Barren Mare

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.

Shadow puppets

Oh my friends, do you know how cute and amusing you all are? Your reaction to the word "secret" is very endearing indeed.

"Secret!" you gasp, bouncing gently in your seats, waving your tiny paws in the air. "She said secret! What could it be? What oh what?" And I imagine you conjuring up all sorts of delicious possibilities. Cotton candy! A box of puppies! A positive peestick! The explanation of what is going on in that hatch on Lost!

Sadly, I fear it is none of those things. I hate to dampen such sweet and uplifting enthusiasm, but in fact, the secret is nothing nice at all- quite the opposite. I was not mentioning it to tease as much as I was trying to allude to the fact that all is not completely well here, but I can't- and won't- go into the specifics right now.

Let's just say I have looked up from the path to find that somehow I have wandered into a very, very dark and scary part of the island. I expect to be stumbling around in the blackness for awhile (literally, since the power in my building keeps cutting out for no apparent reason, causing me to scramble for candles).

Perhaps to ward off the darkness, we could all hold hands; maybe sing a few Cheering and Rambunctious tunes. Perhaps although things keep getting worse and worse, we could dream of something better. Not to go all Julie Andrews on you, but it would comfort me if you could tell me something nice. Tell me three things that make you happy- little and inconsequential things or grand and awe-inspiring.

I'll be over here, striking a match, and trying to remember how to make a shadow puppet.

You say obsession, I say huh?

Things with E. seem to have improved slightly in the last few days. Of course, that's all relative, considering that last week, the state of our relationship felt decidedly touch-and-go. So just because I have been dragged back from the precipice does not mean my legs are not still shaking from the vertigo.

We went out to dinner on Friday night, the first opportunity we had had in over a week to sit down together and have a civilized, leisurely conversation. Somewhere into my second glass of wine, I decided to gently broach the topic of treatment again. Since he was again resembling the old E. I know and love, I thought perhaps this signalled a change of heart on how to proceed.

Well, no. The dreaded "hassle word" did not arise, but the line given was more or less the same. That being, "I've thought about it and I still don't want to."

I pressed, gently, and was rewarded with this notable nsight into the male psyche;

"I can't articulate why I can't articulate my feelings about it."

I toyed with the bowl of olives and sighed. I looked over at E. and noticed how sad and tired he suddenly looked, with dark shadows under his eyes. So I was about to drop it and move on to something less controversial when he said,

"You're just...obsessed with this."

Obsessed? Ob-SESSED? Me? No, no, no. My friends, I take issue with that. In relation to the infertility cross I bear, I am many things- but obsessed is not a label I would apply to myself. OK, it is true that especially during the treatment cycle, I was more than a little preoccupied. But who wouldn't be? IVF treatment requires immense commitment and attention to detail. Getting to clinic appointments on time. Injecting medication at a certain hour of the day. Rescheduling or juggling other things in life (work, friends, weddings, family, vacations, cash flow) for the duration of the cycle. And that's before you take into account the emotional and psychological implications.

Embarking on medical treatment costing huge sums of money, with uncertain outcomes and no guarantee of success? Yeah, I think it's safe to say that most people would become a little preoccupied during that time. But in my view, that does not equate to obsession.

Nor does feeling sad, frantic, depressed, angry and scared when the outcome of that treatment was a big fat failure. All those feelings, let us never ever forget, are normal. N-O-R-M-A-L. Besides, all things considered, my thrashing and wallowing was of incredibly short duration, with very few demands placed upon E.

And since when does trying to make realistic plans for our future turn me into a fertility bunny-boiler? I honestly don't think that some pro-active consideration of the way forward at this particular point in time makes me in any way obsessed. I don't agree that a serious, mature, rational discussion about what it means for me and for us, makes me obsessed. I mean, damn. On the obsession spectrum, I am far over into the "relatively chilled out about the whole thing" category. There has been no daily nagging, actively proceeding behind his back, or sticking of pins in the groin area of a little E. voodoo doll.

