Barren Mare

Google Hits a-go go

I'm tired. It's been a growler of a week at work, and there have been some other things going on behind the scenes at the Barn which have sort of sapped me. So to be honest, I am not feeling hugely post-ish at the moment.

In the absence of anything orginial and creative, I bring you that old stand-by: Funny Google Searches.

You see, I was checking something back at the old site a couple days ago, and I happened to click on the site meter. There I found a rich treasure trove of Google search hits- which seems to be the only means by which people still visit that site.

So without further ado:

Men Trouble

"My husband doesn't understand my infertility"

Gee, that's too bad. What doesn't he understand, exactly? Because my doctor seems to think that repeatedly drawing diagrams really does the trick. "This is your uterus. These are your eggs on drugs. Go, sperm, go. Etcetera, etcetera." After a dozen or sketches, what's not to understand?

Oh, and it's interesting how it's your infertility. Call me old-fashioned, but I always kind of thought infertility was a shared thing between a couple.

"My ex-boyfriend is having a baby"

Huh. I wasn't aware that technology has advanced that far, but I can see how it would piss you off that he's doing so, if you still can't manage to get knocked up!

"My boyfriend won't propose"

No, mine neither, damn him. I try to take comfort in the fact I nonetheless have secured his undying love.

"Made to measure lingerie beneath his kilt"

Again, huh. I do have some experience in the old under the kilt department, but so far, I've not encountered, er, lingerie. Quite the opposite. Interesting notion, though. I wonder if there is a market for "Mare's Kinky Kiltwear".

"TTC Classique"

"Should I lift heavy objects after an IUI/IVF/during the two week wait?"

Good God, no! I don't know about the medical reasons, but that's what menfolk are for- or possibly your more energetic female friends. Personally, I plan on taking "relaxation" to new levels during my 2ww. If at all possible, the only lifting I will be doing is raising the ice cream spoon to my mouth.

"Is a strange flavour in my mouth a pregnancy symptom?"

Um, dunno. Could be. It wasn't for me that time. But I have heard that others have experienced odd mouthy sensations that tipped them off to the big ole BFP in the Sky.

"Giving up coffee before IVF"

Well. Yes. I've said I would, but I suck, and I haven't. SO SUE ME.

Equine sexiness, or possibly just eeeeeeewwwww

"SEXY PIGGY"

Yes? You summoned me?

"mare clitoris"

Yes, I have one. I have no idea if horses do, as well. I've never gotten close enough to look.

"Can I fuck mare"

Dearie me. I don't know if you can, but if you are referring to me personally, then no, you may not. I am spoken for, and in any event I usually require a bit more foreplay than that.

If you are referring to actual horses, then I don't really care what you do, but I don't want to know about it.

"Can a man get a mare pregnant?"

Well, it would appear in the immediate case, the answer is no. Again, if you are referring to actual horses, well, please do your genetic cross-species mutation experiments in your own time.

The Sad Ones

"Pregnant, but worried I'll miscarry"

I am very sorry to hear about that. I wish I had some insight to offer, but having never been pregnant, I am probably not best placed to advise. I suggest you try the next blog along, down the hall, second door on the right. Good luck, I hope everything turns out OK for you.

And now, I'm going to flop on the sofa in my low slung, oversized jeans and a cold beer, to mindlessly watch crap telly with E. til our eyes bug out and brains seep out of our ears.

Choice and necessity

Today at work, someone compared IVF to having cosmetic surgery. Not to go into detail, but just to put things in context, we were having a discussion about the extent to which my employer should offer medical leave for an IVF cycle.

The person to whom I was speaking remarked that in some ways, IVF is more like cosmetic surgery than, say, a triple bypass. Because, they reasoned, it involves an active "choice" on my part in relation to a "non-essential procedure", whereas something like heart surgery is a "medical necessity".

This got me thinking about the concept of "choice" and "necessity" in relation to infertility treatment. I was distracted all afternoon, rolling this around in my head, until at one point I was so vexed that I resorted to drawing little diagrams and flowcharts.

What I came up with remains, to my mind, somewhat unsatisfactory, so I thought I would put it out en blogue for my wise friends to chew over. In the meantime, if you can stand it, I offer you some fumbling analysis of my thinking.

Let's start with this notion of "choice."

