No, it's not blog-time yet, but I wanted to put in a plug for a new website run by those with fertility issues, for those with fertility issues. Occasionally, some of us feel like a minority freak-show on the usual parenting board we play at and have been looking for a safe haven where we can discuss fertility related issues without being told that we're bitter and twisted (there's that phrase again) yada yada yada. It's still in its infancy, but check it out, you might just see some friendly faces and get the support you're looking for!
http://inconceivable.ipbfree.com/
Saturday, 26 April 2008
Monday, 21 April 2008
Bitters with a twist of lemon.....
I received an interesting message this week. It went something like this:
Dear Mez,
During the day when I have nothing else to do, I frequent online forums. Occasionally I notice that people seem to say some pretty mean stuff, like, things they probably wouldn't say if they weren't sitting behind a screen. I'm not sure what to think. How do I take it? Do I take them seriously and get involved, or just assume that everything I read on the net is a pile of boredom-induced bollocks??
Yours, Confused.
Well, Confused, thanks for the note. Strangely enough, I myself have a few theories on this very topic, so with your permission, I'll humbly expand upon this phenomenon.
We live in interesting times. Everyone is a writer, everyone is a researcher. In this post-post-modern world, we don't merely exist as the sum total of our various experiences, we deliberately create whole personas with which to enter the day, to live vicariously, or to express what is not socially acceptable in real life. Like a societal safety-valve, if you will. It's all a bit Tyler Durden, except sadly, the practitioners come off more Ed Norton than Brad Pitt.
Interesting times indeed. I set to musing on this topic recently as I pondered the highly unoriginal, yet classic phrase so beloved by many, "bitter and twisted". This is one you hear a lot when you don't have the good grace to hide the grief and emotions associated with long-term Infertility. It's dropped frequently into random, anonymous conversations; sometimes I wonder indeed if the purveyors of such originality have considered the fact that they, in lowbrow parlance, are stating the bleeding obvious?
Hey, why not just tell me that I have brown eyes? That's about as far-reaching and pithy as telling someone suffering IF that they're "bitter and twisted". Here's an oldie but a goodie: you might want to consider getting some new material. Or, here's an idea. Try moving beyond the false, wannabe, Alpha-female online persona and consider your responses to such people in the real world. I'll tell you now, that not one friend/acquaintance in real life has bothered to utter such a pointless phrase. In an authentic world, people are slightly more empathic, and if not, just slightly more intelligently original.
I can see it now, groups of women draped languidly around a warm fire in the withdrawing room, dropping the phrase "Oh, you're so bitter and twisted" with all the eclat of a divertingly considered bon mot, while sipping sherry and laughing delicately. NOT.
I hope that's made some sense, Confused. To paraphrase that famous twentieth century philosopher, George Costanza, it's not you, it's them.
Dear Mez,
During the day when I have nothing else to do, I frequent online forums. Occasionally I notice that people seem to say some pretty mean stuff, like, things they probably wouldn't say if they weren't sitting behind a screen. I'm not sure what to think. How do I take it? Do I take them seriously and get involved, or just assume that everything I read on the net is a pile of boredom-induced bollocks??
Yours, Confused.
Well, Confused, thanks for the note. Strangely enough, I myself have a few theories on this very topic, so with your permission, I'll humbly expand upon this phenomenon.
We live in interesting times. Everyone is a writer, everyone is a researcher. In this post-post-modern world, we don't merely exist as the sum total of our various experiences, we deliberately create whole personas with which to enter the day, to live vicariously, or to express what is not socially acceptable in real life. Like a societal safety-valve, if you will. It's all a bit Tyler Durden, except sadly, the practitioners come off more Ed Norton than Brad Pitt.
Interesting times indeed. I set to musing on this topic recently as I pondered the highly unoriginal, yet classic phrase so beloved by many, "bitter and twisted". This is one you hear a lot when you don't have the good grace to hide the grief and emotions associated with long-term Infertility. It's dropped frequently into random, anonymous conversations; sometimes I wonder indeed if the purveyors of such originality have considered the fact that they, in lowbrow parlance, are stating the bleeding obvious?