The irony is that if there was something else I wanted to pursue in life, such as running a marathon, starting a business, learning a language, writing a novel- E. would be applauding my focus. He would commend my goal-oriented behaviour. In all other endevours, he would support single-minded determination. But when we start talking about something with emotional undertones, something where he feels like the riptide of my desire might suck him in and drag him down, then it becomes a bad thing. Dangerous. Worrisome. An obsession.

And yes, I told him all this, fighting the urge to kick him in the shins under the table. I'm not sure if my message sunk in- or at least, that was not something he could articulate.

The other side

Oh hell, I am already sort of bored about posting about E., and what may or may not be going on in his furry little head. Suffice to say that he has been rather difficult to live with since we got back from our holiday, and things have been a shade tense around here. Perhaps we just need to have a good pillow fight and get it all out of our system.

For completeness, I should explain that it's not that he doesn't want to have children, though he is not interested in exploring adoption "right now" either. Basically, he's happy to keep trying in the good old fashioned way to achieve a family. That's all good, and certainly we will try. Except I feel like I am the one holding up the score card, pointing out the (literally) bleeding obvious that it hasn't happened after two years and one IVF cycle. So to my mind, trying naturally is not exactly the most optimistic tactic. On the contrary, it's more like the "denial is not just a river in Egypt" approach.

Also, I loathe the idea of going back to what feels like "TTC mode". The quaffing of pineapple juice and green tea, the ingesting of funky herbal vitamins. All that dreary scavenging for cervical mucus and sex-on-schedule. The constant am-I/aren't I feeling, feverishly scanning self for anything resembling pregnancy symptoms. When you're in proper TTC mode, every month has the dreaded two week wait, and every month has the gutting disappointment of failure. Well, bugger all of that. Been there, have the charts to prove it. If we do continue to try naturally, I simply can't bear letting it become an all consuming exercise. I want, dare I say, to relax about it.

Actually, when he said "not right now", my first reaction was "FINE. OK, then. We will simply NOT have children, and that will be THAT. I will....get a dog, and...and...and have nice SHOES."

And for a short space of time, I felt really really good about that idea. I went shopping and bought some new clothes. I looked at booking a relatively expensive trip over Christmas. I drooled over puppies online. I thought about writing a novel and possibly learning a language. I welcomed the feeling of being able to put down this painful burden, about finally being able to stop this neverending quest for something we cannot have. About halting the downward slide into a sad, angry, aching person and to live whole again, being happy with what we have. With what I have. Who needs kids anyway? I have a white carpet, for God's sake, and a selfish disposition.

Well, that train of thought lasted for, oh, twenty four hours, maybe less. It was quite astonishing, really- I was like a heroin addict trying to go cold turkey and failing utterly. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to fling myself at E.'s feet, begging for a hit of Gonal-F. I secretly started researching clinics, ones which might still meet the need but be less daunting (read: less hassle) than my first choice. And I went to see my GP and had her write to the Ass Con center to get us back on their waiting list. Not that I have any intention of going there, you understand, but it was like the equivalent of a methadone hit.

I suppose what this means is that I'm not ready to completely give up on the idea of doing whatever it takes to have a child. Make no mistake, I'm also still deeply ambivalent about further treatment, and it continues to upset me that I'm faced with having to try to talk E. into it, rather than us pulling ourselves up by our mutual bootstraps and agreeing to do it together, as a matter of course.

But it seems my feet are firmly planted on "keep-trying" ground- even if now more than ever I find myself standing on tiptoe, leaning over as far as I can, to see what might be on the other side of the fence.

Spring cleaning

The move went surprisingly smoothly in the end. In fact, I didn't have to lift a finger- well, maybe half a finger- namely, making cups of tea for the movers. Hardly arduous. However, we may never be able to get into our garage again, it is so crammed to the gunnels.