The problem is, when we refer to choice in connection with family building, it normally tends to be approached from the Fertile Perspective. In the Fertile's construct, the decision to have a family is invariably followed by a pregnancy and a birth. A couple chooses to reproduce, they take the necessary steps in the usual way of these things, and as a result, they are parents. They can also choose not to have kids, in which case, things remain as they are- just the two of them, until death do them part or until one of them runs off to Las Vegas with the pool guy/gal.

Of course, from an Infertile Perspective, things are quite different. The option of remaining childless is open to them, but the other route- so easy and available to others- is not. To get to where the fertile couple are, some definitive action is required- choices within a choice. To seek medical treatment or to adopt. Otherwise, by default, they are likely to be stuck within the status quo.

It's when you reach that point- the choice within a choice- that the Fertile Perspective simply does not work. In some ways, it's like comparing apples and oranges. The outcome may be exactly the same, but the means by which an infertile couple gets there make it something quite different, almost a hybrid of its own. And in the process, what might have ordinarily been a positive decision- to live child free- becomes not a choice at all, but rather, a worse case scenario, thrust upon them against their will.

To use another rather grim analogy- in ascending a perilous rocky mountain face, a climber's arm accidentally becomes trapped under a boulder, and he cannot free himself. He is miles from civilization, and no one hears his cries for help. Eventually, he realises that although he cannot reach his phone or his water bottle, he can grasp his pocket knife with his spare hand.

What does he do? Unless he cuts off his own arm, he will almost certainly die in that spot. Amputation or death, those are his options. He still has to make up his mind. But to me, the involuntary nature of his dilemma again makes it something quite different from a "choice" in the traditional sense of the word.

Admittedly, this is an extreme example, and I am not exactly suggesting that infertility creates such a black or white, life or death position. But it seems to me that it is somewhat the same as the Fertile/Infertile Perspective. The trapped climber facing an awful moment is suddenly having an entirely different experience from his best friend who uneventfully climbed this same rock yesterday. Both make certain choices along the way. But for one them, it ultimately becomes a decision about whether to cut off his own arm, rather than, say, where to stop for lunch. In the end, the divergence between their experiences is so great that the only thing they really have in common is that both of them decided to make the climb in the first place.

So, "choice" is somewhat problematic. What about necessity?

When I hear our decision to undergo IVF wrapped up in the same sentence as "cosmetic surgery", it makes me bristle. I guess because everything about that equation seems wrong to me. I can see where that mindset comes from- the old mantra that IVF is not considered medically "necessary". But then, a lot of ailments are not life-threatening and we don't automatically go around accusing people who seek a remedy of being selfish and self-serving.

Nor do we, as a rule, make arbitrary distinctions about those life-threatening illnesses, for example distinguishing between someone born with a congenital heart defect as opposed to someone who directly contributed to their state. For example, the guy next to me received a medical leave of absence to undergo that triple bypass. A medical necessity, they said, albeit in his case, a condition largely brought on by years of smoking, heavy drinking and excessive consumption of bacon sandwiches. But they don't talk about that. He had to have the treatment, because regardless of how he got into that state, it is now life-saving and essential.

Whereas IVF is not. It is "something you are choosing to do".

Which takes me back to the point I was trying to make above, albeit perhaps not very well. Somehow, labelling IVF treatment as a "choice" in this context seems to be an overly simplistic and inappropriate way of briskly packaging up a personal tragedy and thrusting it back on the person who has the misfortune to find themselves in this position in the first place. Justifying it with a dash of what is "necessary".

Slotting assisted reproduction in with cosmetic surgery, as if decisions about whether to live without breast enlargements or collagen lips are somehow just the same as a decision to live without children for the rest of your life.

Bee sting

Today, apropros of nothing, I am going to tell you the story about the time I was stung by a bee on my tongue. Just because I feel like it.

Halfway through my college/university education, for reasons now lost in the midst of time, I decided to transfer to another school. In flailing around trying to find a place which suited me, I somehow inadvertently landed in quite the wrong spot. A college overpopulated by rich, gorgeous, talented and insanely glamorous students. It was like Friends meets Vogue meets The Secret History (only without the murder). Even the ugly girls had style, stalking around in fishnet tights, pierced noses, and fierce dredlocked hair.

I, on the other hand, was a country mouse- more Gap than Gucci- with limp hair of non-descript colouring, untamed eyebrows and the stubborn vestiges of puppy fat. I'd grown up in a backwater town, surrounded by miles of cornfields, the type of place where acid washed jeans and big permed hair are probably still the height of fashion to this day.

