caveat at the beginning- this is what I know, at this point in time. Some of it could be wrong, and if anyone knows something I don't, then by all means speak up.

After our unexplained diagnosis in December, we had decided to wait a few more months and then start treatment. But as I have mentioned before, I am the sort of person who likes not only an intermediate plan, but a detailed long-term road map. As we were having a breather before moving on, I wanted to know and to understand our family building options if, a year or two from now, treatment fails. I wanted to have a clear picture of where that leaves us.

The answer, as far as I can see from the research I had done about the adoption procedures in Scotland is: up shit creek without a baby.

The prospect of adoption throws up all sorts of hurdles for E. and I, in our particular situation. Most of the challenges are not insurmountable. If we did adopt, we would wish to go the overseas route. Scotland is really not geared up for overseas adoptions past the point of the homestudy, but I am a resourceful cookie, and there are ways to deal with this. Also, in order to adopt as a couple, we would have to get married- something E. views with great distaste, but which he would ultimately agree to for the sake of our family.

But there is a problem, one we cannot easily overcome. And the problem is this: by law, there are no age restrictions for prospective adopters. But in our area, in practice, the policy is that the oldest person in the adopting couple should be no more than 42 or 43 at the point at which the application is sent for approval by the adoption panel. E. will be 40 this year.

In theory, that would leave us a year or so to play around with some assisted conception larks. However, remember that nothing in this country moves quickly. It has been nearly six weeks since our last visit to Dr Ticktock, and I have yet to receive the letter confirming our appointment with the Ass Con crew. And that appointment will probably not be until April. Of course, the answer to all this NHS arsing around is to go straight to private treatment- which we are probably going to do immediately. However, before we do that, we would be required to pick up a yet another couple of tests to add to our butterfly collection, all of which is going to take another month or so.

I'm not saying the slowness and delays are insurmountable, but I am trying to give you a flavour of what we are dealing with here- and in the overall big picture, I know we have to factor in movement at the rate of pond water.

To cut a long story short, a year is not an unrealistic amount of time to undergo a proper course of treatment here, running the gamut from IUI to a cycle of IVF. And if it all fails, well, E. will still probably be about 41 or so.

But now for the hiccup. To work with the only agency I can find that appears to have any clue about overseas adoptions, we would have to go on a "preparation class". That class is only run once a year. There is currently at least a year waiting list for this. Prospective adopters are not permitted to undergo infertility treatment at the same time as adoption, so we could not put our names down and see how it goes. It then takes a further six to nine months to get a homestudy completed, although I know fine well it could be longer.

In short, it is very likely we would up against the clock in a major way in terms of E.'s age. Dealing with the medical system is frustrating enough, and neither of us particularly want to spend the whole treatment phase fretting over the passage of time. The answer might be that we would have to agree to adopt a slightly older child, but after some heart-wrenching discussions, we admit that right now, that does not work for us.

Some commenters on an earlier post kindly suggested that treatment might be viewed as "nothing ventured, nothing gained". I would normally wholeheartedly agree with that notion. But in reality, if we go down the treatment route, we are committing ourselves to a reality in which adoption might not be an option after all. Or, if we adopt, we must face up to the distinct possibility that should we then decide to pursue treatment at a later date, it is likely to be too late. And we forever forego the possibility of pregnancy and a biological child.

Treatment or adoption. We can probably do one or the other. It doesn't appear we can do both. Or, at least not if we stay in Scotland, but frankly, the idea of an international move back to America in the middle of all this is beyond what we are willing to contemplate right now.

I am put in mind of the story of "the Lady or the Tiger", where the condemned prisoner is forced to undergo a terrible test. Led to arena, and made to choose between two doors. Behind one door, a beautiful lady, whom he will marry on the spot. Behind the other door, a ferocious hungry tiger, waiting to pounce. The prisoner's secret lover knows what lies behind the doors- she can give him a clue. But which door will she choose? If he opens the door with the lady, he will live, but will be lost to her forever, in the arms of another woman. She would almost rather see him dead. But if he opens the door with the tiger, can she bear to watch her beloved ripped to shred before her eyes?

We are standing in our own arena. Behind one door is a baby. Behind the other is a tiger, of grief, loss and regret-even with the aid of my handy bullwhip, not easily tamed. There is no one to give us a clue as to what to do. We must decide for ourselves. And so, tightly holding hands, we are now moving to our chosen door. Knowing that one way or another, there will be a ending. Knowing that we have chosen with our eyes wide open, chosen as best we can.

Vox Populi

The S.I.P.P.Y. ("Scottish Infertility Political Posturing and Yammering") alarm went off a few days ago. I sent a squad car out to investigate.

Turns out there was a debate in the Scottish Parliament last week on infertility services. But wait! Before you start issuing tiny squeals of delight, let me assure you that it's not all that.