Hey, why not just tell me that I have brown eyes? That's about as far-reaching and pithy as telling someone suffering IF that they're "bitter and twisted". Here's an oldie but a goodie: you might want to consider getting some new material. Or, here's an idea. Try moving beyond the false, wannabe, Alpha-female online persona and consider your responses to such people in the real world. I'll tell you now, that not one friend/acquaintance in real life has bothered to utter such a pointless phrase. In an authentic world, people are slightly more empathic, and if not, just slightly more intelligently original.
I can see it now, groups of women draped languidly around a warm fire in the withdrawing room, dropping the phrase "Oh, you're so bitter and twisted" with all the eclat of a divertingly considered bon mot, while sipping sherry and laughing delicately. NOT.
I hope that's made some sense, Confused. To paraphrase that famous twentieth century philosopher, George Costanza, it's not you, it's them.
Friday, 18 April 2008
Do Infertiles Dream of Infertile Sheep?
Sometimes, a hidden memory crawls around the nether regions of my shrivelled, aging brain, jolting me with a blast from the past. A memory, pre-TTC, when the world was a warm, happy place. Well, at least predictable and logical in many ways.
The other night, when I was peering out the window trying to take my mind off yet another surgical procedure which was not guaranteed to bring me a baby, yet had to be done, one of these time-tendrils brushed my cheek. For some reason, I couldn't get out of my head the Tyrell corporation logo, "More human than human". Further analysis took me back around 9 years, possibly the last time I saw Blade Runner. Why was this in my head? Was it the thought of being placed on yet another operating table, to be entered, cut, scraped, violated again? Has technology gone too far? Why am I putting myself through this personal trespass? Clearly it's not something I enjoy, hell, I'd never been admitted to hospital until the age of 35 for my first M/C.
I guess the genetic engineering themes in Blade Runner were flittering through my mind with the thought of yet another procedure. I can't extrapolate much more deeply than that.
For me, very occasionally, art gives hope, a type of wish-fulfillment that the world could be a different place. Things like the simple yet blindingly poignant death speech of Roy Batty, who, in a few words, reveals his understanding of the world and empathy for man through the ages. At that moment, he is indeed more human than human.
If only human empathy were that simple.
All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.
Time to die.
The other night, when I was peering out the window trying to take my mind off yet another surgical procedure which was not guaranteed to bring me a baby, yet had to be done, one of these time-tendrils brushed my cheek. For some reason, I couldn't get out of my head the Tyrell corporation logo, "More human than human". Further analysis took me back around 9 years, possibly the last time I saw Blade Runner. Why was this in my head? Was it the thought of being placed on yet another operating table, to be entered, cut, scraped, violated again? Has technology gone too far? Why am I putting myself through this personal trespass? Clearly it's not something I enjoy, hell, I'd never been admitted to hospital until the age of 35 for my first M/C.
I guess the genetic engineering themes in Blade Runner were flittering through my mind with the thought of yet another procedure. I can't extrapolate much more deeply than that.
For me, very occasionally, art gives hope, a type of wish-fulfillment that the world could be a different place. Things like the simple yet blindingly poignant death speech of Roy Batty, who, in a few words, reveals his understanding of the world and empathy for man through the ages. At that moment, he is indeed more human than human.
If only human empathy were that simple.
All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.
Time to die.
Saturday, 12 April 2008
Ya got nuthin I want, ya got nuthin I need.
This is a banner week in Mez-land, a week unlike any other. My slightly melodramatic way of announcing 2 blog entries within a week.
I'm not completely clued up on this whole blogging etiquette thing. It appears that to obtain comments on your own scintillating entries, you must elicit such responses by commenting on OPBs. (that's other peeps' blogs y'all) Which presents me with the slightly problematic issue of actually having to read the aforementioned OPBs. Occasionally I do attempt this, dear reader, but oh, the banality! And the blogs of fellow childless slapper friends are becoming a wasteland of lost hopes and discarded words, ie: they seem to have stopped/diminished their blogging activities recently.
For what hope can there be, year after year of dashed dreams, disappointments, while your newbie barbie TTCer gets her magical 2 lines within a few months of trying? It seems that even IVF newbie barbies seem to be fulfilling their hopes much quicker than the rest of us.
I'm hoping, now, that we've stumbled upon the solution to our IF. No longer Unexplained, thanks to recurrent miscarriage testing, I find myself quietly hoping that this is the answer, and that the hysteroscopy/biopsy next week doesn't throw some other foul impediment to our efforts into the ring. Because I'm thinking that this is about as much as I can take.
