Barren Mare

The simplest solution tends to be the best one

When I first read Forever Lurking Margaret's question (that is: to what did I attribute my miraculous change in fertility- was it getting the dog/switching jobs, etc?) my initial reaction was that yes, I had already tried to answer this earlier. But then on reflection, I realised that there is probably always some more to be said on the topic. And so here it is.

Firstly, a little recap. In our particular case, our apparent inability to conceive a child over the course of several years was (and remains) "unexplained".  We started trying around about June 2003, when I was 33 going on 34 years old.  (If you do the math, that presently makes me coming up for age 37.)  But there was a certain amount of quirkiness to our situation which didn't necessarily help matters. Specifically, we worked in different cities about an hour apart, and rather than subject ourselves to a punishing commute, we kept two places of residence during the week, with a lot of regular to-ing and fro-ing.

During this time, I was, like all good little control freaks, obsessively charting my very regular cycles and making sure that whenever possible we were together during the crucial times of month for conception- even if that involved one of us getting on the motorway for a long drive after work.  Clearly, though, it was less than ideal.

So for awhile I operated on the basis that my failure to get pregnant might be due to something as simple as not having enough sex. However, as the months dragged on, and the statistics indicated that we were, in fact, doing what we should in the relevant windows of opportunity, I began to worry.  And that is when the fun began.

Cue the first nervous trips to the doctor, the preliminary testing and all the other relationship baggage that comes with the burden of trying to get your groove on, on schedule, at the expense of spontaneous joy. Onward to more months of despair and an escalating panic- and no baby. The biological clock in my head became a time bomb. And so one day, I woke up to find myself injecting needles in my midriff- in the middle of an IVF cycle which to all extents and purposes was being carried out as an expensive diagnostic tool.  An unsuccessful one at that.

Leading into an agonising period during which, despite the removal of the difficulty of the two-city problem, it was then unclear if there was going to be a partner with whom to have a baby, never mind a baby itself.  And when the dust settled, there was a longish period of slow and delicate reconciliation, which went hand in hand with a gradual exploration of what lay ahead in the family building department- or not.  Meanwhile, life went on, and this happened to include the arrival of a small, sweet, cheeky dog with inordinately large ears.

Now, I'm reiterating all of this ancient history, even for those of you who have followed it from the beginning, because I am trying to convey the fact that for each individual, the causes of (and reactions to) infertility can be many, varied and complicated.  However, if I were to apply the Occam's razor principle  (as summarised in the title to this post) to the root of our fertility problem, then I would say that it was simply that we were "sub-fertile" rather than infertile.  And I reach that conclusion simply on the basis that, yes, it took a long time, but ultimately I did manage to get (and remain) pregnant naturally. 

Delighted as I am to have come this far, it is somewhat bothersome not fully knowing the exact reasons for why things were so difficult. I don't know why it took so long.  I don't know why the IVF didn't work-it was a sombering lesson to me that fertility treatment was not the silver bullet that I expected it to be. I don't know why the embryos made during IVF expired, while the embryo created back in November the old fashioned way is now a full-term baby kicking me in the side with great enthusiasm.

To those of you still waiting and combusting with longing for a child- I would dearly love for my story to offer something more concrete for you. Sadly, though, as I have tried (perhaps clumsily) to explain, I don't think there are any easy, pat answers to be gained from my experience. There are no universally applicable magic wands to be found here. But for anyone struggling through the nightmare of fertility troubles, I do sincerely wish for you the succour of sustainable hope- and the conviction that no matter what the eventual outcome, better things lie ahead.

Seven dwarfs at thirty eight weeks

With an estimated due date now two weeks away, here's a quick round up of my current state, both physical and emotional:

Puffy- my ankles are OK-ish but my fingers have turned into mini-sausages. This post is being typed by baby kielbasas. Also, the carpal tunnel, which had been held at bay for a few months, has returned with a vengeance.  I can barely grip anything and there is a shooting pain in my left wrist. Furthermore, my feet have expanded.  I had been told that, during pregnancy, your shoes may no longer fit (i.e. due to loosening of the ligaments)- but I confess to being wholly in denial about that one.  Until recently when the reality became inescapable. Now the only thing that I can wear are my formerly too-big Birkenstocks, which makes me feel sort of dorky and clumsy.   

Sleepy- I go to bed about 11 o'clock, exhausted- but can't fall asleep.  Toss & turn for hours, then get up to wander around the house.  Fingers too swollen for knitting (see puffy, above.) Drink glass of milk, stare out the window looking for rogue foxes rifling through the rubbish bins.  Finally doze off about 4am and would happily sleep until noon, except I am invariably woken up at the usual time by the dog, the doorbell or the phone. Sometimes, like today, all three at once.

Weepy- I attribute this to hormones and sleep deprivation (see sleepy, above). Yesterday, I sat at the computer looking at old photographs and listening to music with a steady stream of tears down my face. This morning I sat for about twenty minutes halfway up the stairs, crying about absolutely nothing. Then I wandered into the baby's room, running my hands over all the nice things; with a lump in my throat. On days like today, the horrid, persistent dread takes me by the throat- that the baby won't come home and will never see this nursery, and who's going to deal with removing all the stuff?  Then I cry some more.

Sartorially challenged.  I was fairly restrained in the buying of maternity clothes, and consequently, having worn the same things over and over and over and over and over for the last six months, I am now sick to death of the sight of certain items. Also, even the most forgiving of expandable waistbands is now under stress- I feel like cutting a hole for my head in the dining room tablecloth and being done with it.

Dopey-  brain like a sieve.  Short term memory shot to hell. Have to write down everything or I will forget. Coupled with a vague spaceyness (see sleepy, above), I am slightly afraid to go out in public (including driving), in case I accidentally do something dumb like omitting to leave the parking brake on or wander into a lamppost.

Ready-  while I can say while that I have (for the most part) loved being pregnant, I am now firmly moving into the headspace of wanting to get the show on the road. Except ideally it would be probably be preferable to wait until my parents arrive next Wednesday. Not to mention until, um, Friday when E. gets back from an unavoidable business trip.  But tick, tick, tick.  I do have the sense of now being at the airport terminal, bags checked, hanging around the gate, anticipating boarding call any time. 

Happy- burbling somewhere underneath all the above, I am actually happy. Even if I have forcibly to remind myself of that during some of the lesser moments (see sleepy, weepy, puffy, etc. above).

On a separate note- I will try, if at all possible, to later respond to Forever Lurking Margaret's question (see comments, last post) before Botany arrives- if only because I love the name "Forever Lurking Margaret" too much not to.  Even if I have to type with my sausage thumbs.