While I do applaud the efforts of the Minister for raising the issue, unfortunately a fair bit of the debate was also comprised of politicians engaged in self congratulatory drivel. Yes, well done, Mrs. Hairy McClary, thank you for sharing you once had a problem with endometriosis. Hooray for you, Ms Hortensia McCleod of the Clan McLeod on behalf of your constituency on the shores of Loch Shiel, for revealing that you nearly had to go through IVF once, but instead were saved by (and I quote) "a "miracle pregnancy!

Honestly, a bunch of us infertiles could have achieved more in a half hour coffee klatch in Soper's kitchen than Scotland's elected officials did in a hour of parliamentary discussion. All this blah, blah, blah, and no indication of the problem might be solved.

Note this: only one male MSP hung around for the debate. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was scheduled for after 5pm, not exactly political primetime. Or it could be that they all had something more pressing to do, like topping up their spray-on tan , or lighting the curtains on fire. But that did not deter our sole stalwart male politician from attending, oh no- after all, this was clearly an unmissable opportunity to spout crap.

Let's dissect a few gems, shall we?

1. "Members have raised issues about age. I agree that the age at which people qualify for treatment should be raised, especially as nowadays people who have careers often marry or settle down much later in life. However, I have a slight reservation. I do not condemn my parents in any way, but my mother was 37 and my father was 42 when I arrived. That was fine: I had caring, loving parents. However, when it came to asking, "Are you going to come and play football, dad?" that was a wee bit beyond his level. We must bear the needs of the child in mind."

Woof. Did someone fart, or does it suddenly reek of HFEA in here? To this I say, please, spare us your childhood trauma. I'm really sorry you didn't get whatever you needed from your daddy when you were growing up, but take it up with your therapist, not the debating chamber.

2. The sexual health of the nation is poor. We do not know how many infections there are. I would back the idea of a chlamydia testing scheme. For many people, the problem is a matter of lifestyle. They get into drink and drugs; they end up having sex and getting infections. That damages their lives.

Where do I even begin to discuss how very, very wrong this is? Thank, Mr MSP, for equating infertility not only with lifestyle choices, but to infer that it's all the drink! the drugs! and the STDs! causing the problem. How dare you suggest this is our fault, the result of our irresponsible living? And what the fuck would you know about the lifestyles of people needing treatment anyway, you ignorant moron? Do you have any evidence to back up your assertions, or do you just like the sound of your own verbal dribbling? And anyway, last I checked, this town is full of pissed-up junkies pushing prams en route to the methadone clinic.

If you are already thinking this asshole really should have shut up by now, just wait. He saved the best for last.

3. "Many contraceptive preparations damage women's fertility. They can limit a woman's physical capability to have children. Moreover, the sheer angst caused by fertility problems can cause mental health difficulties and those, again, can postpone children. There should be some form of counselling for people who have such difficulties."

In other words, all you women are to blame for using that nasty birth control stuff in the first place. Because birth control doesn't just prevent unwanted pregnancy, it ruins your fertility forever! Now look at what you've done, you stupid bitches. Made yourself infertile AND crazy. Get a shrink, or some electroshock therapy, you unhinged hysterical freaks. Oh, and just relax.

If you're wondering, what is that faint high pitched noise you are hearing right about now? It is the echo of my primal scream of frustration.

In and out of the closet

It occurred to me this morning- as I stood in front of my closet in the usual frantic lather trying to decide what to wear to work- that infertility has wrought many changes in my life. Some are big and glaringly obvious. For example, sex on schedule, doctor's appointments, blogging, and weeping in the bathroom on a regular basis. Others are small and much more subtle. So subtle as to be barely noticeable until the odd revelatory moment, like today.

I am extremely fond of nice, simple, elegant, well-made clothes. I'm not a label slave, though I appreciate the work of some designers. I'm not into following trends as such. Though I will confess to liking that tweed thing that was going on a few months ago. This is a good country for tweed. But generally I try to adhere to clean lines and classic cuts in neutral colours, with the odd sploosh of red or pehaps forest green for good measure, on days when I feel like being a bit sassy. I know what I like and I know what looks good on me.

This is not to say I can afford to buy these things on a regular basis. I cannot. But I will wander the high end shops, stroke the pretty items, before recoiling in horror at the price and running screaming to Gap or H&M where I will pay a fraction of the price, albeit for something that usually falls apart in six months time if not sooner.

But sometimes, especially during the sales, I simply cannot resist. Out comes the credit card and into my bag go delicious, covetable items. A Joseph shift dress. A MaxMara coat. A pair of sleek Prada boots. Quivering, I rush home and unpack my treasures, doing a little dancce of guilty happiness around the bedroom before hiding the receipts from E. Although I don't know why I bother with that last part- it's my goddamn money, I earned it.

