It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a womb, should be able to use that womb for the purpose which it was intended. Ok, wrong book, but I couldn't resist!
Here's the deal with Infertility. IF you're lucky enough to get a BFP somewhere along the line, the innocence is completely gone. I've been cogitating recently over all my losses and how quickly you move from joy to despair. I realise now that any time I manage to get a sticky pregnancy will lead to an extremely long 40 weeks. None of these innocent, bygone times when I treated myself as a normal person. No, now I will be HIGH RISK. Not only due to age, but also history.
Not fun. None of this scrubbing the kitchen floor when your waters break, as legend has it happened to my mum with her third child. I shall be completely and irrationally consumed with listeria-hysteria. GET THAT COLD CUT AWAY FROM ME!!!!
I've already been advised by the older generation to lay on the couch for 9 months. The oldies seem to think that this will help you avoid blighted ova, chemical pregnancies and ectopics. But you know what? I think I WILL lie on the couch for 9 months and languidly eat bon-bons and watch my favorite DVDs. Because I deserve it. Lost in Translation will follow Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. And so on.
I'll become a huge, amorphous invalid revelling in my abnormality.
Ok, fantasy over (getting a bit weird now) but you get the drift. Roll on, BT!
Thursday, 27 December 2007
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Psychotic Rabid Fertiles.
Got your attention, hey? Think I might just leave it at that.
But please be aware that cyber-stalking Infertile women in their own safe net havens just suggests mental illness.
But please be aware that cyber-stalking Infertile women in their own safe net havens just suggests mental illness.
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Do I look FET in this?
Or, how many lame puns can I squeeze out of this acronym?
I was dwelling on this today, lying in the stirrup chair waiting for the FS to come and perform my transfer. As always, the blast was perfect, thawed perfectly, lining perfect, hormones perfect, yada yada yada. This is the joy of Unexplained Infertility, EVERYTHING FUCKING WORKS PERFECTLY BUT YOU DON'T GET A BABY!
As I rested my mitts on my distended belly, I pondered the unpleasant weight gain of the last 3 years or so and my inability to do anything about said weight gain.
IF causes weight gain in both overt and subtle ways, leading to further self-loathing at a time when you already hate yourself and pretty much most of the world.
My weight gain actually began, appropriately enough, with my first pregnancy. Shall we say that like Ebenezer Scrooge, I've glimpsed the future for any possibly successful pregnancy, and that future is BIG. While I only reached the end of the first trimester, my appetite exploded exponentially. The craving for junk food and need for carbs was egregious. Unfortunately, the 4 kgs gained then have never come off, and many more have been added. Two more with the next unsuccessful pregnancy, lost very early but at this stage I was happy to let myself go and pig out (emotional eating, ya know). About another 4kgs after the ectopic through anaemia-induced inertia, depression and stress eating/drinking.
Unfortunately, the process of IVF means that not only are you mildly depressed and in no mood to diet/exercise, but you also have all the "what if" scenarios. Like, not wanting to join a gym in case of pregnancy. Or, because you don't want to do anything too strenuous in the 2WW, just in case. Don't forget the old, "if I get pregnant, I'll be putting on weight anyway, so this doesn't matter" excuse as well.
Oh, I just remembered, the drugs you have to take during IVF also lead to weight gain!! Hilarious, no?
So, on top of going through this shitty saga, you also gain 10kgs, have tits the size of a porno-melon and eat crap because it's the one thing that fills this hole at the moment. You don't fit into any of your clothes but don't want to spend money on any new, size 14-type clothes because you're sure that this is merely a "transitory period".
Except that the transitory period has now gone on for about the same length of time as 5 pregnancies put together.
I was dwelling on this today, lying in the stirrup chair waiting for the FS to come and perform my transfer. As always, the blast was perfect, thawed perfectly, lining perfect, hormones perfect, yada yada yada. This is the joy of Unexplained Infertility, EVERYTHING FUCKING WORKS PERFECTLY BUT YOU DON'T GET A BABY!
As I rested my mitts on my distended belly, I pondered the unpleasant weight gain of the last 3 years or so and my inability to do anything about said weight gain.
