Barren Mare

A Chinook Wind

In case you were wondering, my lack of posting this week has been due to the avalanche of work that met me upon my return to the office. I have not, as yet, been pinioned under a sidecar.

They say the effects of a holiday wear off after something like 24 hours. For me, it's been something more like three days; nonetheless the glow has gone. Boo. Boo.

I suppose it has a lot to do with returning to the routine -but also the weight of picking up all those unresolved pieces. Of which there are a fair few- all that stuff that was shelved over the holidays is still sitting there waiting to be dealt with, and some of it is not at all pretty. I think ultimately it would be a lot easier to stick my fingers in my ears, singing "lalalalala" , with my head in the sand. But then, my head and shoulders would get all gritty and nobody likes a chick with grit in her hair.

Something I was thinking of discussing, even prior to the last post, was a possible change of direction for this blog. Since starting this thing, I've been pretty disciplined at staying on topic. However, I am sensing in myself that in the absence of progress, I can't sustain the theme indefinitely, and it's time for some changes.

If you've been following along at home, you'll have picked up that the complications of my general life have pretty much overtaken the complications of infertility. It's not that having children is the last thing on my mind at this point- it's just that right now, in all the circumstances, it seems like an wholly unrealistic notion. And having bashed my head against the wall against something that continually eludes me, I feel more than a tad weary about it all. I'm tired of being the one to try to make it all happen, when patently the odds are just not working in my favour.

In short, I now look at pregnancy, children and families as something that happens to other people. I may not be completely done feeling conflicted and sad about it, but I'm also tired of standing on the outside, looking longingly through that glass. I fear that staying there much longer might cause a certain amount of lasting damage; frostbite in the soul.

For awhile now I've been thinking a better use of my time would be finding a door that's open to me. And I've come up with some interesting possibilities. I haven't quite figured it all out yet- simply sniffing the air, checking the direction of the wind, plotting a course. But there is, at the end of the day, more to me than just this problem I've carted around for last couple of years. I think I'd like to write about some it, even if it means possibly diluting some of my core audience a bit.

So, come for the infertility. Stay for the life.

Coulda shoulda woulda

It seems that sometime during my transit back to ye olde Caledonia, a debate has sprung up in certain quarters as to the extent to which my blog is a "trainwreck". Huh. Interesting. I always kind of figured that in the big scheme of things, my little story was more akin to, say, a minor bicycle accident.

Basically, in the annals of infertility blogging, there is really not much new here to excite a whole lot of discussion. I mean, whatever. I get it. There are people who don't get it. They don't really see why infertiles feel the need to do all this unseemly thrashing and whining. Fine. You know, I'm not immune to the idea that the world might contain opposing view points- for example, I don't see why anybody would willing ingest pork scratchings, but I saw some on sale at the mega mall of death when I was home, so there must be some prospective purchasers out there.

But you see, the difference is that I don't hunt out Pork Scratching bloggers and then post links making deliberately nasty comments about their culinary preferences- especially since I sort of figure who died and made me the Chef God.

So, I don't really wish to add fuel to the fire, since let's face it, it's not a particularly interesting conflagration. However, I do feel perhaps if I ought to take this opportunity to go on record about a couple items. Just to ensure, as much as possible, that no one is confused in their tiny minds as a result of me Not. Spelling. Things. Out.

Firstly-stop the presses! E. and I have not actually "broken up." Things are not completely settled by a long way, and the outcome may be still be somewhat murky in places. That's the interesting thing about relationships, which are generally not static organisms sitting prettily on the coffee table for the neighbours to admire. But at this point we're still working on it, so let's not break out the violins quite yet on my behalf, thanks.

Secondly, I really take exception to this notion that I was somehow the instigator of all our fertility treatment plans, and meanwhile, E. was secretly sitting back trying to figure out how to break up with me. As if it were all up to me. As if spending all that money and energy was somehow just a neat ploy to keep me happy. Well, golly gee whiz, call me crazy but embarking on a course of ruinously expensive medical treatment involving both parties' time and effort, the outcome of which may be a pregnancy and the birth of a child is a pretty fucking complicated way of extracting oneself from a relationship, no?

Thirdly, I'm sure glad some folks were able to detect all these prior warning signs about E'.s possible prior aversion to parenthood. Oooh, if only I could have your handy psychic powers around at all times- how much less fraught with life would be! Actually, what I suggest is to maybe try reading the fucking backstory about exactly why we didn't live together "full time" in the traditional sense, before making all sorts of snap judgments about whether or not that was some sort of "warning sign" for me to discover, and whether or not anything was indicative of well...anything.

