Barren Mare

We Interrupt this Interruption to say...

Hi! Hey! Hello! OK, I am know I am supposed to officially be on hiatus, but truth is, I miss the blogginess. Since my practice at the moment is to Do That Which Makes Me Happy, I thought I would just sort of stick my head above the duvet covers, with a little wave and a "howdy".

I also wanted to extend a sincere thank you to everyone who has commented, emailed, telephoned and in the case of one particular saint, sent flowers. You know who you are, and I will never forget it.

I wish I could say that everything is all better, and that I am whole, hearty and am able to pick up where we left off. Truth is, I still feel like my life is one big rollercoaster. Some days I am scared, sad, panicked and desperate beyond all telling. Other days I am completely calm, knowing that come what may, I am absolutely going to be OK. My hope is that eventually things will level off to the point where I no longer resemble an insane trapeze artist.

One of the reasons I thought it best to take a break was because I was so utterly blindsided by the turn life had taken. Getting to grips with the idea that I may never be able to have children was one thing. But to suddenly discover that I also seemed to be in the process of losing the man I love, for reasons which I still cannot understand, knocked the wind out of me so badly that I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to get up. And I was finding that I wasn't able to conduct myself with any sort of dignity or grace- at home, at work, or online.

I think now that while I may not have the equilibrium I need, I know I will somehow find the strength to get through it. What I am still trying to work out is how much to say about that process here. The thing is, people don't tend to talk much about relationship issues so much on infertility blogs. There are probably many reasons for that- but at first, my overwhelming feeling was that in the losing game of infertility, I have drawn the absolute worst hand. I don't get the baby and not only that, I may not get to keep the man either. Friends, let me tell you, being in that position is an incredibly lonely and isolating experience: like, how fucked up can this small girl's life become, all in the space of one year?

But then an interesting thing happened: a number of people publically commented, or privately emailed me to tell me that they had been, or were going through their own relationship hell, and to share how they coped with it. I began to feel a sense of being connected again, and it got me wondering if maybe there was some benefit in telling this particular story as well, or at least the parts of it that I feel comfortable sharing. That maybe somebody else out there suffering the same sort of maelstrom of crappiness could take heart that they were not alone.

OK. I'm climbing back into the bathtub for a bit now...but stay tuned, because I suspect I'll feel like checking back in again soon- even if the rollercoaster ride is not quite over.

Bloggus Interuptus

I may be at the end of my tether.

The thing about writing an infertility blog is that when the movement toward to a resolution- be it pregnancy, adoption, or living child free- grinds to a halt for some reason, it suddenly becomes very hard to talk about anything at all. I personally am not very fond of discussing the ways in which my wheels are spinning- how I am trapped, stuck, and do not see a way out. Or, to be blunt, I do see a way out, but it is a harsh and undesirable solution, and means the end of any possibility of having a family for the foreseeable future.

I know I have mentioned subtly and perhaps not so subtly that things were not going very well here. In the face of this, I have been soldiering on, but I have to tell you, I am exhausted. I am absolutely exhausted. It is very hard to write about thwarted motherhood, plans for further treatment, or indeed what my future life will look like, when at this point I don't even know if E. wants to spend Christmas with me. The life I knew and loved is turning to ashes and dust right before my eyes, and I don't know what to do about it. I can barely bring myself to talk about it, even to people who I know love and care about me. My heart is sorely bruised, perhaps broken, and it is all I can do to keep the rest of me from shattering into a million tiny pieces.

For now I will simply keep staggering on and hope that things will either get better, or that I will have the strength to do what I have to do to get myself out of this mess. But it looks like it won't be terribly pretty in the meantime.

Much as I love you all, I need some time to think things through, out of the glare of the Internets. So I am taking a brief blog hiatus to collect my thoughts, seek some clarity and regroup. I expect to be spending a great deal of time in the bath, on the treadmill and under the duvet. Hopefully when I come back, I will be feeling much better or else (temporarily) much worse.