I realised the enormity of my error during the first week. All the new students, including the transferees, spent an extra few days before the formal start of the semester "settling in". Attending campus tours. Meeting the faculty. Throwing loud, overheated parties, posing and drinking warm beer out of plastic cups.

It was one of the blindingly hot spells of early autumn, and everywhere I looked, I saw stylish, sweat-free goddesses, shimmering in tiny sundresses and lacy camisoles, long brown colt-like limbs and pretty pretty hair. Young bucks in polo shirts and ripped up khakis, a knotted leather tribal bracelet tied just so at one golden-haired wrist. The talk was of trips to Europe, modelling contracts, stints on Daddy's yacht, parties at the beach, and did you hear about so-and-so's poem getting published in the New Yorker, the bitch.

For me, the week was one long inward groan of dismay.

To celebrate the kick-off of the academic year, there was a barbecue picnic hosted on the main campus quad. I slouched along, collecting my half-cooked burger and wilted pickle, the grease seeping into the paper plate. I loitered about trying to figure out where to sit, or who to talk to. I finally selected a seat on the periphery of a group of fellow-transferees, one of whom I recognised from my old college.

"Oh, it's you," she said when she noticed me. She was tall and stern-looking, sporting pared-down, screamingly intellectual attire. She looked over the rim of her spectacles at me. "I thought I was the only one transferring here."

She said it as if I had deliberately set out to spoil her plan.

"Er, evidently not," I replied, and to cover my confusion, took a bite of my hamburger. My first thought was that my tongue had come into contact with a sharp bit of foil in the meat. Removing the food from my mouth, I looked down to see a yellow-jacket bee, writhing fitfully on edge of the bun.

"Oh, shit," I said to nobody in particular. "I've just been stung by a bee. On my tongue. And I'm allergic to bees!"

The Fellow Transferee looked up, with a vague expression of interest, as if this sudden turn of events might somehow result in my untimely death, and the desirable outcome of her being the lone transfer student after all.

"I'll take you to the nurse," she announced, standing up and ruthlessly shaking the crumbs off her designer skirt. I followed her like a puppy, pleased to have company, particularly since I had absolutely no idea where the campus infirmary might be. Turns out she didn't either, but this made for an excellent excuse for her to stop to ask directions from a cluster of cute boys, all of whom looked at me askance, repulsed, when my affliction was revealed.

By the time we arrived at the infirmary, my tongue was swelling up badly. I could no longer speak or make myself understood. Fellow Transferee explained the situation in a lazy, long-winded monologue, complete with a detailed description of the picnic menu. The nurse, nodded patiently through all this, but once she finally grasped what had happened, reached for the phone.

"You need to go to the hospital immediately!" she said.

My reaction to beestings is not as severe as, say, anaphylactic shock, so I was a little surprised, despite my tongue now starting to feel like a heavy additional limb. The nurse seemed pretty excited by it, though.

However, instead of summoning an ambulance, an elderly security guard hobbled in about ten minutes later. His name was something like Horatio, and he was almost completely deaf. The nurse managed to convey to him via much shouting and sign language that he was to drive me down to the local hospital, stat. The Fellow Transferee, who had been observing this with wide eyed horror, decided this was her moment to escape back to the picnic.

Horatio and I climbed into a creaky old Buick, and headed for the emergency room in complete silence. He didn't even look at me once. I had no idea where we were going, having never ventured into that part of town before. Once we arrived, Horatio dropped me at the door, and drove away- presumably to park the car, or so I thought.

"Can I help you?" said the emergency room receptionist.

"Yar. Ar bee ththhun on mah toahn," I garbled.

"Excuse me?"

I looked around for Horatio, who was nowhere in sight.

"Ah bee! Thhhhun me! Ohn mah toahhn! Ah um ahhlaughack " I repeated, sticking my tongue out her, and pointing. She shook her head, perplexed.

Finally, I had to get a pen and write it down, whereupon the penny dropped. I was hastily dispatched to a small curtained waiting room. A brisk young doctor appeared a few minutes later, holding a gigantic syringe.

"Right," he said, "You'll need a shot of adrenalin, and I'll have to inject it into a large muscle. Either buttock would do."

"Um, noooooo. Ar hag noodlulth," I gargled, shaking my head empathically, gazing at the huge needle like a panicked rabbit.

"If I don't give you this shot," the doctor said, "your tongue may continue swelling, and eventually, you'll asphyxiate."