Listen, I can see where people are coming from. I understand it's probably real easy to look in from the outside and draw inferences, especially if that's not how you would have chosen to handle things. However, despite what others may decide to interpret about me, given the main subject matter of this blog, I'm not a total moron with my head up my vaginal canal.

What I will say is that life is sometimes complicated, and occasionally you end up having to do the best with what you have, even if it's not an ideal solution. And that's exactly what we were doing at that time. We. As in he and I and the mutual agreement we reached together about how we wanted to make our relationship function in our particular set of circumstances. Hell, I'm sorry if it doesn't meet with someone's personal approval on the Big Checklist of how people should arrange their lives. But frankly, I never was much into other people's checklists.

Lastly, notwithstanding all that, perhaps E. did conceal his intentions, and I just simply had the blinders on. But I don't think so. Because if nothing else, last I checked, it took two people to make an embryo during IVF treatment. It certainly took two of us to sign all the endless reams of consent forms.

And of course, I was unconscious at the time, but I didn't get the impression there was anybody in the clinic holding a gun to his head when it came time for him to do his bit on retrieval day. Probably because fire arms in the wank room would be considered a major passionkiller.

The bottom line? We made the decision together to do IVF. Once we'd done it, we realised there were certain issues that we needed to look at afresh and to address. Did the existence of those issues mean we shouldn't have done it at all? Would we feel differently about everything if it had worked? Um, yeah, maybe. Or not. Who knows. That's the thing about the benefits of hindsight and speculation about what might have been- those lovely gifts come after the fact, not before.

Finally, I think I made it explicitly clear on more than one occasion that I myself was extremely ambivalent in many ways about further treatment, and that living child free was absolutely a viable option for me. In fact, I was well on my way to exploring that option, and probably coming to a resolution on that front at some point when we got sidetracked with other problems. So I find it somewhat laughable to have the accusation leveled at me, of all people, that I am obsessed beyond all measure about pregnancy and having a child.

I think that about covers it. I have a sudden craving for pork scratchings.

Borrowing tomorrow

Tonight I have been relegated to the basement while my parents host a cocktail hour upstairs with the next door neighbours. The exclusion is probably more for my benefit than theirs- I guess they want to talk shop about something to do with the latest condo association dispute, which would almost certainly cause me to glaze over. In any event, it makes an interesting change of pace, since I am usually paraded around with pardonable parental pride during my visits ("Look! We do have a daughter! She may freakishly choose to live abroad, but she is here now!").

Some of you have kindly enquired about my dad's brokenness. Well, I am happy to report that he has made a dazzling recovery. Really, he has surpassed expectations- up and about, with no cast, cane or crutches, although a slight weavy gimp remains. I went to his doctor's appointment him last week, whereupon he was given a clean bill and discharged. Yay Daddy!

After all my own medical time logged over the last year I found it rather peculiar experience being in a doctor's office for something other than, well, me and my reproductive system. I kept looking over my shoulder for the nurse coming to take my blood, or administer the wanding. Of course, when I saw my dad's doctor, I was even more relieved, because he was Hottness Personified. In my view, men that good-looking should have no business rummaging around my nethers, no how matter how professional the proceedings.

The one slightly unsettling aspect of the saga of the broken foot is that my parents have had a sudden sharp shock as to what may lie ahead for them in their old age. Fortunately, they've both always been on the hale and hearty end of the spectrum, and it was rather sombering for them to experience what life might be like with less mobility and more dependence.

What this led on to was a discussion about what the arrangements might be when they finally hit their proper dotage. Will they move to Scotland? Ah. They are not keen on this idea. Will I move back to America? Oh goody, yes please, they say.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, they are less daunted by this idea than I am. I think they see the current rockiness with E. as an ideal time for me to make a clean break and return to the bosom of my homeland. I, on the other hand, am a good deal less convinced.

I'm not ruling it out, you understand, perhaps I am more conscious of the small problem of employment, as in what will I do to earn a living? At present, I have quite a good job, one which I like- most of the time- with excellent benefits. It took a huge effort for me to get to the place I am now at, and somehow, I am not sure I want to jack all that in to do an international move. To start over so completely.