IF causes weight gain in both overt and subtle ways, leading to further self-loathing at a time when you already hate yourself and pretty much most of the world.
My weight gain actually began, appropriately enough, with my first pregnancy. Shall we say that like Ebenezer Scrooge, I've glimpsed the future for any possibly successful pregnancy, and that future is BIG. While I only reached the end of the first trimester, my appetite exploded exponentially. The craving for junk food and need for carbs was egregious. Unfortunately, the 4 kgs gained then have never come off, and many more have been added. Two more with the next unsuccessful pregnancy, lost very early but at this stage I was happy to let myself go and pig out (emotional eating, ya know). About another 4kgs after the ectopic through anaemia-induced inertia, depression and stress eating/drinking.
Unfortunately, the process of IVF means that not only are you mildly depressed and in no mood to diet/exercise, but you also have all the "what if" scenarios. Like, not wanting to join a gym in case of pregnancy. Or, because you don't want to do anything too strenuous in the 2WW, just in case. Don't forget the old, "if I get pregnant, I'll be putting on weight anyway, so this doesn't matter" excuse as well.
Oh, I just remembered, the drugs you have to take during IVF also lead to weight gain!! Hilarious, no?
So, on top of going through this shitty saga, you also gain 10kgs, have tits the size of a porno-melon and eat crap because it's the one thing that fills this hole at the moment. You don't fit into any of your clothes but don't want to spend money on any new, size 14-type clothes because you're sure that this is merely a "transitory period".
Except that the transitory period has now gone on for about the same length of time as 5 pregnancies put together.
Sunday, 16 December 2007
Infertility Stole My Career!!!
.....recited with a terribly nasal faux Australian accent a la Meryl Streep in Evil Angels. But without the Dingo and baby part, of course.
There comes a time in every woman's life, when she gets sick of working and says "bugger this, time to breed". Now, please don't start querying my feminist credentials here, I'm card-carrying and proud, but I truly don't know anyone who hasn't got to this point, particularly those of us with not-so-exciting careers (raises hand) who have reached A Certain Age (raises other hand) and who finally has a committed, loving partner (raises left leg and promptly collapses).
Perhaps it's a teaching thing. This is the job that sucks the living marrow out of you day after day and spits in your face in pleasure (only slightly melodramatic when you've worked at some of the schools I have). As an aside, I do think it's hilarious that every school has those ra-ra-ra intense careerists running around trying to 'do' everything and climb the ladder. I figure if you're such a damn careerist, you could have chosen a slightly more financially advantageous profession to pursue!
However, with the passage of time, you do become good at what you do and start to look for other, shall we say, challenges. This was where my career was at when we started TTC all those years ago. After 10 years, I'd pretty much perfected the normal stuff (teaching, marking, prep, discipline etc) and was moving into some minor leadership-type roles and pursuing interesting new developments in pedagogy etc., with the support of my brilliant Principal. With the aging of the workforce, mega retirements etc and the fact that all the women my age are out on extended family leave, plus the fact that I came of age in the Kennett Era when most teaching grads didn't even go into teaching, MY TIME HAS COME.
Unfortunately, instead of filling this hole with whatever vestiges of career satisfaction I could possibly have salvaged, I find myself at the bottom of the heap, doing Emergency (relief) teaching so that I can take time off for appointments, random miscarriages and days when I basically feel like shit and can't face a room full of mouthy 16-year-olds.
On top of that, moving interstate twice during these years finds me constantly at the bottom of the ladder at whichever crappy school I can manage to get a job in, getting the worst classes, having no permanency and no say, dealing with the bitch-factor (Teaching is mostly a female concern, ergo the bitch-factor), dealing with constant streams of newly-pregnant colleagues, etc etc.
I like working, but this phase ain't fun.
There comes a time in every woman's life, when she gets sick of working and says "bugger this, time to breed". Now, please don't start querying my feminist credentials here, I'm card-carrying and proud, but I truly don't know anyone who hasn't got to this point, particularly those of us with not-so-exciting careers (raises hand) who have reached A Certain Age (raises other hand) and who finally has a committed, loving partner (raises left leg and promptly collapses).