Look, see:

Despite the relative lack of chaos, I decided this morning that giving the bathroom a good clean would be a soothing sort of exercise. Toward the end of the cycle, I pretty much lost interest in keeping the house tidy, (which, if you know me, is like my saying that I decided to forego the regular intake of oxygen). So now that things are ostensibly "back to normal", I figured a cathartic loo scrubbing was just what was required.

You see, the bathroom feels so much like the scene of the crime. I did all my shots in there, including the momentous first one, with sweaty trembling hands. I weighed myself on the bathroom scale to monitor possible OHSS, not to mention the side effects of excessive ice cream consumption. After transfer, I stared in the mirror, as if there was something to see- did I look like a pregnant woman? Was that a new blue vein on my left breast- oooh, not seen that one before! Etcetera.

The bathroom was also where I did the early morning pregnancy tests, nervously pacing between sink, shower and back again waiting in vain for a second line to appear. And of course, it was the place where I finally realised, beyond all denial, that the treatment had failed, as I stood in the shower, watching the water swirling at my feet, turning red.

So I cleaned. I cleaned like a mad thing. I scrubbed the sink, the toilet, the shower. I polished the glass of the mirror, and the taps. I vacuumed the carpet (cursing the person with the stupid idea of putting this particular floor covering down in the first place). I dusted the perfume bottles. I wiped down the scales. I hung fluffy fresh towels. I emptied the wastebasket of every last trace of sanitary products, and hosed it down. I put away the bright yellow sharps container, sealing off the hatch at the top. Lastly, I lit a beautiful, expensive scented candle, which I had been saving for a special occasion.

Then I sat down on the floor, and I cried and cried and cried.

I wish I could say I felt all better afterwards. And honestly, truly, I am trying so hard not to feel sorry for myself. I know it's going to take a bit more time. But...I really wish this would start to get easier soon. Because so far, it just hasn't.

Lock, stock and mancrap

Remember when I mentioned that E. had sold his flat in the OC ? And that I was a little worried about it, because it looked like the timing of said move would be right in the middle of the IVF cycle? Well, actually, I got that part of it wrong. The move is happening tomorrow.

Now, I can tell you, there are many, many things I would rather be doing tomorrow. Near the top of the list would be lying on the sofa in my jimjams watching crap telly and crying me a river while drowning my sorrows in a vat of whiskey. Going to work comes a bit further down the list, perhaps somewhere in between having a colonic cleansing and scrubbing the mildew off the wall of the shower. Moving house- well...not so much even a candidate for the list. I am so seriously not in the mood.

I realise it has been a year since I blogcapped what we fondly refer to as "our living situation". So for those of you just joining in: ever since we met, E. and I have always worked in different towns, some distance apart. Moving jobs has not hitherto been an option. And, the midweek commute being too hellish, over the years we each a kept a flat in our respective cities as a weekday bolthole. When we decided to start a family, we bought a place together in my town, to treat as "Barn Central". But E. also hung on to a small pied-a-terre in his town, figuring there was no point committing to full time commuter hell until we had a baby on the way. I found I couldn't really argue with that, particularly as we still managed to ensure it didn't really interfere too much with conception attempts.

And it turns out it was a good decision, actually, since two years later we are no further forward with that "having a baby thing". It was also rather handy having the OC flat during the IVF cycle since otherwise I would have had to trudge back and forth on the bus (grim beyond description).

But for no apparent reason, seemingly on a whim, E. decided to sell the OC flat this summer. I didn't really think that was ideal timing but as usual had no energy to argue about it. He didn't have a plan for buying another one, but nor was he planning on moving here, either. He muttered vaguely about not wanting to have our money tied up in another flat, that he would rent. He's never said so, but I think at the back of his mind he may have been working on the basis that if the IVF was successful, he would want to be spending more time at Barn Central despite the commute. But, well...yeah.