Ah. I decided that perhaps a large needle in the ass was, in fact, preferable to choking to death on my own tongue.

I exposed the necessary slab of flesh, looked away and tried not to yelp when he jammed the needle in my rear. Afterwards I had to sit for half an hour, heart pounding from the adrenalin, tongue like a balloon. When I began to feel a little better, I ventured back to the waiting room to look for Horatio to give me a lift back to the campus.

Unfortunately for me, Horatio was nowhere to be found. Turns out he had headed for home after dropping me, with no intention of providing a taxi service back to spoiled young student-land for silly girls with beestung tongues.

I honestly cannot remember now how I got back- I may have walked, in the searing heat, clutching a prescription for supplementary Benadryl in my sweaty palm. I do recall wondering later, why couldn't damn bee have landed its jab on my top lip? At least then I might have fit in, temporarily, with my fellow students.

Epilogue:

The Fellow Transferee and I actually became good friends, a relationship which lasted exactly the duration of our remaining college years. She was something of a narcissistic kleptomaniac, but then, nobody is perfect.

The nurse and I remained on nodding terms- she was very helpful another time when I came down with flu and a fever of 104 degrees.

Happily, I never saw the brisk young doctor again.

Horatio retired soon after the incident. Not long after that, he drove the old Buick into a tree, killing himself instantly. There was a rumour that the accident may have been caused by the distraction of swatting a bee inside the car.

My tongue eventually made a full recovery. I've haven't been stung since. Since graduation, I have not returned to my alma mater, and have no immediate plans to do so any time, ever.

Not waving but drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

-Stevie Smith

I decided recently to come at least part way out of the IVF/infertility closet, by operating on a "if you ask, I'll tell" basis.

People notice when I disappear off for an afternoon to the doctor. People worry when I allude to possibly needing a leave of absence from work in the autumn, but don't give a reason. In the long term, keeping any sort of treatment secret entails a lot of evasiveness, making up excuses, or possibly even downright lying. I find all that exhausting, and I no longer have the energy for it. Arranging and co-ordinating treatment in the OC is going to be complicated enough asit is without extra tap-dancing around the subject with friends and colleagues.

I decided to be practical and pragmatic. It's none of anyone else's business, but I have nothing to be ashamed of. We have a medical problem, one which requires medical assistance. Of course I would not intend to go shouting it from the rooftops, or making up buttons that say "I'm Infertile! Ask me how!" But if I were to be asked a direct question, or if it would otherwise make my life easier to come clean, then I decided- I would admit the truth. Barren, but forthright.

Before, I was afraid to tell anyone. I worried that in addition to be judged and criticised, I would receive annoying, hurtful or insulting assvice. I worried that I would undergo treatment, and it would fail, and then I would have to endure pitying looks, or more unbearable platitudes. I worried that if I was upfront about our situation, all this and more might happen.

But then I mentally shook myself, like a shaggy dog just out of the river. What's to lose? The only thing to fear from assvice is the assvice itself!

How ironic then that, having girded myself for the looks, the inappropriate comments, and some general insensitivity, I find that what I have mostly received thus far is indifference. This annoys me. After all, there is nothing more irritating than having psyched oneself up for a big gut wrenching and climactic confession, only to find that, guess what? Nobody gives a shit! It's not hot news, it's non- news.

Thing is, this should not come as a big surprise. Generally speaking, what interests people most in life is themselves. And why not? Life is complicated and messy, and at any one time there are a thousand and one different problems, dilemmas and other personal matters with which to otherwise preoccupy the self. Aging parents. A wayward teenager. A philandering husband. Mounting credit card debt. A career crisis. Leaking roof, a faulty dishwasher, an ugly dispute with a neighbour over the height of a hedge or boundary of a lawn. Depression. Addiction. The government conspiracy that we should have tracking chips implanted in our heads (what, you hadn't heard about that? Further proof that the truth is being SUPPRESSED).

In short, many people are so involved with their own "stuff" that all they do is nod, smile, possibly ask a few vague and general questions. Then they quickly go back to what's really important to them- their own stuff.

Oh, there have been some half-hearted attempts at sympathy and understanding, but within five minutes of explaining the dragons on my horizon- needles, nasal sprays, dildo-cams- their eyes are glazing. It seems even harder for people to take an interest if they have never encountered or experienced infertility in their own lives, if there is no parcel of pain matching that description in their personal Life Baggage.