I guess I am more in the mode of one step at a time. One day at a time. Even though I can't put off this reality forever, today it just seems like too much. At the moment it's all I can do to imagine getting back on a plane, going back to the normal routine after this nice break, going back to work, going back to try to figure out things with E. I want to live in the moment, not borrow tomorrow.

But I'm wondering what other people do with elderly parents. Do you talk about it? Do you have an agreed plan? Is there an expectation that you will look after your folks, and rearrange your life to do so? Do they want you to? Do you want to, or not so much?

This also makes me wonder, gently and sadly- if I manage to live to be that old, then who will look after me?

Seeing eye to eye

That last post had a curiously unfinished quality to it, did you notice? That is because as I was trying to think of a witty yet pithy conclusion, my mother called me up to dinner. By the time I was able to come back to it, I had lost interest. But then if I didn't go ahead and publish what I had written, the whole thing would lapse into a never ending blog fugue, which simply wouldn't do either.

So this is just to warn you, the same thing may well happen again at some point, especially since the only real opportunity for uninterrupted computer bloggage is the relatively brief margin of space in between cocktails and dinner. Not that I am complaining, mind. I am too busy getting floppy with relaxation. The facial leprosy has yet to disappear completely, but I like to think I have begun to lose some of that wretched, hunted quality around my eyes.

I've been thinking quite a bit about a comment left on that last post- that is, that parents traveling with children appreciate sympathy and understanding. What I think is this: firstly, I absolutely do realise that babies eventually turn into two year olds- barring any (god forbid) disasters, or other wrinkles in the space-time continuum. And in most cases, flippancy aside, I generally do have considerable forbearance with other people's kids in most circumstances. I certainly don't envy the challenge of traveling with a toddler or other small child, and I really do take my hat off to people who manage it.

That said, I think that like most things in life, courtesy and understanding is a two way street. I'm not going to condemn anyone for doing what they need to do to keep a child amused during a long trip- but within reason. I think there are limits. The game the father was playing with his child in the seat next to me was not designed to amuse or entertain- but rather, to induce a frenzy of high pitched laughter and screaming- and the tickling that followed actually resulted a small foot landing dangerously close to my solar plexus.

Call me a cranky infertile grouch, but that's simply not on.

I contrast it with another trip taken a couple years ago- a similar long haul journey, a night flight back to the UK. Somewhere in the middle of the dark Atlantic, the child in the aisle across from me lost the plot. I mean, really lost it- screaming, thrashing, crying. It became clear after about twenty minutes that there was more to it than a tantrum. Her poor parents were frantic with worry, and a call was sent out to see if there was a doctor on board. Eventually, they managed to calm down the little one, and it was all OK.

What I remember about the incident was not that my night's sleep was ruined, but that the mother leaned over afterwards and whispered an apology to everyone in her vicinity. An apology which under the circumstances was so clearly unnecessary. My heart went out to that mother even more for her grace under pressure, and I admired her concern for her fellow passengers, even after a very worrying experience.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that it's nice when parents with kids and those without can meet in the middle. That I'd prefer, wherever possible, not to look down my nose at someone else's parenting skills, but to see it from their side.

To do that though, I need to not have my eye poked out by a small, flailing thumb.

Home front

Hello, internets! This post finds me reporting in Stateside- specifically, from the home of the Parents of Mare. I arrived on Thursday after a 13 hour trip- which, in my experience, is pretty much the quickest I have ever managed to complete the journey. My seating companions on the plane were a small boy of about two years old and his father, who decided the best way to keep his son from becoming bored was to play endless games of "Got yer nose". This was cute for about two minutes, after which the ceaseless cries of "Give me my nose back" wore a little thin. At which point, Daddy-O varied the routine with some frenetic tickling, complete with thrashing limbs in my general direction. 7 hours of this, and I was ready to garrote myself with the cord from the video headset.

For added entertainment value, my plane was delayed by an hour leaving Scotland, and I had a very short connection time, always guaranteed to leave me in a nail-biting frenzy. Once landed, I clawed my way over my fellow passengers to disembark, blasted my way through customs and literally sprinted from the second round of security check-in (shoelaces half tied, eyes-popping, foaming at the mouth) to the gate where I made it with moments to spare. Huzzah!

Anyway, so here I am, and thus far it's all very pleasant as usual. Two weeks of family time, and about a hundred copies of back issues of my American Vogue and New Yorker subscriptions await. Bliss.