Turns out that entirely by coinkydink, right around the time that the flat sale was going through, he was offered another job. A job that turns out to be based within walking distance of Barn Central. Under normal circumstances I would have been thrilled, but it since it all happened (with a bit of drama) during the IVF cycle, it was actually just another heap o'stress on my already steaming pile.

So, he's moving in for good tomorrow, lock, stock and mancrap. Big changes. Big adjustment. It will be very lovely indeed to have him here full time, for extended smooshy hugs and all that good stuff. But I'm just trying so hard to catch my breath right now. To re-establish equilibrium. Somehow I don't think all the moving chaos and tripping over boxes of his stuff strewn everywhere is, um, going to be very soothing for my raised hackles.

Just a hunch.

Money to burn

A recent post over at Karen's (and the unmissable comments that followed) made me decide to share with you a certain key story from my childhood. It's one of those quintessential Mare family legends, referred to in hushed and reverent tones, even to this day.

It is the tale of the Burning of the $100 Bill.

It was just after Christmas. I was eleven years old. We had driven down to see my grandparents, and to endure the agony of the gift-giving ritual with them. I say agony, because my grandmother had extremely weird ideas about what constituted an acceptable present. Usually, what she would do is just look around the house to see if there was any stuff she no longer wanted. Then she'd wrap it up and stick it under the tree. One year, she gave me a grubby old softball.

But on this particular occasion, my grandfather (a real grumpy old coot) presented me with an envelope. Inside was a crisp new $100 bill. My jaw dropped. I have no idea what had come over him. I have since wondered if he had been at the bottle of port, because never before (and never again) was he ever so generous.

In today's terms, $100 may not seem like a lot of money. But for me, at eleven years old, it was an astonishing sum. I really don't know if I can convey to you how much it meant to me to be given this present. I put the envelope in my room, periodically slipping away from the festive merry-making to gaze at it. A $100 bill! All for me! From my mean grandfather! As a cautious little hoarder of money, I knew I was likely to thrill over it for a long time until finally, after much deliberation, I would blow it on some long-desired purchase.

When it came time to leave, somehow or other, the envelope was placed in a bag with a bunch of other stuff, including the old wrapping paper from some of the presents. In the general confusion of decanting ourselves from the car upon our arrival back home, that bag somehow got left in the trunk.

You'd think, given my fascination with the money, that I would have noticed sooner that the envelope was missing. But I didn't. There were lots of things to bring in, bags to unpack, all the other presents to stash away. And despite growing up to be a very organized and meticulous adult, I was a rather sloppy and distractable child.

Of course, I did remember, eventually. Where was the envelope? Where oh where? Not in my little purse, not in my suitcase, not with the other presents.

I wandered down to the kitchen to ask my mother if she'd seen it.

No, she said, preoccupied with getting dinner ready. Had I taken it out of the car?

I wasn't sure. It was in a bag, I recalled, with some other things...including the....old wrapping paper....

My mother turned around, suddenly, eyes wide.

"You'd better go ask your father," she said. "He's out back...burning the trash."

I never quite understood my father's fascination with burning the trash- most people I know just throw things away. I guess it was because we lived in a house in the middle of nowhere, away back a long gravel lane, and to haul all the rubbish out to the main road was a real pain. So my dad had a big old metal garbage can with holes cut in the bottom- and once a week or so, he would have a huge bonfire of the family's paper trash.

Oh god, my heart is beating faster just writing this, remembering. I went outside, and from a distance, I could see him tipping piles of papers into the bin. A flash of white, a sudden sprinkle of sparks. And everything went into super slow motion as I ran toward him, hand outstretched, screaming.

Stooooooooooooooooop!

Too late. He'd taken out the few presents and without checking further, dumped the bag with what he thought was just the remaining wrapping paper into the fire. By the time I reached it, the envelope- with the money still inside it- was going up in smoke.