Admittedly, I think it might be slightly different if I was presenting this as an emotive issue- but I'm not. Just the facts, stated in a calm, direct manner. Sometimes I've even smiling and rolling my eyes when I say it- as in "oh, silly me. This darn infertility thing, I'll be spending my summer vacation in the hospital. Har har har, what a hoot".

There may be no obvious signal of any undercurrent of stress or anguish- and so while certain parts of the message may get through, much is lost. The channels of reception cannot quite catch my frequency. It's like a dog whistle, shrill and high beyond the range of human ears, or talking on the telephone over a crossed wire.

Lost in the waves of life-static, it is so hard to convey that right now, I am much further out than they think. Not waving, but drowning.

Bugs

The latest disappointing news for Bugs has reminded me all over again of the spectacular unfairness of infertility- if not for me, then for people I like and care about. Bugs is genuinely one of the nicest people I have ever met online- first on a message board and then later in her beautifully written blog. All day I have felt a heavy weight around my heart that things haven't turned out better for her and her husband.

I think it is truly difficult, if you spend any amount of time on the Island, to remain untouched by the stories of others. For someone like me who has been unable to make much headway for the last year, it's been a lifeline to experience progress vicariously through another person. Unfortunately, the downside of that can be twofold. You eventually either get left behind, kicking your heels in the sand and wondering if your own ship will ever come in, or else you feel cut to the core alongside your comrades when the bottom drops out of their world.

It's at times like these that I realise that we're all not only stranded on an island, but an island with a sprawling jungle. A jungle with a dark interior, and things that stir in the shadows, with sharp teeth and claws.

I'm so sorry, Bugs.

Alas for the cup of joe

In the countdown to ART lift-off, I've been re-assessing the overall health and nutritional habits of both myself and E. Of course, I did this when we first started trying, and all sort of peculiar items crept into the fridge and the vitamin cabinet, such as baby carrots and bulk multi-packs of green tea. Then, after months and months of drinking grapefruit juice and religiously taking my evening primrose oil, I got tired of all that shit, and eased off. I figured it was part of the "just relax" programme- if I didn't consciously spend every waking hour priming my body for pregnancy, maybe it would just happen when I wasn't looking.

Or not.

However, in light of the impending IVF, I do think it is an opportune time to think again about whether there is anything we could do to possibly improve our chances. I'm not saying I suddenly want to become organic-only vegan or similar. Hats off to those who manage to maintain that kind of healthy eating regime, but I have enough trouble organising the eating of three squares a day without introducing any extra palaver. Besides, my life is enough of a fun-free zone at the moment as it is. But then again, I also want to make an effort to avoid anything that might actively fuck it up for us.

To that end, and with no small amount of reluctance, I have decided to make a major sacrifice and....gulp...give up coffee. As in...NO COFFEE! AIEEEEE!

This is partly due a sort of stubborn inner voice demanding that I prostrate myself before the Fertility Gods by offering up something I love in exchange for their blessings. But I'm also a pragmatist who dismisses as that as a lot of foolish nonsense- I mean, isn't going through IVF enough as it is? DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE MY SOUL AS WELL?

No, it's more down to what to what I have read about the effects of caffeine on fertility, and on IVF generally. The consensus from Dr Google seems to be that it is preferable to either limit or cut down on caffeine during treatment- that statistically, those women who drink caffeine are less likely to get pregnant, or to more likely to miscarry than women who don't.

I don't drink that much coffee- one strong one in the morning is usually all- but I love the ritual of making a cup in my red fire engine of a espresso machine. It cheers me to up when I stagger out of bed in the morning to know I have such a beautiful implement at my disposal for my coffee needs. I love the taste and smell of coffee, not to mention the restorative effects. I love the social aspects- team meetings at work are invariably held in the coffee shop so we can all partake of a cuppa joe together with a scone with the size and consistency of a concrete brick.

I love coffee enough that I know giving it up is going to give me some funky withdawal symptons. The last time I tried to detox (about five years ago) I got a headache so bad that I had to stagger down to the local pharmacy to score some extra strong headache tablets. I was so grey, pale and sweaty that the owner thought I was some sort of deranged junkie and almost wouldn't sell me the painkillers. So if it weren't for the two month interval, I probably wouldn't even be attempting to give it up completely.

You see, my plan is to wean myself off gradually by mixing decaf into what would otherwise be a fully caffeinated cup. I can control the decaf/caff ration until I am nearly detoxed, and then can switch to decaf for a bit, and then onto something even healthier like... er, hot water with lemon (bleccccch).

