Barren Mare

The Hassle Factor

Whew. We do have a lot to talk about. This might run on for a couple of posts, so pull up a seat and pour yourself a tasty margarita or other cocktail of choice while I try to set my world to rights a little.

Firstly, I can assure you that tempting as the offer of having E. run over with BHM's truck may be, we are both still in one piece. In fact, I am doing surprisingly OK, generally. There is a zesty autumnal tang in the air, and I am suddenly feeling alive to the possibilities that this time of year seems to suggest to me.

Now. Many of you, in your comments, queried precisely what E. meant when he said that pursuing further fertility treatment was "too much hassle right now". Such a snippy little word, "hassle", isn't it? And note my continued use of the phrase "right now", which to my mind is a important and significant qualification to any bold statements made at any point about what we should or should not do.

One thing to bear in mind here is that with E., we are dealing with a particularly tricky species of man-thing. Namely, the red-blooded hominus caledonius, otherwise known as the Scottish male. Take your usual brand of uncommunicative, inarticulate and emotionally closed off male, and multiply it to the power of forty-two.

E., I think it is fair to say, has a lot on his proverbial plate. Leaving aside all the IVF stuff, he's just moved in with me permanently and full time, a first in the course of our long relationship. There's still stuff everywhere and nowhere to put it, because we suddenly realise this flat is too small and we will have to move again. Hurrah! Won't that be fun. And not only has he changed jobs, but he's taken a potentially risky career step. We both felt it was the right decision, but which at least in the short term is bound to increase the overall sense of that day to day fuckityfuck feeling.

It may sound like I am defending E., and in some ways I am. Because aside from anything else, I'm perfectly alive to the fact that infertility is a soul-sucking drain on a person's time and energy. And there's a huge part of me that is also screaming "Enough! Enough! "- though more on that in another post. But ultimately, the thing is, I respect E.. I respect the fact that we have both been through the mill this year (although it's me who has bourne the brunt of it, a fact he accepts). I appreciate that the thought of heaping more poo on the steaming pile of turds that is our experience of trying to have a child is an awful thought, even before you take into account all the adjustments to other major life changes and stressors. .

And I do believe, if you strip away some of my initial anger at the way he put it, that he didn't and doesn't mean to be hurtful. I think, as many commenters suggested, there is a message underneath the word "hassle", which encapsulates so so much. It was JennaM who really hit the nail on the head. Yes, I think that may be exactly what he meant: "hard...tired...can't we just pretend for awhile." Or maybe that is what I am capable of hearing, because it's what I myself think sometimes. Plus, he hates more than anything to see me crying and upset, and nothing brings out the weepy creepy in me like infertility related stuff.

Lastly, without going into the detail, I don't know if I can properly convey to you exactly what was involved with my intended Plan. But trust me, it is daunting- even for someone of my exceptional organisational tenacity, and even if he had agreed to it, I don't know if I could have actually pulled it off. It's so compelling to just put down this heavy load we have been carrying, and here I am suggesting what for us seems like the Mount Everest of fertility treatment.

Truth is, I think I could have sold it to him better. What I said was something like, "Honey, I think we should do international IVF somewhere very far away. We have to make two trips, the first of which is to basically re-do all our initial testing for no apparent reason but at vast expense. Oh, and then I have to stay out there the whole cycle, because there is no prospect of any local monitoring. Ah, and the total cost? Well, my sweet, I've made a few calls and if we both sell a kidney, it's totally affordable! OK? You with me on this?"

And then when he said no, I burst into hysterical sobs and fits of rage. Mmmmm. Perhaps not the most convincing sales pitch ever.

OK, so, that's one angle to all of this. Now, just to give a balanced view of where my head is at, in my next post I'll talk about why maybe we should run E. over with BHM's truck after all.

Friendly Fire

I haven't been intentionally coy in keeping from you my schemes for the next stage of our infertility adventure. You see, I laid the plan out for E. en route to the airport a few weeks ago, and then we agreed we would discuss it and decide when we got back, so as to not overly disrupt our holiday vibe. So, we've discussed it. And The Plan, such as it was, seems to have hit a fundamental snag.

That being, E. won't agree to it.

Worse, it's not that he's opposed only to my grandiose ideas of going abroad for assistance. No, he doesn't want to seek any further treatment, full stop. Or at least not "right now." Despite hours of tortured argument with him, I remain unable to ascertain exactly when, or even if, he might ever be ready again. It could be two weeks, it could be six months, he doesn't know and why don't I quit talking about already, the answer is no.