As I stood there, horrified, a small piece of ash fluttered out and landed on the ground. I bent down and picked it up. All that remained of my grandfather's Christmas present- a tiny, charred green corner of the $100 bill.

The angry recriminations that followed are too unpleasant to recount. Let's just say there were tears, trauma and blame. Oh, how I sobbed that day. Why hadn't I looked after the envelope, or at least told somebody that the cash was in that bag? Why had my dad been so hasty to get on with burning the trash an hour after we got home? Why oh why oh why? From then on, we instituted a new rule about communicating, very clearly, as to the whereabouts of money or other important stuff- as in, I AM PUTTING THE CHECK BY THE DOOR, HERE, TO GO TO THE BANK IN THE MORNING. Over twenty years later, we're still doing that.

My dad felt so badly about the accidental incineration that he ended up quietly replacing the money on my desk later that week- a gesture for which he has my undying gratitude. But it wasn't the same, and we both knew it. And there was a part of me that never quite got over it.

I think I'm telling this story here and now (and I'm nearly finished, I promise) because I am well aware that we are on the brink of spending an awful lot of money for a medical treatment that may not work. Of course, compared to the price of IVF, $100 is a drop in the bucket- but that's not really the point. We could potentially end up throwing vast sums of cash on the bonfire of IVF, with absolutely nothing to show for it. And the very prospect stirs such a vivid and unhappy childhood memory.

Standing before the tinderbox of fertility treatment, I want to take the eleven year old girl within, and gently- very gently- cover her eyes.

Shoot that poison arrow in my heel

Like most people dealing with a long-term problem, I have good days and I have bad days.

Today was definitely a bad day.

I don't want to sound like a big whiner. I think, for the most part, I have thus far been a real little super trooper about a lot of this fucking bullshit.  I've put up with all the crap infertility dishes out- blood tests, invasive procedures, endless doctor's appointments, uncertainty, stress on my relationship, disappointment month after month, constant assvice and stupid comments, financial worries.  And apart from the very occasional meltdown, I have somehow on carried on functioning (more or less) as a relatively upbeat little person.

Today, however, I encountered what appears to be my ultimate Achilles heel.  And that is, simply, babies in the office. This is the second time this month this has happened, and I have discovered that my reaction to these types of visitations is an almost immediate Pavlovian breakdown. 

Today was the day my colleague (the one for whom I was also somehow specially picked to present with a "going-on-maternity-leave" parting gift) came in to the office with her beautiful 8 week old baby.  This is her second child in the space of the two years that I have been trying.  All of a sudden, there she was standing beside my desk with the pram, unannounced.

I attempted to staple on the Big Smile, give the obligatory nods and coos, while everybody in the room suddenly flocked around us. The baby gave a little shift, opening her tiny pink rosebud mouth to gurgle.

And then all of a sudden, I simply couldn't breathe.  One of my team looked over, saw my face, and mouthed, "Are you OK?"   Well, no, actually.  No, I was not OK. 

I don't even know how I got out of there, walking quickly to the sanctuary of the ladies' bathroom, where I barricaded myself in one of the stalls, cramming my fist in my mouth as I cried. Cried big, wet, sloppy tears. Someone came in while I was in there, trippy trapping over my bridge in their little goat heels.  Then they stood in front of the mirror, doing God knows what for what seemed half an hour- from my side of the cubicle wall, it sounded like they were giving themselves a home perm. I was trapped, but I didn't care, because I wasn't really planning on going anywhere for the next 8 hours. 

I ended up staying there until the colleague who had asked if I was OK eventually came in to find me, and to ask if there was anything she could do.  Fortunately, she was unfazed by the sight of my torn and bleeding heart lying, still thumping weakly, on the tiles.  She happily volunteered to go call a medivac and to retrieve my handbag, the latter being slightly more important, since it contains my "Emergency Infertility Crying Makeup Repair Kit".  Powder, check.  Blush, just a tiny bit, since I was already prettily flushed with weeping.  Eyeliner- essential to disguise those unsightly smudges. Lipstick- turn that frown upside down!