Either way, I plan to be firmly on the road to something wholer and saner.

Update: My peoples, I adore your sweet comments and thank you for all your good wishes. In return, please rest assured that when I said "brief hiatus", I meant more of a refreshing pausing for breath in this conversation we are having, and not a permanent parting of the ways. I may be some time, but not quite in the meaning of poor brave Captain Oates.

The Most Fun You can Have while Having your Period

One of the hardest and saddest things about infertility is the way it makes us apt to loathe our own bodies. In particular, having one's period (I now refuse to refer to it as "AF") can become especially traumatising. For some, the event itself is especially painful in the physical sense. For others, the hurt comes from what it symbolises: another failed cycle; or worse- a loss of a much wanted pregnancy.

For me, over the last two years, my period has been the enemy. Apart from that one month and I wanted it to start, so I could in turn get on with the bombardment of hormone altering medication a la IVF. But that doesn't really count. Normally, having my period was the thing I didn't want to happen, over and over again: always totally out of my control, always a disappointment.

So, last month I was reading blogs (as you do) and came across an interesting item over at Pickled Eggs. Or at least I think it was there; please whomp me if not. Said item is a Mooncup, a reusable menstrual cup made out of special non-allergic squishy silicone rubber. It works like a tampon, only it's far groovier- kind of like a little funnel in which to catch all the, ah, goop. It has the advantages of being environmentally friendly, convenient, easy to use.

Best of all, no more worrying about disposal or frantically ferreting through the bathroom cabinets or handbag in search of the last remaining stray tampons because you forgot to buy another box the last time you were shopping.

Having perused the website, I ordered one without hesitation. And my, I am so glad I did. All of a sudden I was acutally excited to have my period so I could test my new mooncuppieness. My little parcel arrived quickly, discreetly packaged. Those nice folks over at the mooncup factory even put it in a small fabric pouch with sweet pink ribbons. Oh, the cuteness! Who knew a sanitary product could be so dainty, so delightful?

I should probably insert a caveat here about, ah, insertion; namely that if you are at all squeamish about poking around the inside of your cooter, then this is not the product for you. But then, I realise I am talking largely to a bunch of infertile women, for whom regular cooter prodding is basically de rigeur. You'll be fine. You just fold it in two and shove it in. Well, perhaps shove is the wrong word- I leave it to you to decide what force to apply to the process.

There's a sort of small rubber stem thing for pulling it out again. However, unless your vagina is the length of the Channel tunnel, it is recommended that you trim the stem a bit, since otherwise it can get a bit pinchy. I love how in the instructions, they tell you to make sure you have removed the mooncup before doing the stem trimming. Ah yes, a key point, since otherwise- *shudder*. I personally found it took a couple of adjustments to the stem before I felt comfy- in fact, I removed most of the stem altogether, leaving more of a...bud.

Having received my little cup of moonhygiene, I then sat down to wait for my period to arrive. And waited, and waited and waited. At one point I actually had to get out the calendar and count the days since the last cycle, since for the first time in over two years, I had forgotten to write down "CD1" in big letters in my diary. I admit I had a brief moment of contemplating the delicious irony of not being able to use my new toy- what if I were, in fact, pregnant? That is, until I remembered that if one is not utilising ART, one usually has to have sex to conceive, and I should be so lucky in that department.

Never mind. Who cares about sex? Who cares about babies? I have a mooncup and am not afraid to use it, damnit! Eventually, my period did begin, sending me skipping and twirling to the bathroom cupboard like a skipping thing.

And so begins a new era of feminine hygiene. I heart my mooncup.

Now, in the interests of balanced mooncup reportage, I will say it can be a little fiddly taking it out sometimes- I think there is a sort of twisting technique that I have not completely mastered. If you are in a hurry, or don't get the angle quite right, removal can end up being a tad uncomfortable. And again, with the caveats- if you are remotely squeamish about the by-products of your menstrual cycle, then the mooncup would not be your cup of tea, because what you do once you take it out is basically tip the contents of the funnel down the drain. Give it a rinse with some hot tap water, and away you go. No muss, no fuss, far less changes than an ordinary tampon, and apart from one point when I think I had it place incorrectly, little or no leaking.