The main objection, or at least the one he is best able to articulate, is that further IVF treatment at this stage is simply too much "hassle". OK, I readily concur that what I had in mind was right into the red zone at the top end of the Hassle Scale, in terms of time, distance, juggling schedules, and finance. But having weighed it up, I had come to the conclusion that the hassle would be at least be compensated by the fact that we would be receiving the very best of care from a top notch clinic. That doing IVF again would entail a certain amount of hassle anyway, and if we had to go through all that again, why not cut to the chase and go to the best place, where at least we would probably have a fighting chance of success? This, to my mind, was the big crossroads. We either continued to dick around with second rate assistance, or we seized the nettle and committed to getting the problem dealt with properly. Then, if it failed, we could honestly say that we did everything we could- that we had given it our best shot.

Alas. E. is not persuaded. I have to say, this comes as something of a rude shock. I sincerely believed, judging from his past attitudes, and from everything he has ever said about the issue up until this point that he would grumble a little bit, but that he would ultimately agree it was worth it.

I could, I suppose, talk him into it, eventually. But you know, I resent the hell out of that idea. It's going to be hard enough going through IVF again without me having to sell it to my partner as something for me. You see, I have this strange notion in my pointy head that this should be something we both want, that we endure as a team effort- kind of like we would both commit to raising a child, if we were ever so fortunate as to manage to have one.

Yes, he knows that at age 35, I am not getting any younger, and the luxury of time is no longer on our side. He is fully aware that my age is a major factor in success rates. He knows that it makes better sense all around to do something sooner rather than later. He understands that there is a distinct possibility we may never conceive on our own. And he realises that by failing to move forward, it means we may never have children. But still the answer is no- or at least, "no, not right now".

E. is the type of person where if you try to change his mind about something, he will simply become more entrenched. The only solution is to leave him alone with the idea, and hope he comes around, eventually. But where does that leave me in the meantime? In fucking limbo land again, that's where. Never mind the fact that doing IVF again is not exactly top of my list of "2006- Fun Things to Pursue" and I have my own ambivalence about the whole thing. The point is now it feels like it's not even up to me, and there is nothing I can do about it. I mean, what are my options at this point?

Oh, what a total fucking mess. If I had known that the one crappy cycle at the OC was going to be my sole shot at IVF, I would have stayed on the bathroom floor for a hell of lot longer when it didn't work.

I expected that there would be roadblocks and delays along the way, with appointments, scheduling, needing to get more tests done, arranging time off work. And I knew that the day might arrive when we reached the end of the road at last, and could go no further. That we would find ourselves facing a doctor's blunt diagnosis or a peestick of doom.

What I didn't expect was a round of friendly fire from my own side, from somebody who is supposed to be my staunchest ally. From the person who I thought was out back sawing some logs for the life rafts, but instead was feeding the wood into a bonfire, and quietly shredding the mast.

Beware of being wary of monks bearing biscuit tins

I'm glad you all found the creepy doll-thing as bizarre as I did. It didn't help that in the middle of the night, I had to get up to pee, and as I got out of bed, E. whispered, "Don't let the spooky clown get you." Aieeee! I was tempted to retaliate by peeing in one of his shoes in the corner of the room.

I realise that hearing people bang on about their vacations can get dull quickly, so I promise not to drone on about it after this post. But there is one further holiday tale which is entirely apropos of nothing at all. It amused me though, and I can't think of any other opportunity to work a story about a Greek monk and a biscuit tin into an infertility blog. So:

Toward the end of the holiday we started to feel just a little bit guilty about our near total failure to exert ourselves beyond walking to the buffet table and back. We decided to rally by doing a bit of sightseeing. Despite the fact that it was about nine million degrees in the shade, we hopped in the car and drove out to see a couple of monasteries. As in real, working ones with live monks, not converted into hotels with creepy dolls. Of course we got hopelessly lost on the way a number of times, the road markings and signage being generally abysmal not to mention written in, ah, Greek. This makes for vastly entertaining navigation, by the way- the sign flying past and then squinting at the road map trying to transliterate into English at the same time.

We found it eventually though, and my, it was pretty. There was a tidy courtyard filled with flowers, and a little chapel with beautiful icons and frescoes. There were even a couple of monks dotting about the place in a monkly fashion, watering the rosebushes and looking contemplative. It was all very tranquil and pleasant. Unfortunately, custom necessitated my covering up my bare arms with a jersey, which made the whole experience a trifle hot and sweaty for me, and after about ten minutes I was ready to faint in the heat.