"The coast is clear now," my team member reported, "they have all gone for coffee."  Just outside the door, I heard the distant cry of a very small baby.

I stayed in the bathroom a little while longer.

I realised, as I carried on trying to spackle my face back into a presentable state, that I don't think there is any big insight to be gained from all of this. It's simple, really. Like most people who long for something which is seemingly unobtainable, I just don't do so great when that which I cannot have is proudly paraded right in front of me. 

Finally, I slunk back to my desk, a few stray entrails dangling behind me. Then I sat, trying to hold it together, but really just staring out of the window, at nothing. With a Herculean effort, I resumed my work. 

But there remained a large and jagged rift in the seam of my day, and I never did quite manage to mend it.

Faced with the Force

Yesterday, E. and I joined what seemed to be the entire population of Scotland in going to see the new Star Wars movie. We suspected it might be a big disappointment, but we were comforted by the thought that at least we could then indulge in nostalgic reminisicing about the good old days, about the triology of our youth.

And we were right.

[As an aside, can I just insert a small gripe here about people who bring very small kids to a movie which is clearly not suitable for children that age? The row in front of us was filled by a family with what seemed like half a dozen four year olds, who at the midway point got bored and started whining, needing the bathroom and wanting to goooooo home. Until the film got scary and then they were reduced to crying loudly under their seats. I like children, obviously, but limits, people, limits. 'Nuff said.]

Anyway, there are enough reviews out there to fill an entire galaxy, so I don't expect you really need to know my detailed opinion on the film. But all the post-mortem chat with E. did get me thinking about one scene from the original trilogy which I have always liked. It's the part where Yoda reads Luke the riot act for being too busy chasing adventure to stay "in the present".

"This one a long time have I watched. Never his mind on where he was . Hmm? On what he was doing.. Hmph!"

I've heard variations on this theme quite a lot since we started trying for a family. The idea seems to be that it is better simply focus on what you have, and enjoy your present blessings than go relentlessly chasing after something. You know, be happy with your present situation- enjoy the fact that you can sleep late on weekends, go out for long boozy dinners, take off on holidays when you feel like it, spend your money on treats for yourself. Blah blah blah.

Back in the early days, when we only feared (rather than confirmed) a problem, I actually had someone criticise me for being "too ambitious", and controlling about the process. "Let go," I was told, "it will happen in time."

Which, if you think about it, is rather hackneyed attempt at a Zen version of "just relax".

Thing is, I think it's all very well and good to talk about staying in the "now", focusing on what is before you, making the best of what you have. Except that for an infertile couple, the present can be an agonising place to be. When everything around you feels like a barren wasteland, when your landscape is a grim desert, blasted by the heat of two suns, OF COURSE you are going to think about gettng the fuck out of there on your landspeeder as soon as humanly possible.

We live in a society very much geared to both instant gratification and relentless self-improvement. Don't like the way you look? See your doctor, or order the FAST FIXX now, and get results quickly (not available anywhere else!) Stifled at work? Climb the company ladder, achieve your potential! Is your home too small? Invest in a bigger, better property! Don't be complacent! Be all that you can be! Live your dreams. Make it happen! Call 1-800-GET-A-LIFE!

All those messages are transmitted in a thousand different ways to us over time. How hard and contradictory it then seems to just stop, and suddenly expect to be happy with whatever point you have happened to reach at that particular moment. As if the only growing you are now allowed to do is toward acceptance of how far you have come, without going any further.

Thing is, most of the time, I do have my mind on where I am, and on what I am doing. It's hard not to, since much of what I do demands that I be fully engaged on a day to day basis. My present contains an interesting, if challenging job, a fulfilling relationship, a comfortable home, a loving family. It all takes work to maintain, and I do that work, gladly, since I value what I have.