Now for the weirdness. The beautiful things hang in my closet unworn. Oh, every now and then I will go to a party or a special work do, and my finery will get a once annual airing. But for the most part, I hold back. My rationale is that once I wear the nice things, the specialness will be gone, or worse, the outfit will get ruined. And then what will I do? How would I ever replace my Marc Jacobs high heeled camel boots that I sought out so feverishly, that took me six months to find on eBay and shipped from the States? Where will I ever find another pair of black trousers so perfectly cut, so flattering? Can't risk it, oh no.

But a funny thing happened about a year and a half ago, when we started trying. You see, I convinced myself that I would, of course, get pregnant any second now. And then I would be too baby-bellied to fit into the beautiful things. Worse, I worried like a loon that I might somehow not be able to ever fit into those things again, as if pregnancy was actually a permanent figure-altering fixture.

So one day I simply started wearing the nice stuff. It was hard some days to break the habit of a lifetime. It was strange to go into work wearing something nice and expensive without any particular justification. And of course I still worried that any minute now I would upend a cup of coffee all over my cream cashmere sweater- but I forced myself to do it, because after all- about to get pregnant! Any minute! Maternity clothing impending! Trousers with expandable waistband soon to be required! Of course, there would always be nice hand bags on the horizon, but still- Nursing bras! Large, unflattering knickers!

Well, we all know how that has been working out. And here I am a year later, feeling as though not only have I endured a suckass time in not getting pregnant, but shit! I've worn out all my good clothes while I was at it. What a dumbass. Worse, now that I am reverting to my old fashion routine, people have asked what happened to that really nice skirt I wore a few months back? Do I still have those lovely kitten heels?

Yes, I want to say, yes I do. I still have all these things. I'll probably wear these clothes once more someday, even though some of the specialness has worn off, along with any of the hope or joy or naivete I ever had about getting pregnant in the first place. Even though all those things are now at the back of the closet. Even though the fit may never feel as right, ever again.

The Furtive Infertile: Notes from under a desk

Today, just as I had stuffed a much-needed, oversized hunk of chocolate into my mouth, the phone rang. It was the clinic. Really, their timing is uncanny.

"Hello, this is Mareighsgana Marmarmar," I garbled, strangling on my tongue and half chewed chocolate.

"You phoned us?" said the stern voice on the other end. There was a long, deathly pause. OK, obviously even though I had left a detailed message earlier, they were going to make me repeat the whole thing. Again. At my desk. At work. In my open plan office.

So I crawled under the desk and barricaded myself in behind some files and my gym bag.

"I was just wondering when we were going to get our letter confirming our appointment. We were referred, or supposed to be referred, by Dr Ticktock at the end of December, and we still haven't heard anything" I said quietly.

"Referred to where?" said Ms Sternietty Stern.

I felt like reaching through the phone and giving her a sharp neat slap. Firstly, I said 'where' in the message I left earlier. The message I had left in the privacy of my own home this morning. Secondly, I mean, where do ya think? Where does Dr TickTock usually refer people? Referred to Paris, France? Referred to Mars? Referred UP YOUR ASS?

"The um, Assisted Conception Unit," I whispered.

"Where? I couldn't hear you," Sternietty Stern barked.

"The Assisted Conception Unit," I repeated at normal volume, furtively glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention. Fortunately, most of the staff were huddled around a colleague's desk on the other side of the room cooing over baby pictures, so the coast was more or less clear.

"I'll transfer you," she grumbled, while I contemplated whether the phone line was long enough to turn into a noose, and if the filing shelves would stand up to the weight of my swinging body.

The Ass Con people were slightly nicer. I say "slightly" in the way that I find shots in my left arm slightly better than in my left buttock. She informed me that the letter confirming the appointment was on its way "sometime next week". Or you know, maybe Christmas. And that appointment would probably be for the end of March. Or possibly Christmas.

"Or it could be April," she chirped gaily. "Oh, and don't forget, the waiting list for IVF for fee-paying clients is at least six months. Or you know, longer!" Like around Christmas.

I wanted to ask about how we go about teeing up an IUI, but then all of a sudden half the office seemed to find a reason to stand in my immediate vicinity, so I gave up.

It's suddenly looking like a good idea to pursue private treatment in the Other City, or at least to gauge whether the waiting times are comparable. In a way that might be no bad thing. I've spent the last couple weeks in data-gathering mode about options - that is, for treatment and/or adoption, and am about ready to post my findings thus far. So I might as well fill in the jigsaw as best and fully as I can. Even if that entails more phone calls conducted in hushed, furtive tones.

"Mare?" I heard a voice from above, and looked out to see a pair of nicely polished shoes. It was my boss. "The meeting is about to start. Can I ask why you are under your desk?"