Perhaps it's a teaching thing. This is the job that sucks the living marrow out of you day after day and spits in your face in pleasure (only slightly melodramatic when you've worked at some of the schools I have). As an aside, I do think it's hilarious that every school has those ra-ra-ra intense careerists running around trying to 'do' everything and climb the ladder. I figure if you're such a damn careerist, you could have chosen a slightly more financially advantageous profession to pursue!
However, with the passage of time, you do become good at what you do and start to look for other, shall we say, challenges. This was where my career was at when we started TTC all those years ago. After 10 years, I'd pretty much perfected the normal stuff (teaching, marking, prep, discipline etc) and was moving into some minor leadership-type roles and pursuing interesting new developments in pedagogy etc., with the support of my brilliant Principal. With the aging of the workforce, mega retirements etc and the fact that all the women my age are out on extended family leave, plus the fact that I came of age in the Kennett Era when most teaching grads didn't even go into teaching, MY TIME HAS COME.
Unfortunately, instead of filling this hole with whatever vestiges of career satisfaction I could possibly have salvaged, I find myself at the bottom of the heap, doing Emergency (relief) teaching so that I can take time off for appointments, random miscarriages and days when I basically feel like shit and can't face a room full of mouthy 16-year-olds.
On top of that, moving interstate twice during these years finds me constantly at the bottom of the ladder at whichever crappy school I can manage to get a job in, getting the worst classes, having no permanency and no say, dealing with the bitch-factor (Teaching is mostly a female concern, ergo the bitch-factor), dealing with constant streams of newly-pregnant colleagues, etc etc.
I like working, but this phase ain't fun.
Friday, 14 December 2007
Gotta See The Babeee!!!
How much fun is that after 4 years TTC? Almost as much fun as sharpening a stick, dipping it into a delicate concoction of arsenic and turps, burning the end of said sharpened, poisoned stick and poking it rapidly into one's eyes, a la poor, misguided Oedipus.
The name of this blog comes from a particularly amusing Seinfeld episode, "The Boyfriend, Part 2". (please don't sue me, Jerry. You're rich and you married a way younger bird who has presented you with 3 fine specimens in rapid succession. Be kind to the Childless Slapper.) The one where the gang's annoyingly smug, married friends have a kid and insist that everyone has to trek to their Hamptons heaven to gaze beatifically on said child. I do believe it's also the famous story arc involving Keith Hernandez and the "Second Spitter Theory", surely one of the funniest sequences in the history of television. One of those ones I'm reciting during the ep, while everyone around me's slowly making the sign of the cuckoo-bird.
Anyhoo, the annoyingly smug married-couple, Carol and Michael insist that Jezza and the gang come over to see their baby. Because everyone loves seeing babies, am I right? Other people's babies, that is. But oddly enough, the gang is not keen. As a bunch of thirty-something singles, it's quite possibly the pleasure equivalent of the abovementioned burnt stick in the proverbial eye. It's just not where they're at. And there's the dichotomy. You can only be bothered seeing other people's babies when you have one of your own, and that's because you have equality. Mummazilla equality.
Funny thing. The older I get, the younger my friends seem to be. There's that inverse relationship thing again, is that physics or something? I figure that by the time I'm 74, I'll be happily dribbling with other people's 2 year-olds, the way I'm headed. Just bib and nappy us up together. This is the end-result of not keeping up with your peers. Meaning that at the Husband's work Xmas do this year, the mothers (all the other women bar me and the young guy's girlfriend) all magically drifted to one side of the deck, while I befriended this cool, early-20s chick and had a few vinos too many. You do have to dodge a few poisonous glares from the mummazillas if you don't want to pander to, oops, play with their little darlings. You know, I like kids and all, hell, I've been teaching them for 13 years, but I don't want to spend my social time looking at Ethan's Spiderman mask. (since when were Aussie boys named Ethan and Seth, anyway?)
What was the point of this blog? Dunno, triggering tomorrow and having first FET next Thursday. I think I just wanted an excuse to reminisce about Seinfeld. Those were the days!