But does that mean I should stop looking ahead for something else? Does that mean that I should simply accept things as they are? Stop wishing for something which I may not be able to have? Should I just be passive, go with the flow, stretch out with my feelings? In a situation where we are forced to make hard choices, should I just use the Force instead?

That would be fine, in theory. Except that right now, you know what? I'd so much rather be a mother than a Jedi Knight.

Not waving but drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

-Stevie Smith

I decided recently to come at least part way out of the IVF/infertility closet, by operating on a "if you ask, I'll tell" basis.

People notice when I disappear off for an afternoon to the doctor. People worry when I allude to possibly needing a leave of absence from work in the autumn, but don't give a reason. In the long term, keeping any sort of treatment secret entails a lot of evasiveness, making up excuses, or possibly even downright lying. I find all that exhausting, and I no longer have the energy for it. Arranging and co-ordinating treatment in the OC is going to be complicated enough asit is without extra tap-dancing around the subject with friends and colleagues.

I decided to be practical and pragmatic. It's none of anyone else's business, but I have nothing to be ashamed of. We have a medical problem, one which requires medical assistance. Of course I would not intend to go shouting it from the rooftops, or making up buttons that say "I'm Infertile! Ask me how!" But if I were to be asked a direct question, or if it would otherwise make my life easier to come clean, then I decided- I would admit the truth. Barren, but forthright.

Before, I was afraid to tell anyone. I worried that in addition to be judged and criticised, I would receive annoying, hurtful or insulting assvice. I worried that I would undergo treatment, and it would fail, and then I would have to endure pitying looks, or more unbearable platitudes. I worried that if I was upfront about our situation, all this and more might happen.

But then I mentally shook myself, like a shaggy dog just out of the river. What's to lose? The only thing to fear from assvice is the assvice itself!

How ironic then that, having girded myself for the looks, the inappropriate comments, and some general insensitivity, I find that what I have mostly received thus far is indifference. This annoys me. After all, there is nothing more irritating than having psyched oneself up for a big gut wrenching and climactic confession, only to find that, guess what? Nobody gives a shit! It's not hot news, it's non- news.

Thing is, this should not come as a big surprise. Generally speaking, what interests people most in life is themselves. And why not? Life is complicated and messy, and at any one time there are a thousand and one different problems, dilemmas and other personal matters with which to otherwise preoccupy the self. Aging parents. A wayward teenager. A philandering husband. Mounting credit card debt. A career crisis. Leaking roof, a faulty dishwasher, an ugly dispute with a neighbour over the height of a hedge or boundary of a lawn. Depression. Addiction. The government conspiracy that we should have tracking chips implanted in our heads (what, you hadn't heard about that? Further proof that the truth is being SUPPRESSED).

In short, many people are so involved with their own "stuff" that all they do is nod, smile, possibly ask a few vague and general questions. Then they quickly go back to what's really important to them- their own stuff.

Oh, there have been some half-hearted attempts at sympathy and understanding, but within five minutes of explaining the dragons on my horizon- needles, nasal sprays, dildo-cams- their eyes are glazing. It seems even harder for people to take an interest if they have never encountered or experienced infertility in their own lives, if there is no parcel of pain matching that description in their personal Life Baggage.

Admittedly, I think it might be slightly different if I was presenting this as an emotive issue- but I'm not. Just the facts, stated in a calm, direct manner. Sometimes I've even smiling and rolling my eyes when I say it- as in "oh, silly me. This darn infertility thing, I'll be spending my summer vacation in the hospital. Har har har, what a hoot".

There may be no obvious signal of any undercurrent of stress or anguish- and so while certain parts of the message may get through, much is lost. The channels of reception cannot quite catch my frequency. It's like a dog whistle, shrill and high beyond the range of human ears, or talking on the telephone over a crossed wire.

Lost in the waves of life-static, it is so hard to convey that right now, I am much further out than they think. Not waving, but drowning.