We headed for the exit, whereupon we found a monk sitting by the door. He nodded at us (or rather at E.- he never even looked at me once) and pointed to a closed metal biscuit tin perched on the bench opposite. We immediately assumed he wanted money in payment for the visit to the monastery. E. started scrabbling around in his pockets for some change, while I hissed,

"But the guide book said it was free!"

Further groping in our backpack revealed we were without anything resembling an appropriate donation. Embarrassed, we turned back to the monk who was waiting patiently during the last five minutes while all this was going on. E. gave the international sign of the dumbass, namely a lame shrug and lifting of bare palms to denote we were cashless.

The monk stood up. He leaned toward E. and said haltingly,

"What is your name?"

E. told him, replying brightly, "Oh, do you speak English?" As if that was going to help explain why we were wholly unable to stump up some change for the coin box.

The monk shook his head. Then he slowly reached over, lifted the biscuit tin and took the lid off, handing it towards E. My heart sank. This was getting worse and worse. Couldn't he see we were just stupido touristos with no money on us? The guide book said it was free! Free! I opened my mouth to babble a further unintelligible apology when I saw that the tin was in fact full of:

Candy.

Ah. Ah! Our dumbassery had clearly reached unparalled heights. He was trying to offer us a little monastic snack, not hit us up for a donation! E. cleared his throat in the way you do when the embarrassment is considerable. Then he took a piece of candy, and thanked the monk in our restaurant Greek. I took a piece, too, even though the tin was not exactly wafted in my general direction. And I had my arms covered up and everything! Then we fled to the car where we sat chewing our sweets, feeling generally silly.

I suppose in the big scheme of holiday adventures that's not a very exciting story, but it seemed symbolic of...something. As though there ought to be some little lesson here, bundled up in a neat proverb about this experience, but I can't quite work out what it is, beyond the title given this post. Mmm. Yeah. Maybe it's time to go back to writing about infertility.

Odyssey

"And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea,
I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure.
Much have I suffered, labored long and hard now,
in the waves and the wars. Add this to the total-
bring the trial on!"

-Odysseus to Calypso before building a raft,
Homer, The Odyssey

Well, I'm back. Considerably tanner, with a few extra freckles and a couple extra pounds. It was very hot, you see, which necessitated eating lots of ice cream. I am also rather relaxed in the non-teethgrinding you'll-get-pregnant sense. Although apparently studies have shown that holiday relaxation wears off in about 24 hours, so I have about three remaining minutes before I get tense again.

It was, on the whole, an exceptionally pleasant vacation. We ate a lot, drank more, and lay about in the sunshine. We also slept a good deal, especially during the first week, when both of us collapsed immediately like wilted daisies. It was intensely soothing. I had a vague buzzing sensation around my skull for a few days- it took a short while to realise that it was the feeling you get when you have been banging your head very hard against a brick wall, and then stop, abruptly. The utter tranquility of our surroundings- high on a hill, with the Homeric wine-dark sea in the distance- was idyllic in every sense of the word.

We contemplated doing some sightseeing, but most days got as far as raising up on one elbow on the sun lounger before deciding that, really, it was mighty nice right where we were. One afternoon I spent a long, perfect hour sitting in the cooling shade, bare feet dangling against warm rock, slowly and methodically eating figs plucked fresh from the overhanging tree. Doing nothing, and better yet, thinking nothing. It was a blissful sort of amnesia from all the recent mental anguish, and I felt very much better for it.

There was a little bit of a hiccup the second week. Because we had booked the trip so late, we had been slightly limited in our choice of accommodation. All this meant was we had to switch hotels and locations after a week. This didn't bother us, initially- in fact, the second place was the one we thought we would prefer. It was an old monastery, which had been turned into a sort of boutique hotel, and judging from the pictures online we expected something a bit special. I thought it would suit my frame of mind to have a sort of calm, clean, vaguely spartan place to stay. The hotel description mentioned that there was a small chapel within the grounds, and I imagined myself taking quiet daily sojourns there to sit in peaceful contemplation.

Well, yikes. It turned out to be a small disaster- the hotel itself was out in the middle of nowhere with no pleasant village or taverna nearby, and a view of scrubby hillside. The grounds were slightly unkempt and grubby. The pool was dirty, with cobwebs and old leaves. Worse, there was a bad, fetid smell emitting from the poolside, and a plague of flies everywhere.