The name of this blog comes from a particularly amusing Seinfeld episode, "The Boyfriend, Part 2". (please don't sue me, Jerry. You're rich and you married a way younger bird who has presented you with 3 fine specimens in rapid succession. Be kind to the Childless Slapper.) The one where the gang's annoyingly smug, married friends have a kid and insist that everyone has to trek to their Hamptons heaven to gaze beatifically on said child. I do believe it's also the famous story arc involving Keith Hernandez and the "Second Spitter Theory", surely one of the funniest sequences in the history of television. One of those ones I'm reciting during the ep, while everyone around me's slowly making the sign of the cuckoo-bird.
Anyhoo, the annoyingly smug married-couple, Carol and Michael insist that Jezza and the gang come over to see their baby. Because everyone loves seeing babies, am I right? Other people's babies, that is. But oddly enough, the gang is not keen. As a bunch of thirty-something singles, it's quite possibly the pleasure equivalent of the abovementioned burnt stick in the proverbial eye. It's just not where they're at. And there's the dichotomy. You can only be bothered seeing other people's babies when you have one of your own, and that's because you have equality. Mummazilla equality.
Funny thing. The older I get, the younger my friends seem to be. There's that inverse relationship thing again, is that physics or something? I figure that by the time I'm 74, I'll be happily dribbling with other people's 2 year-olds, the way I'm headed. Just bib and nappy us up together. This is the end-result of not keeping up with your peers. Meaning that at the Husband's work Xmas do this year, the mothers (all the other women bar me and the young guy's girlfriend) all magically drifted to one side of the deck, while I befriended this cool, early-20s chick and had a few vinos too many. You do have to dodge a few poisonous glares from the mummazillas if you don't want to pander to, oops, play with their little darlings. You know, I like kids and all, hell, I've been teaching them for 13 years, but I don't want to spend my social time looking at Ethan's Spiderman mask. (since when were Aussie boys named Ethan and Seth, anyway?)
What was the point of this blog? Dunno, triggering tomorrow and having first FET next Thursday. I think I just wanted an excuse to reminisce about Seinfeld. Those were the days!
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Bah Humbug, or How Infertility Killed Christmas.
All I can say is, Ebenezer Scrooge must have had male factor. Nothing like a spot of IF to kill the Christmas spirit.
Briefly, I have refused to spend this Christmas at home with Family. Of the 4 women who will be present, 1 is 55 years old, each of the other 3 have newbie newborns, plus there's a 1 year old for added effect. And I'm just not doing it. This is DH's side, so of course I feel like the Grinch. My family have never even done Christmas, so it means nada to me anyway, but now I've made it all about me.
In the spirit of Denial, I harken back to those innocent, halcyon days of early TTC. You know, when you keep thinking, "next month I'll be pregnant too, so talking about your pregnancy won't seem so bad" or, "this time next year, I'll have a baby too, so looking at your baby won't seem so painful" etc etc. Those sweet, naive days are over, amigos.
Chronologically, I've always loved babies, cute little things, even the ugly ones were cute in my eyes. In my mid-20s this meant that everytime a new mother wheeled her kid back to work for the obligatory show-and-tell session, I'd be the one clucking and holding their kid. Behaviour such as this evinced knowing nods and smiles from the old duck brigade, who were quick to connect my cluckiness with near-future breeding. Never mind that at the time I was engaged to a complete twat, so happily the aforementioned breeding never occurred.
With the passage of time, so passed my cluckiness. Late 20s to early 30s saw me lose interest in the little blighters, was having too much fun and it all seemed so distant and disconnected to my experience. Interestingly enough, once you start TTC, babies become a constant reminder of your failure. There's also a seemingly-contradictory, inverse relationship between the time it takes TTC and how interested you are in other people's spawn.
So, the first 3 years or so of TTC saw me visiting a few babies (partly to do with the blog title-more on that later), not collapsing publically or bitching privately at pregnancy announcements etc. As well as the Denial phase, I call this the "do the right thing (by others)" stage, closely related to the "masochism and go home and drink yourself into paralysis" stage.
Now, I feel that my experiences have validated my current actions. I'll stand up proudly and declare...."I'm Infertile And I'm Not Going To Take It Anymore!!!!"
