Barren Mare

The deer path

I've had a couple of interesting emails since that last post, including one which I have been mulling over for some days. The kind writer gently questioned: was I sure, perhaps in light of the feelings I was expressing, that I was on the right path?

To digress for a second- I took some creative writing classes in college, which I loved, although my efforts hardly met with what I would call critical acclaim. For one assignment, I wrote a short story about a girl who drives up to Maine whereupon she ponders the sunset for a bit before drowning herself in the lake.  Cheery, huh?  Apart from those plot points, I don't remember much about it: though I am sure it was full of overwrought and cringeworthy metaphor. 

My instructor tactfully suggested that suicide is a tricky topic- even more so when condensed into a short story.  She sent me away to read Anna Karenina, a rather humbling demonstration that the dark complexities of killing oneself are perhaps better portrayed in novel form.  "More room to move around," is how she put it. And, after traveling with Anna over those many hundreds of pages, to the last steps of the station platform with the train approaching, I realised my instructor was right.

I've always thought (and I believe I have said on several occasions) that writing about infertility is much the same; it's complicated, it's intricate, it's emotionally charged and it doesn't always work well as short sound-byte post chunks. The problem is, it also doesn't really lend itself to long, novel-sized entries either. So, falling between those two barstools as it does, it's often very difficult to express things in a way that is both true and coherent.

This is a very long-winded way of saying that I don't know if I can articulate an answer to the question (that being, am I sure I am on the right path?) in one post, or even ten posts. Because the next time I sit down to write it, the whole landscape may have changed again, and back we are to square one in the telling.

Anyway- since I was asked, I'll try to sum up the current state of play as best I can.  My feeling on it is that I am not sure about anything. I'm not even sure there is a path, or at least not one readily identifiable as such. Have you ever been walking in the woods, and ended up diverging from the main trail, following what looks like a path but is in fact just the route the deer take from time to time? It's a kind of half-trail- not overgrown, obscuring thickets, but then not a clear blaze either.  More like a shallow groove through the forest, with no obvious markings or end points.  At any stage, you might find you are hopelessly lost, or else you will discover you have converged back onto the original trail, near the place you started.

It's like that.  I haven't made any firm decisions about anything. I haven't given up totally on the idea of doing further treatment, but at the same time, I'm not sure I want to do it, or at least not right now. And that doesn't even have anything to do with E.  Things are a lot better between us, and if I said I wanted to, I think E. would do another IVF cycle with me.  But I hesitate- for reasons for that are complicated, messy and changeable. 

I am absolutely clear that one of the consequences of delaying taking further action is that I may never have a biological child.  But I am also absolutely clear that if I choose not to do IVF again, I do not forego my right to grieve the fact that I may never have children.  Does that make sense?  I think sometimes there is this unspoken expectation that you're not allowed to bitch and moan about something unless you've at least tried your very best to make it happen. That because there will always be this lurking uncertainty of "would it work if we did it even just one more time", I should either get on with doing it, or shut up about feeling bad about it.  I think the fact that there is so much medical treatment readily available can make it very hard for infertiles to feel comfortable with the choice of stopping; especially stopping at a relatively early stage. My view on it is that just because I may have another ticket for the next rollercoaster ride doesn't automatically mean I should be buckling my seatbelt.

Anyway.  My point is: I realise that in failing to make a firm decision one way or another, I am in fact making a decision of sorts. But for now, even if at times a clearer line through the trees looks very inviting, the deer path just feels right for me. 

Equations of healing

To demonstrate what a "changed" person I've become, I met my pregnant friend for a drink the other night. Well, I had a "drink" in the sense of the alcoholic beverage while she sipped a dainty ginger beer. But since the no-smoking ban came into force in Scotland, there is really no excuse for knocked up women to avoid the pub/bar. This is great for those of us who want to ease the discomfort of such social engagements with a double vodka.  Works for everyone. 

The last time I saw this friend was in October at a party. There we both enjoyed a number of "drinks" in the alcoholic sense, and I didn't get home until 5am. Unheard of for me, but delightful all the same. During the festivities, she confessed over a couple of glasses of wine, she and her husband were "trying". Oh, I said, I can give you lots of tips. Or, at least theoretical tips, since as we know, not a single one worked for me.

As it turns out, my little pearls of conception wisdom were not needed, because she must have already been a couple of weeks along by that point.  The next I heard from her she was going for her scan, just before Christmas.

Just like that. So simple, isn't it, for some.  You want a baby, you have sex with your partner, and hey presto. The thing is, this friend is one of those people who always seems to effortlessly achieve whatever she wants; great job, great house, great man.  I wasn't in the least surprised that the baby came along, on schedule, as intended, exactly at the right time.

I've known this woman a long time. We went to university together, she shared my flat for about six months, we danced at her wedding. I like her; she is kind, funny, bright and beautiful. And I knew that unless I could bring myself to make some gesture now to acknowledge, indeed to embrace and celebrate her pregnancy, then I wasn't putting my money where my mouth is as far as getting over this whole infertile-bitter thing.  Or for that matter, being much of a good friend.

So I emailed her, arranged to meet her.  They don't go in for baby showers here, and this was my only opportunity to give her something for the impending arrival. And as it happens, I had something to hand. Because, you see, when you are learning to knit, baby things are quite easy to churn out- small, not too time consuming or soul-destroying when you fuck up and have to frog the whole project.  I had whipped up a little hat and matching booties with some lovely yarn that Anna H. had sent me for my birthday.  Cute baby gear sitting at the bottom of my knitting bag, going nowhere.

I fished it out, and wrapped it in some nice paper. As I did so, I came over all funny. I found myself clutching the hat in my hand, unwilling to let it go. Come on, I told myself, reaching for the tape, get over it.  Get over it get over it getoveritgetoverit.  It's just stuff.  You can always knit another set if you ever have a kid. Oh wait, right, you're not going to. But if you do. If you did. If... Oh shut up and stick the package in your handbag.   