E. was very impressed when I told him this. So much so that he decided to help by going out and purchasing multiple bags of coffee in varying strengths. He came home over the weekend with a bag of normal strength coffee, a bag of what we call "50/50" - that is half full caffeine and half decaf, and a bag of basic decaf.

Unfortunately, what followed on led to us having a further "failure to communicate". That afternoon, I decided I really wanted a cup of coffee, but that it would be good to start the decaf program right away. So I opened the bag of decaf. Only as soon as I had done so, I saw that it looked like E. had opened the 50/50 bag the night before and had poured it into one of the tupperware tubs that we use for coffee storage. We also had a half a jar of full (espresso strength) coffee already open.

Typically, I then could not find another tupperware with a lid. What's with that? We have about a million little plastic containers sitting in the drawer, and can I ever ever find a lid when I need one? No. I could not. Nor could I manage to get the decaf bag re-sealed. So in a fit of pique, I poured the decaf onto the half filled espresso jar and stuck in back in the fridge. I told E. what I had done when he saw the decaf bag open.

"Where did you put it?" he asked warily, as if I had planted a dead rat somewhere amongst our food stores.

"In the espresso jar," I confirmed, pointing to it.

However, the next morning, I decided it was a bad idea to have the decaf on top of the full strength. The idea was to gradually mix full caff with decaf- and the full caf was now buried under a mound of the horrid decaf stuff. So in a further fit of growling, I poured out the decaf-contaminated contents into the 50/50 tub.

And then forgot to mention it to E. Who had a killer headache that day. I couldn't see why that should be the result of making coffee taken from what I thought was the 50/50 tub, and we proceeded to have the most ridiculous conversation trying to get to the bottom of how this happened.

"You see, I mixed the decaf with the full caf, then changed my mind and mixed with the half caf, " I explained.

"The full caf? Or the half caf?"

"The half caf in that tub there," I said

"That's the full caff," E. said.

"No, the full caff is there. Until I moved it."

"They are both full caf. Until you mixed it to make it into 50/50".

"It already was 50/50. I just put the decaf on top."

"But it was full caf," he said

"No, the full caf is here, but it was half full until I filled with decaf. The I filled the half caf full of decaf."

And so it went. We finally worked out between us about half an hour later, with some shouting and arm-waving for good measure, that the 50/50 bag remained unopened and we were dealing with two containers of fully caffeinated coffee, plus some decaf mixed in.

God help us if we have to mix IVF meds.

The Blue Folder

We have exactly two months until we have our appointment with the nurse at the O.C. They continue to be slightly vague as to exactly what will go on at that meeting, except that the session apparently includes something called "implications counselling". Heh. I like the sound of that. "The implications of this treatment are that it may suck ass a whole lot, or just a little bit. Oh, and you may or may not get pregnant."

Anyway. Two more months. It seems like a long time, but I am guessing that it has the potential to pass very quickly. Or at least I hope so. Having made up our minds to do this IVF lark, I am now extremely keen to get on with it. This is fairly typical of decision-making in the Mare household. Swither, swither, swither and then a bold leap into action. Or, er, possibly a timid hop into action.

In the meantime, there isn't much else to do. E. has to have yet another SA at the O.C. (where they will hopefully not be too full of BS and where I pray I will get PG, PDQ, OK?). And I have just had another FSH test, the results of which I will get sometime this week, but assuming there is nothing alarming there, we are good to go.

And then we wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Wait.

Oh, look, is that paint drying over there?

In order to make myself feel as though we continue to step in the right direction, I have been focusing on the "back office" part of treatment. Namely, the filing, bill-paying and organising of the various bits of paper that have filtered in over the last year and a half. God, I love to file. Like some other people, I am renowned for it. Filing makes me feel as if I am making some small in-roads into the chaotic soup of the uncontrollable. OK, so I may not be able to control when I get pregnant- but at least I can lay my hands on the result of my 2003 smear test in less than 3 seconds.

I spent a very pleasant afternoon hole-punching and arranging all test results for both E. and myself over these many months. Referral letters. Invoices for payment (only two of those far, but ooh, just wait.) Old charts from back when I still bothered taking my temperature. Explanations from the different clinics about their treatment policies. Letter from Ass Con advising as to our placement on NHS waiting list (HA!). Notes of key phone numbers and opening times. Hmmm. I should really get some colour coded dividers.