This involves: not being in touch with pregnant women, if I don't want to be. Not going to social events if there will be multiple babies/bumps. Not making up gastro/flu excuses for these invitation-refusals, but actually saying that it upsets me now to be around lots of babies/kids. Not being in touch with friends who want to share every detail of their pregnancies with me, the Infertile friend. Appropriateness, people!!! Also not being in touch with friends who become Helicopter Parents, you know, the ones who just lurve putting on the "I was an individual for 35 years but now my life revolves around talking about poo-poo and controlled crying." Note that I didn't say that their lives shouldn't revolve around their kid, more that their lives shouldn't revolve around obsessing over said kid, particularly not with their Infertile Friend.
This leads to one of my favourite pearls of wisdom: Choose your Audience!!! Considering that 90% of people seem to pop out kittens with no problems whatsoever, please discuss your kittens with these people, not your childless friend who lies awake at night wondering "why me?" and walks around shopping centres in a daze trying to make sense of this thing while being rammed by 19-year-olds with a twin pram and one on the way.
On the other hand, I virtually brought up my baby brother, so please don't condescend to me by telling me how to hold a baby, earnestly explaining no solids for 6-months or basic crap like that, just because I'm not yet a breeder. You can't win with an Infertile friend, but hey, you get to have a kid/s and I don't, so I'll take the high-moral, selfish road, for now, and feel not a jot of guilt.
Briefly, I have refused to spend this Christmas at home with Family. Of the 4 women who will be present, 1 is 55 years old, each of the other 3 have newbie newborns, plus there's a 1 year old for added effect. And I'm just not doing it. This is DH's side, so of course I feel like the Grinch. My family have never even done Christmas, so it means nada to me anyway, but now I've made it all about me.
In the spirit of Denial, I harken back to those innocent, halcyon days of early TTC. You know, when you keep thinking, "next month I'll be pregnant too, so talking about your pregnancy won't seem so bad" or, "this time next year, I'll have a baby too, so looking at your baby won't seem so painful" etc etc. Those sweet, naive days are over, amigos.
Chronologically, I've always loved babies, cute little things, even the ugly ones were cute in my eyes. In my mid-20s this meant that everytime a new mother wheeled her kid back to work for the obligatory show-and-tell session, I'd be the one clucking and holding their kid. Behaviour such as this evinced knowing nods and smiles from the old duck brigade, who were quick to connect my cluckiness with near-future breeding. Never mind that at the time I was engaged to a complete twat, so happily the aforementioned breeding never occurred.
With the passage of time, so passed my cluckiness. Late 20s to early 30s saw me lose interest in the little blighters, was having too much fun and it all seemed so distant and disconnected to my experience. Interestingly enough, once you start TTC, babies become a constant reminder of your failure. There's also a seemingly-contradictory, inverse relationship between the time it takes TTC and how interested you are in other people's spawn.
So, the first 3 years or so of TTC saw me visiting a few babies (partly to do with the blog title-more on that later), not collapsing publically or bitching privately at pregnancy announcements etc. As well as the Denial phase, I call this the "do the right thing (by others)" stage, closely related to the "masochism and go home and drink yourself into paralysis" stage.
Now, I feel that my experiences have validated my current actions. I'll stand up proudly and declare...."I'm Infertile And I'm Not Going To Take It Anymore!!!!"
This involves: not being in touch with pregnant women, if I don't want to be. Not going to social events if there will be multiple babies/bumps. Not making up gastro/flu excuses for these invitation-refusals, but actually saying that it upsets me now to be around lots of babies/kids. Not being in touch with friends who want to share every detail of their pregnancies with me, the Infertile friend. Appropriateness, people!!! Also not being in touch with friends who become Helicopter Parents, you know, the ones who just lurve putting on the "I was an individual for 35 years but now my life revolves around talking about poo-poo and controlled crying." Note that I didn't say that their lives shouldn't revolve around their kid, more that their lives shouldn't revolve around obsessing over said kid, particularly not with their Infertile Friend.
This leads to one of my favourite pearls of wisdom: Choose your Audience!!! Considering that 90% of people seem to pop out kittens with no problems whatsoever, please discuss your kittens with these people, not your childless friend who lies awake at night wondering "why me?" and walks around shopping centres in a daze trying to make sense of this thing while being rammed by 19-year-olds with a twin pram and one on the way.