I bet you're all thinking, "Ah, but Mare, you live in the UK, and most of us live...everywhere else. How can we possibly partake of the delights of the mooncup for ourselves?" Well, fear not, intrepid little Internets, for a mere additonal one pound sterling to the normal price, the nice people in mooncup land will deliver your very own little fabric pouch with the goods to just about anywhere. (Including places that I confess I have never heard of: where the hell are the Cocos (Keeling) Islands*?) They are even all geared up to charge it to your own currency, be that ngultrums, togrogs, or gold cordobas.

I recommend it wholeheartedly. Because after all, if you have to have a period, you might as well have something as nice as the mooncup to lessen the blow.

*Southeastern Asia, group of islands in the Indian Ocean, south of Indonesia, about halfway from Australia to Sri Lanka. There. Now you know.

Cheers for tears

There was a recent new blurb here about a C-list model/actress/fitness guru woman. She announced her pregnancy just before she ran a marathon. Like, literally broke the news to the world on the starting line. Personally, I would have waited until afterwards to have everyone judge me about the wisdom of doing the run in such a delicate, delicate state. But hey, to each her own.

Sadly, she lost the baby; I hasten to add it had nothing whatsoever to do with the marathon, but rather, another complication. What struck me as strange about it was the comment she made in the news blurb. It stuck with me for days.

She said something like, "Yes, I was very upset, and yes, I did cry."

Now, I appreciate that sometimes, sound bytes can come across differently in print. But I felt there was something a little bit odd about the way this statement was framed. It was not: " I was upset, and I cried." Rather, "Yes, I did cry", as if to do otherwise was an option. As if she were confessing to eating the last cookie instead of admitting to being emotional. As if she somehow had to justify the fact she cried after a miscarriage! Call the Crazy Woman Patrol! We have a crier over here! Crier alert!

Me, I cry all the time at the moment. Alice over at finslippy has beaten me to creating the best possible analogy ever ever ever as to how it currently feels behind my eyes. Not that I am as clever as she in the analogy department, but I savour a good one when I see it.

I cry in the morning before I go to work, I cry in the bathroom at work, and yesterday, I went hog wild and full-on broke down right at my desk in the middle of the open plan office. And I am not talking sweet little flowery tears, lightly spackling my face with tender womanly grief. Ahem, no. I am talking about wild wracking animal sobs, the kind usually reserved for under the duvet or the bathtub. It's not even cathartic, it's just kind of...unseemly. It sends colleagues nervously quivering about with offers of cups of water? tea? coffee? Kleenex? straitjacket?

So, I woke up this morning and felt like a tit about my behaviour. And then I realised: what the hell am I apologising for? Things are horrible, frankly. I am having a terrible, terrible time, and goddamnit, I am going to fucking well cry sometimes, if I must. Because worrying about whether or not I am going to cry inevitably makes me cry harder. Some people may write me off as an emotional loon for the time being, but who am I kidding? I am an emotional loon right now! I think most people in my shoes would be.

Funnily enough, I felt a little better after I gave myself the permission to feel awful. Within reason. The thing at the desk may have been a wee bit, you know, much.

Foot soldier

When the accident first happened, and they found out my dad needed surgery, my parents told me not to come over. "No, no, no," they said. "There is nothing you can do, and in fact, it would be better for us not to have you visiting just now." Hence the notion that I would simply delay the trip.

Then yesterday, when I spoke to my mother, she practically flung herself at my virtual feet, begging me to come whenever I could. For as long as I could! In fact, come more than once over the next six months, if I can possibly swing it! Moving back to America would be good, too!

I guess running up and down the stairs with treats, reading material and a big stick to whack my father about the head whenever he misbehaves (by doing things like taking off the dressing on his foot) has quickly become tiresome. I, however, excel at stair running and other minion chores; I am more than happy to volunteer for general lackey duty. So it looks like I will be going after all, sooner rather than later. Huzzah.