All of this information has now been compiled into the "Blue Folder", a medium sized ring binder with a pouch at the back for miscellaneous papers and flotsam. This folder in its fledging incarnation has already been toted into both Ass Con and the O.C. much to the amusement of one of the nurses, who cooed, "Oooh, you're organised." Lady, you have no idea. You ain't seen nothing yet.

The cover of the Blue Folder is presently a little bland though. I am considering ways to perk it up- making it less of a grim File of Doom and more like, a File of Fluffy Optimisim. In fact, I was thinking of covering it in brown paper, like we used to do at school, and drawing little pictures of eggs and sperm with a big love heart between them. "SPERMIE HEARTS EGGIE. TRU LUV 4EVAH." Only instead of a cupid's arrow through the heart, it will be a giant syringe.

What do you think? Any other ideas? All whimsy welcomed.

Assvice issued unwittingly over lunch

To my great dismay, I realised that I gave assvice to a friend- thereby proving that infertility has not granted me immunity from behaving like a complete asshole on occasion.

This friend is a sweet woman, who is some years younger than me. I don't know her that well- although well enough for her to confess to me over lunch the other day that she was recently dumped by a guy she had been seeing for about five or six months. She had liked him a great deal, and I gather she had some hopes that the relationship might go somewhere.

The details provided about the break-up (or should I say, break-off) were a bit sketchy. But it would seem that the dumping was carried out in a manner that was both cruel and unexpected, a combination which so upset my friend that she had to take a few days off work to pull herself together. She relayed this to me, bottom lip gently quivering above her salad fork.

As I listened to this, part of my brain was doing that awful thing where you start comparing pain. As in, you had to take time off work for that? For some guy you only dated for a couple of months? That? THAT IS NOTHING, SISTER. You don't know the meaning of the word pain. Here, have a slice of infertility. I've been tasting that bitterness for almost two years now, and have yet to take so much as a day off!

But then the more compassionate part of my brain quickly grappled for supremacy. As one who has had her own fair share of soul-shattering rejections, I could certainly relate to her story. Nor can I deny that getting your heart broken by some jerk does suck its own particular brand of ass.

So I nodded and made soothing noises. And then just when we were nearly out of the heartbreak main course, and onto dessert, there was an unfortunate lapse into assviceness on my part.

"I'm sure you'll meet someone else," I chirruped. "Other fish in the sea, more deserving of you, blah blah blah. But of course, the key to meeting someone is to not try. As soon as you're not looking, that's when you'll meet some. If you're not looking, it's bound to happen."

As I was saying these words, I felt a peculiar sort of rumbling in my sub-conscious, accompanied by a muted alarm claxon.

*DANGER* *DANGER* Corruption of key message! Code red! You have deviated into assvice! Deviation! Deviation! Take evasive action! Dive, dive!

But I ignored it, and carried on with my platitudes, until I caught sight of my friend's face. She had a strange look in her eyes. There was something about it that was remarkably...familiar. What could be? Oh yes, it's the same pained expression I have worn for the last eighteen months or so while I have been on the receiving end of more assvice than you can shake a stick at.

Um, whoops. I suddenly came to my senses and remembered that if you have just been dumped by someone you really like, that last thing you want to hear right about now is that you'll meet someone else, or that better still, it will happen while you're "not looking". It's the Dating & Relationship Equivalent of "just relax"! And I said it!

Ugh. I suddenly feel the need to flagellate myself with a cat-o-nine tails. A flogging blogger. Or possibly I will just go exfoliate quite vigorously, as that is probably good for the circulation anyway.

Campfire Circle

When I made the big move to Typepad, I decided to do away with my old Blogroll.  This was largely to do with the fact that by that point, my blog-reading had transcended beyond that list, and it was becoming impossible for the blogroll to accurately reflect all the various sites I was visiting on any given day.  Plus for cosmetic reasons, I thought the link to the Big Two Blog Rolls of Infertility/Adoption/Parenthood (Julie and Milenka's respective lists) should just about cover it.  And, since then I have discovered the joys of Bloglines; which in some ways has rendered the practical need for a blogroll even less.

But. When I first started out in this ole blogging lark, I remember how much of a thrill I would get when I would visit someone's site and see they had linked to me.  Actually, who am I kidding, I still get a thrill (not to mention a large proportion of my daily hits) from such links.  So it seems a shame not to give a similar boost, and return the favour to others from time to time, especially to those new bloggers who are perhaps not yet as well known or trafficked.  Not that I myself am the most popular pumpkin in the pumpkin patch, but you know, every little bit helps.