I am hoping that some time in the sun will ease the mild depressive slump in which I find myself, and also help clear up my skin, which is the worst it has been in a long time. My face is such a poxy mess, it makes me long for one of those masks they use to give the lepers- perhaps I shall make do with a bag over my head for the time being.

The best of times

I confess I have a secret fondness for those "Best of/Worst of" articles that appear in newspapers and magazines this time of year. What is sort of alarming is when I realise how many things I have already forgotten, no matter how gripping or amusing the event at the time. This suggests to me that it's not that I have not been paying attention, but rather my memory sure ain't what it used to be.

This year, my own life was dotted with a great many ghastly occurences, the memories of which would probably be best stuffed into a hatbox and shoved on the top shelf at the back of my brain. With a label marked "2005: It Sucked More than I ever Thought Possible."

But it occurred to me this morning that fact, while much of this blog is devoted to the narration and dissection of the Suck, there's been very little space given to all the nice, groovy things that went on over the last twelve months. Because surely there were some? Weren't there?

I suppose the only way to answer that is to compile my own "Mare's Best of 2005" and see what we come up with. Let's begin:

Best New Hobby

I don't think I ever told you how I re-learned how to knit this summer. Well, when I say, "re-learned", I mean I am now capable of producing the same standard of mangled scarf as when I was eight years old and working on my mother's funky pink needles. During the IVF cycle, I had decided it would be a good and soothing thing to take up knitting, and I was right. On day of transfer, I sat in the park in the sun, working on a small baby hat, without any sort of qualms whatsoever. Of course, I made a mess of it and had to unravel the whole damn thing two days later, which might have been considered to be something of an omen. I choose to take it as an omen that I suck at knitting.

Best Present Received

I am passionately fond of a bar of fig soap sent to me by Anna H. for my birthday.

Best Meal Eaten

There was a particularly fine meal partaken with my parents at a tapas restaurant in London in June. But I think the award must go to one of the home-cooked dinners prepared by the owner of the villa property while we were on holiday. It was a delightful repast- fresh, abundant, delicious local produce, consumed in a convivial atmosphere at a long scrubbed table with twelve other guests. We ate and ate, drank vats of wine, and stumbled back to our room in a haze of contentment. Bliss.

Best Clothing Purchase

Hands down, the winner is a soft cashmere vest top in the most wonderful inky blue. It goes with everything and I would wear it every single day if I dared.

Best Accessory Purchase

There was the acquisition of a certain handbag, the sight and smell of which still thrills me, and price of which still makes me blush.

Best Artist

I fell madly in love with this artist's work. I saw one of her stunning paintings hanging at an exhibition, and wanted desperately to buy it. With pangs of regret, I did not. Maybe one day.

Best "Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway" Moment

I've decided that not everything IVF-related need necessarily go into the "Worst of" box. I will always pride myself on the fact that I gave myself all my own shots during that process; especially that first one when I really didn't know if I had it in me to...well...jab it in me. Turns out I did, and I do. Yay me.

Best Book

Oh, do I have to pick just one? I immensely enjoyed at least three, all of which deserve a mention:

The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova.
I devoured this on holiday- it's long and a bit intricate but hey! There's vampires and a touching love story- what's not to like?

The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice. I read this in one sitting on Boxing Day. Utterly delightful.

Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynn Truss. Oh, Ms Truss. As one who worships at the altar of proper punctuation (even if I don't always manage it myself), I applaud you. Thanks to you, I also have a new found adoration of the semi-colon. *Swoon*.

Best Music Download

Imogen Heap's Hide and Seek has been on on heavy rotation here for months now.

Best Technology

I recently discovered the joys of "VOIP"- also known as "Voice Over Internet Protocol", also known as "Talk to Friends and Family Anywhere in the World for Free!" I now frequently speak to my mother for hours on end via this handy device- all you need is an internet connection, a microphone and speakers, which can be obtained in a headset form. You also need to the download one of the many VOIP programs- I like this one . The sound quality is better than the phone, and the price is right. Check it out.

So, not all bad. While the grumpy part of me argues that all the fig soap and cashmere in the world cannot compensate for the other sadnesses of this year, another part remembers that accruing the memories of many small, pleasant things will always help keep the darkness in check.

Happy New Year everyone, and here's to 2006- may it bring us many more "bests" to add to all our lists.