On the other hand, I virtually brought up my baby brother, so please don't condescend to me by telling me how to hold a baby, earnestly explaining no solids for 6-months or basic crap like that, just because I'm not yet a breeder. You can't win with an Infertile friend, but hey, you get to have a kid/s and I don't, so I'll take the high-moral, selfish road, for now, and feel not a jot of guilt.
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Are We There, FET?
So, here we are after my CD10 BT this morning, gearing up for the Christmas FET which was almost not to be. The disappointment of the October BFN (F stands for a word more profane than Fat in my language) was slightly alleviated by the knowledge that of the 9 blasts, 5 were A-grade and usable, in fact I even think that the magic "compacting morula" (AKA Blast-Off!) words were spoken by the embryologist.
So with November written off due to the move, I was determined to courier over my 4 babies and get one of them ricocheted into mama before the end of the year. Of course AF was late and the clinic is shutting literally on the day I need them to be open, but let's stay positive, shall we?*insert wacko gif here*
The need to see the year out on a transfer is more psychological than anything else. Actually not a thing to do with the safety net as IVF seems awfully cheap over here, no, I just need to get on with things and make sure I did more than one big AC thing this year.
Why the delay, you ask? Why not be one of those intense-ators who runs to the GP for Clomid after 6 months of TTC, or starts seeing a Fertility Specialist 3 months before the 12-month definition of Infertility kicks in, just to start tests of course.
Well, see, here's the thing. I'm not meant to be doing AC. I hate Doctors, I hate hospitals, I hate anything to do with intervention. Truly, I'm one of those smug anti-pharmaceutical cliches, you know, the people who don't even take panadol? I walked around on a broken leg for a whole day once due to Dr Denial. So it's quite hilarious how much I've been in and out of hospitals the past few years, lovely, relaxing places that they are.
Of course, Murphy's Law and dumb luck have also not played their allocated parts in this story. How many people finally fall pregnant literally on the 12-month anniversary of TTC, thus reinforcing the fact that we're actually not infertile, just having bad luck? How many people then miscarry at 12 weeks but decide to give nature another 9 months to get her shit together, then finally make an appointment, only to fall pregnant again and lose it again? Then what is the likelihood that this same unlucky person will fall pregnant the month after this second miscarriage, not realising due to fucked up hormones that the positive pregnancy tests aren't just remnants of the previous month's miscarriage, only to end up with a life-threatening ectopic rupture, ambulance sirens, and a lost tube? How many people would then be so disturbed by the whole thing, that they needed to take another 9 months off TTC and travel a lot to get over the trauma? (erm, all rhetorical questions if you hadn't worked that out- not thinking clearly enough to use my clear thinking language techniques here)
Well, there it is in a nutshell. Lots of shitty luck, lots of denial, which leads me to only being up to my 2nd transfer this month, if all goes to plan. Clearly, I'm panicking. Being laidback can be good, but being laidback can be god-awful too.
So with November written off due to the move, I was determined to courier over my 4 babies and get one of them ricocheted into mama before the end of the year. Of course AF was late and the clinic is shutting literally on the day I need them to be open, but let's stay positive, shall we?*insert wacko gif here*
The need to see the year out on a transfer is more psychological than anything else. Actually not a thing to do with the safety net as IVF seems awfully cheap over here, no, I just need to get on with things and make sure I did more than one big AC thing this year.
Why the delay, you ask? Why not be one of those intense-ators who runs to the GP for Clomid after 6 months of TTC, or starts seeing a Fertility Specialist 3 months before the 12-month definition of Infertility kicks in, just to start tests of course.
Well, see, here's the thing. I'm not meant to be doing AC. I hate Doctors, I hate hospitals, I hate anything to do with intervention. Truly, I'm one of those smug anti-pharmaceutical cliches, you know, the people who don't even take panadol? I walked around on a broken leg for a whole day once due to Dr Denial. So it's quite hilarious how much I've been in and out of hospitals the past few years, lovely, relaxing places that they are.