So here's the deal. I have created a new Typelist: The Campfire. The purpose of this is to highlight a few recommended blogs which I have recently discovered (some new, some maybe not so new). In addition, I may occasionally add a link to other blogs if there is something interesting going on there- a hot debate, a hilarious post, or a particular need for support and wagon-circling.

If you are a brand new blogger and would like to be spotlighted, e-mail me and let me know. If you are a longstanding blogger with an unquenchable thirst for fame, power and site hits, then e-mail me too. It's an open opportunity campfire.  Conversely, if you find yourself centre stage, and for whatever reason find that uncomfortable or objectionable, please do let me know and I will do the necessary to remedy that at once. 

I should stress from the get-go that the Campfire list is, by its very nature, intended to be impermanent.  It will probably shuffle often.  In some ways that's the whole point of the exercise. Therefore, please do not be offended if your blog is there one day, and the next time has been replaced by another.  That does not mean that you are suddenly no longer interesting, or that anyone has been kicked out of the fire circle. It just means that like life, all is in a constant state of flux.*

*(Of course, if you are desperate to retain your campfirey status, I have been known to be swayed on occasion by bribes of cookies and other gift offerings. Just a thought.)

Driving, dancing and failing to communicate

We had quite an enjoyable time at the wedding this weekend. The weather wasn't great, but apart from that, the happy event itself was- well- happy. The bride was glowing, but not yet showing, to my secret inner relief. It transpired they had actually been trying for eighteen months, which softened my mood toward the "news". My mood, and indeed my general ability to stand upright, were then softened even further by the night-long free bar at the reception.

The only downside was the sheer amount of driving to get there and back- five hours each way. I had rather envisaged that we would use the time to have a long, heartfelt discussion about our lives, our careers, our impending IVF.

However, I had forgotten my famous status as the Passenger Most Likely to Fall Asleep on Long Car Journeys- or else lapse into a sort of comatose trance as the miles pass by. I don't know what it is about being a car that makes me so...sleepy. It's always been that way. Since poor E. was doing all the driving, I did do my best to at least try to stay conscious. But my inherent travel-induced doziness meant in-depth conversation was somewhat limited. Instead we just played Rufus Wainwright over and over again, drinking endless cups of coffee from the thermos.

We did have a short discussion about why we were driving in the first place, as opposed to flying. It's really not a very interesting conversation, but I'll tell you anyway.

"How come we didn't fly down?" E. asked.

"Because it was too expensive. We left it too late to book it. However, if we had booked it when we first received the invitation, it would have been cheaper than a Starbucks latte," I replied.

"You never told me that it was cheap to fly when the invitation came."

"I did. I checked it right away and I told you. I told you, and you said you had check your desk diary and think about whether we could go away that weekend. And by the time you made up your mind that we could, it was more expensive."

"No, you never told me about the cheapness," E said.

"Did so. "

"Did not. You failed to communicate that."

"Yes, I did tell you."

"Did not."

And so on. See? I told you it was very boring. I think I may have even fallen asleep halfway through that conversation, that's how dull it was.

Apparently, I also "failed to communicate" a number of other things over the weekend, such as that we needed to get our stub stamped at the hotel every time we went in and out of the parking garage if we wanted a discount on the fee.

When I was not "failing to communicate", I was "failing to retain key information", such as the location of the pub where people were gathering before the start of the wedding. Why it should have been my sole responsibility to retain and communciate all this vital information remains something of an unfathomable mystery. Makes me think we have a few things to work on in that department before the IVF fun and games start in June.

Lastly, I did tell a fellow wedding guest about the IVF. It was an ideal opportunity, actually. I really just wanted to hear myself say the words out loud, to see how I felt and what the reaction might be. But I also wanted to try it out on somebody who I probably wouldn't see again in the near future, or possibly, see ever again.

It was all very anti-climactic really. He nodded in a detached, slightly sympathetic way- as if I had just announced that my pantyhose were cutting off the blood supply to my lower extremities- before returning to his beer-soaked rambling about the demise of his relationship. Just as I was about to seriously consider impaling myself on the leftover toothpicks from the buffet table to break up the monologue, E. rescued me for a giddy twirl around the dance floor.

And suddenly, happily, no words were needed.