I was early, as always, and standing outside the bar was afforded an excellent view of her bump (surprisingly pert, considering she is eight months along) as she walked down the road toward me.  As she approached, I suddenly had the old horror.  Shit, I thought.  This was a really, really bad idea.

We had a nice enough time, I suppose. She was pleased and touched with the present, which made me feel a little better about being able to give it. And the talk was fairly evenly balanced for the most part (my tales of woe over the last months versus antenatal classes. Career ambitions verses decorating the nursery). As I left, I congratulated myself for not once revealing there were moments when sitting there with her felt exactly like a hot poker was being driven through my heart.

I walked home feeling troubled.  Guess I haven't changed so much, after all.  Guess there are certain days and certain spaces when this is still so very hard. But the worst thing was the mental battering I gave myself for days afterward for not being over it yet, for not being all OK about it, for not being able to effortlessly celebrate my friend's seemingly effortlessly obtained happiness. I went out and asked the slowly budding bay tree: how long is it going to take?  How much longer until I can honestly, truly say it doesn't bother me anymore? What if I can never say it? 

What I realised today was this:  the amount of time it will take for me to feel better about not being able to get pregnant and have children is directly proportionate to the amount of time it will take for me to start feeling better about the life I have, or can have.

Such a simple equation, and yet so very hard to calculate.

Two

I can't believe what I am about to write: today is my second bloggiversary. Or was it yesterday?  Mmm. At the moment it feels more like a "blah-geversary". As in, I am blah. I feel blah. The blog is blah. Blah-blah-blah. Never mind, add that second row of shiny bars to my epaullettes.

A few minor housekeeping items: I owe a bunch of people emails. I am also complete crap at commenting on other people's sites. I am sorry. I do apologise wholeheartedly for my appalling lack of responsiveness.  I think it has something to do with the fact that after endless hours at the computer at work, I simply don't seem to be able to face sitting down again for any length of time.  Particularly when the weather is half decent, as it has been. But not to worry, this being Scotland we shall soon be plunged into the perennial fog and mist and I shall once again feel like hibernating at my desk.

It also might be a good time for a wee reminder about what the dealio is with the Campfire links on the right hand side. I'm slightly slower than I used to be about seeking out new blogs (or at least ones I haven't heard of yet) but by all means e-mail me should you wish to take a turn round the convivial bonfire.  Marshmallows included. 

I suppose now would be a good time to write that post I have been thinking about for awhile; about the passage of time, and how in so many ways I seem to be standing still while others are continually moving on. Except, the aforesaid blaaaaaah.  And also, I realised today as I compiled another pile of documents for the mysterious Project Possibly that I am moving forward. Just very, very, very slowly. So! Let us, on this day, celebrate the snails' pace of change; for even though it may be teethgrittingly gradual, change there is. The right sort of change. And that can only be a good thing as far as I am concerned.

Jessica

There's an empty tent on Infertility Island tonight.  The occupant hasn't boarded the ferry, hasn't left us in the usual way.  But she is gone all the same, and she is not coming back. How this breaks my heart.   

Farewell, Jessica, also known as Cancerbaby.  You will be sorely missed by many.

Thank you for sharing your life with us.

The Hours

Well, hellloooo. I've been busy, busy, busy.  How much would I love a long break like the Moussester- the thought of a whole month off work sounds absolutely glorious. You know, I always marvel at the people who win vast sums of money in the lottery, and then announce they are still going to work every day at their old job as a butcher, cleaning lady, traffic warden, etc.   Because otherwise, they might get bored!  To which I say, puhleeeze.  That is so not my way of thinking.  If I won enough to live on, there is no way I would keep working; indeed, I would be out of there so fast it would make my employer's head spin.  There would be a little puff of smoke where my fat office ass used to be and the next time anybody saw me, I would be enjoying the largesse of my winnings in an appropriate style.

Speaking of working, one of the reasons I have been so busy is that I was toying with the idea of working a slightly different pattern.  Where I work, there's a reasonable amount of flexibility for employees to tailor their own hours, to the extent that it is allowable to work the normal contracted hours in a four day week.  What this means of course is that you have four verrrrrry long days and then an extra day off per week.

I thought this sounded rather appealing; with a four day week, I could devote the time out of the office doing enjoyable, life expanding activities.  Writing my novel, for example, which continues to wither under the brunt of the full time employment elsewhere. And the beauty of it would be I would continue to earn the same amount of money and get the same amount of holidays.  A win-win all around.

However, enticing as it may appear, I knew that not that many people actually attempt this.  And this week I discovered why. You see, rather sagely, I decided it might be a good idea to do a little informal experiment before I actually undertook to sign up for this working pattern.  So for the last two weeks or so, I have tried to complete the hours that would be required to compress my work week into four days.

And I failed dismally!  I couldn't do it at all. For starters, I can never manage to get in early enough to get the appropriate jump on the day, and then inevitably there would be a reason why I needed to leave in the evening before compensating for the relatively late start. Plus, by the time I would actually get home, I'd be so tired that absolutely nothing else would get done- no laundry, no cleaning, no paying of bills, and of course, no blogging- thus all of that would need to be crammed into the spare spaces of the extra day. Leaving no time for the all the other ambitious stuff I wanted to do.

Well, duh, some of you might be saying. No doubt that would seem obvious from the outset. I guess I overestimated my energy levels, which wane and wane and wane as I get older. Still, having completed my little experiment, I can knowingly scratch that off the options list as a way forward- and there is something so satisfying about making the informed choice, isn't there? 

Now, where did I put that lottery ticket?