Of course, Murphy's Law and dumb luck have also not played their allocated parts in this story. How many people finally fall pregnant literally on the 12-month anniversary of TTC, thus reinforcing the fact that we're actually not infertile, just having bad luck? How many people then miscarry at 12 weeks but decide to give nature another 9 months to get her shit together, then finally make an appointment, only to fall pregnant again and lose it again? Then what is the likelihood that this same unlucky person will fall pregnant the month after this second miscarriage, not realising due to fucked up hormones that the positive pregnancy tests aren't just remnants of the previous month's miscarriage, only to end up with a life-threatening ectopic rupture, ambulance sirens, and a lost tube? How many people would then be so disturbed by the whole thing, that they needed to take another 9 months off TTC and travel a lot to get over the trauma? (erm, all rhetorical questions if you hadn't worked that out- not thinking clearly enough to use my clear thinking language techniques here)
Well, there it is in a nutshell. Lots of shitty luck, lots of denial, which leads me to only being up to my 2nd transfer this month, if all goes to plan. Clearly, I'm panicking. Being laidback can be good, but being laidback can be god-awful too.
Monday, 10 December 2007
Wow, blogging, eh?
Yeah, just what the title said. Can't believe I've entered the blogging domain. Late thirties and all that. Strangely enough, this comes at a time, almost 4 years since we started TTC #1, when I'm coming to the childless realization. You know, the logical understanding that everyone knows someone who never had kids and that that someone for everyone I know will most likely be me. Well it sure as hell isn't going to be anyone else, judging by the breeding output of those around me.
Statistics show that in the near future 1 in 4 women will be childless, either by choice or circumstance. So basically, in a few years my life will be full of fun and laughter and lots of Childless Slapper friends, running around the world, buying Prada bags, that sort of thing. The stuff you do when you can't successfully spawn.
So, where was I?
Oh yeah, infertility. My new elephant in the room. Wow do people work hard to avoid that elephant now. Mainly because I spout off about it every chance I get. Mostly because it's always on my mind. Generally to demystify the label and bring it to the table. Quite often because it makes people uncomfortable, and in a sick and twisted way I kinda enjoy that the most.
Oh yeah, the worst part is the adjective "Unexplained" which comes before the noun in my case. Because being unexplained, having had every test going which are all normal, having responded ridiculously well to IVF with a dream cycle every step of the way, we still have to affix that adjective to that noun, "Infertility". How can they fix what ain't broke?
Which brings on the Why Mes and self-pity parties, which are a whole lotta fun. Or not.
So, I'm writing this blog because we've just moved interstate and I'm unemployed and bored. I'm writing because I'm trying to make sense of this situation. And because I feel like it.
This is the part where I give the black humour warning. If you like hugs and flowers, may I politely suggest that you bugger off and find some more inspiring reading? Coz that's not where my head's at right now.
Adios amigos!
Statistics show that in the near future 1 in 4 women will be childless, either by choice or circumstance. So basically, in a few years my life will be full of fun and laughter and lots of Childless Slapper friends, running around the world, buying Prada bags, that sort of thing. The stuff you do when you can't successfully spawn.
So, where was I?
Oh yeah, infertility. My new elephant in the room. Wow do people work hard to avoid that elephant now. Mainly because I spout off about it every chance I get. Mostly because it's always on my mind. Generally to demystify the label and bring it to the table. Quite often because it makes people uncomfortable, and in a sick and twisted way I kinda enjoy that the most.
Oh yeah, the worst part is the adjective "Unexplained" which comes before the noun in my case. Because being unexplained, having had every test going which are all normal, having responded ridiculously well to IVF with a dream cycle every step of the way, we still have to affix that adjective to that noun, "Infertility". How can they fix what ain't broke?
Which brings on the Why Mes and self-pity parties, which are a whole lotta fun. Or not.
So, I'm writing this blog because we've just moved interstate and I'm unemployed and bored. I'm writing because I'm trying to make sense of this situation. And because I feel like it.
This is the part where I give the black humour warning. If you like hugs and flowers, may I politely suggest that you bugger off and find some more inspiring reading? Coz that's not where my head's at right now.
Adios amigos!
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