I wouldn't go so far as to say this change of change of plan has lifted me from the general cesspool of depression in which I currently wallow. But it is pleasant to know I can have some sunshine to look forward to, as opposed to the ongoing gloom of a Scottish winter. I don't think we have seen the sun for days; it's like living in Tupperware.

Also, it's nice to be able to feature as the cavalry for once, rather than the fallen infantry, awaiting the medivac on the emotional battlefields. Even though I think what is really required in this situation is a foot soldier . Oh, ha ha ha ha, foot soldier, my mirth knows no bounds.

I have to confess that this whole latest mini-parental crisis ostensibly throws another major spanner into any further treatment plan. I know I've never gone into the detail of what I had been hoping to do, but in a nutshell, it involved going to the States. Because there is no real option for me to have any local monitoring, I would have had to stay the whole treatment cycle... wherever. The idea was that my mother would come to stay with me "wherever", keep me company and help out with the, uh, whatever. A little mother-daughter IVF bonding, how jolly.

Instead, my mother will now have her hands full with ferrying my dad to his doctors appointments and physiotherapy, as he is not expected to make a complete recovery for at least six months. I don't mean to sound selfish and self-absorbed- of course, this immediate crisis en famille must take priority. But, you know... fuckity fuckity fuck. Still, I suppose given the current frosty climate between me and E., worrying about further treatment should not be so high up on my list of concerns.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my bayonet needs sharpening.

The trick is to keep breathing

Oh, hell. Clearly, the mammoth pile of poo that is my life at present was not considered by high or stinky enough by yon Powers that Be, because another calamity has befallen the House of Mare.

Or should I say, rather, the House of Mare's Parents. My sweet father, who is prone to the occasional goofy pratfall, fell off a ladder and broke his foot. This may not sound like such a big deal, but it's quite a bad break, and will require some intricate surgery to mend. He'll be on crutches for at least three months, and while he may regain normal use after about six months, he may always be a bit...lurchy in future. In any event, any planning of my much longed-for visit over the holidays will now need to put on hold for the time being; at least until after the surgery, and the visit itself may get pushed back some months. Considering I have seen my parents for a grand total of four days in the past year, I am not exactly filled with the joys at this latest turn of events.

All of this makes scream internally: what the fucking fuck? From whence came this black cloud of doom dogging my every step?

I like to think that I possess a certain amount of resilience in the face of adversity; that I can, most of the time, pick myself up after a right hook to the mental jaw and carry on with at least of modicum of optimism. But lately, it's all beginning to seem like...well... a bit much. It feels like the Universe has decided to take umbrage to my plucky attitude toward life, and is therefore dishing out extra large portions of super spicy crapola on toast. Just to show me who is the boss.

People often say that the universe/fates/God/Yahweh/the Three Blind Mice will never give you more than you can handle. I've now come to the view that this is the latest piece of bullcrap to throw onto the Bonfire of the Platitudes. I mean, how do you define "handle"? At the moment I am getting out of bed in the morning, washing myself, going to work, eating food, and sleeping. But to tell you the truth, much of the time, I am a husk. I am going through the motions. I don't mean that in a self-pitying sort of way- it's a normal reaction to recent events, which have been both extraordinarily painful and largely out of my control.

Does that mean that what I am doing is "handling" it? Because I'd actually call it "surviving", which is not at all the same thing. People can survive a great deal; whether that means any of it is remotely bearable, in any real sense, is an entirely different matter.

I know that eventually this too will pass; that one day I will wake up and give the Universe the finger, and the response will be a casual shrug at my insolence rather than another plague of locusts on my doorstep. But before I get to that point, there is a very real risk that much of what I have known, loved, fought and worked for over the years will be entirely swept away.

The only way I can even begin to "handle" that prospect is to keep breathing: in, out, in, out, in, out.