And our room! Eeegads! Words really fail me here. I expected a bit of monastic quirkiness, but this was downright weird. It was like a tomb- dark, a bit damp, and with some very odd furnishings. Oh, and this was hanging by the door:

Gaaahhh! It was weird, it was creepy, and it gave us the complete heebie-jeebies. We ended up spending one restless night there, the bad smell wafting into our room, and promptly requested an immediate move.

To the credit of our holiday rep, this was arranged with a minimum of fuss, although it meant we ended up someplace we might not have ordinarily chosen. That being a beachfront sleek modern hotel (albeit with a nice view of thay wine-dark sea, plus breakfast and dinners thrown in). The major downside was that it was much more a "family" hotel- meaning lots of kids and babies. There was one particularly annoying family who positively expected the rest of the guests to coo over their decidedly bratty children during every meal. Apart from feeling vaguely annoyed, I suddenly found myself yanked from my state of glorious amnesia to minding again, suddenly and intensely, about our situation. A few bottles of nice red wine whilst sitting out on the balcony watching the lighting flash and the moon rise did go a long way towards soothing my furrowed brow once more, but I'm afraid the wonderful first week spell was broken somewhat.

Not to worry. It was a lovely break. And now it's time, once more, to turn to the task at hand. There's a raft to be constructed, a mast to raise, and the widest ocean of my life to cross.

"Still Life with Gonal F"

Here's one I made earlier. A few of my favourite things. Ah, the art of ART.

See you on 21 September!

Turning the page

Well, ooooookaaay. I am feeling much, much better now- a bit battle weary but more my old self than not. I attribute that largely to two things. Firstly, we are going on vacation somewhere hot and sunny on Tuesday for two weeks, the prospect of which is undeniably cheering (despite the endless moronic commentary that I will get pregnant from all the relaxation).

Secondly, we have the preliminary makings of a Plan. Or I should say I have the makings, because at the moment E. is preoccupied with about ten million other things, all of which to his mind are considerably more pressing. Like in which box did he leave that particular piece of vital wiring and gadgetry.

I am sure he will catch up with me eventually, and that's fine. Because the plan I am formulating is so audacious, so logistically complicated and so jawdroppingly expensive that I need a chance to work up my sales pitch. There are moments when I have trouble believing myself that what I am about to propose could work- and I am not yet completely certain it will. But it is strangly soothing to me to have something to focus on-the mechanics of unfankling a hugely knotted ball of treatment fishing line.

What is clear at this juncture is that we will try again. The bottom line is, we do want to have a child. Adoption remains problematic for us for reasons discussed at length in earlier posts. So if IVF is a way to achieve having a family, then this is what we will do. True, I've done some bitter flailing and teeth gnashing in coming to accept this. Being unexplained doesn't make it easy, and up until now, it was very compelling to simply carry on secretly thinking that there was nothing really wrong with us.

However, failing to get pregnant despite undergoing IVF kind of puts a new spin on that one. Kind of hard to ignore that as Exhibit A in the ongoing "Truly Infertile or Just Unlucky?" inquiry.

What is also clear- to me anyway- is that I do not want to go back to the O.C. again. In retrospect, it did make sense to do our first attempt there. Because the doctors kept banging on about how we just needed to give our chances a little boost, how we were excellent candidates for IVF. And compared to the alternatives, it was relatively inexpensive. Plus at that point, we did own a place to stay in town, which made it convenient.

But it's also left me with a number of questions. Had we gone somewhere much better, with a higher success rate and standard, I might have a slightly different attitude to the aforementioned Exhibit A. As it is, I am still thinking, "OK, I didn't get pregnant. But the clinic was crap."

I mean, I was mentally trying not to slate them too much when I was doing the cycle, because I didn't want to bite the hand that might impregnate me, so to speak. And they weren't entirely without good points- for example, some of the nurses were quite sweet and the process itself was fairly straightforward. But taking a step back, there was a lot wrong. I mean, I basically chose my own protocol, for fucks' sake. And Dr Billy Fynn was an arse. In particular it annoys me that he managed to find the time to phone E. to chortle over those "outstanding semen analysis results", but he couldn't interrupt his fucking golf game for five minutes to simply phone me to say he was sorry, and would we at least like to come in to talk it over? Not. Acceptable. Plus, pee sample in the mail. Need I say more.

So, all that remains is to extract my medical records. And then that particular chapter of our infertility chronicles will be closed- for my part, without so much as a backwards glance. Stick around though, because I think the next chapter is about to get very interesting.