The response to my testing ANA positive is for me to take a low dose of corticosteroids from transfer onwards. If this works, I'll definitely ditch the headfuck of AC and try for number 2 naturally, if we get that far. Being horrendously old, I personally am now a 1 child preferer, but DH and I both have issues with the idea of having a pampered, neurotic, spoilt, only child. "But ours won't be spoilt!" I cry, not even giving half-hearted credence to my own words. How on earth could this mythical child not be spoilt, after what we've been through? This child will be the prince/ss reigning over our lives, if only the mythical child would enter those emotionally-battered, yet still mildly hopeful lives at some point soon.
Where are you???
***what's with the irrelevent, Barnsey-esque title this week? No, I haven't tripped over to the bogan -side. I'm just a bit angry.
I'm not completely clued up on this whole blogging etiquette thing. It appears that to obtain comments on your own scintillating entries, you must elicit such responses by commenting on OPBs. (that's other peeps' blogs y'all) Which presents me with the slightly problematic issue of actually having to read the aforementioned OPBs. Occasionally I do attempt this, dear reader, but oh, the banality! And the blogs of fellow childless slapper friends are becoming a wasteland of lost hopes and discarded words, ie: they seem to have stopped/diminished their blogging activities recently.
For what hope can there be, year after year of dashed dreams, disappointments, while your newbie barbie TTCer gets her magical 2 lines within a few months of trying? It seems that even IVF newbie barbies seem to be fulfilling their hopes much quicker than the rest of us.
I'm hoping, now, that we've stumbled upon the solution to our IF. No longer Unexplained, thanks to recurrent miscarriage testing, I find myself quietly hoping that this is the answer, and that the hysteroscopy/biopsy next week doesn't throw some other foul impediment to our efforts into the ring. Because I'm thinking that this is about as much as I can take.
The response to my testing ANA positive is for me to take a low dose of corticosteroids from transfer onwards. If this works, I'll definitely ditch the headfuck of AC and try for number 2 naturally, if we get that far. Being horrendously old, I personally am now a 1 child preferer, but DH and I both have issues with the idea of having a pampered, neurotic, spoilt, only child. "But ours won't be spoilt!" I cry, not even giving half-hearted credence to my own words. How on earth could this mythical child not be spoilt, after what we've been through? This child will be the prince/ss reigning over our lives, if only the mythical child would enter those emotionally-battered, yet still mildly hopeful lives at some point soon.
Where are you???
***what's with the irrelevent, Barnsey-esque title this week? No, I haven't tripped over to the bogan -side. I'm just a bit angry.
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!
So, I'm feeling a bit Lady Macbeth today. For a number of reasons, not least the fact that she's the Queen of the crazy Infertile bitches.
I'm feeling that physical action might resolve my psychological torment, so, rather than murder the Scottish king and a bunch of inter-related thanes, I've decided to take the slightly more sane approach and start working again.
It's kind of working (ha ha). Keeps the mind off the continuing grief saga for a bit, reminds me that I am a righteous teacher whom the teens love, gives me back a sense of perspective and all that feel-good crud.
Because, dear friends, in this post-Dr Phil world, I refuse to be a victim. A victim of unfortunate circumstance I may be, but a victim of grief, NEVER! I am stronger than this, and like Colin Firth in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, I will beat this....
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Ok, now for the real update.
I still feel shitty that it took this long to test me for all the immune/genetic issues related to recurrent miscarriage. I requested these tests twice in the past 2 years. Have we been wasting valuable fertile years and A-grade blasts, when all it'll take is a dose of your friendly, neighbourhood steroids to stop my body rejecting our spawn? Is this it? Is this the answer to the 50 gazillion dollar question? I can scarcely dare to hope, yet I gain some relieved finality from being Unexplained no longer. A weight bigger than my fat, ever-expanding, comfort-eating arse has indeed been lifted. A modicum of hope dares to quiver in my battered heart.
I hope I don't force that next little spot out.
I'm feeling that physical action might resolve my psychological torment, so, rather than murder the Scottish king and a bunch of inter-related thanes, I've decided to take the slightly more sane approach and start working again.
It's kind of working (ha ha). Keeps the mind off the continuing grief saga for a bit, reminds me that I am a righteous teacher whom the teens love, gives me back a sense of perspective and all that feel-good crud.
Because, dear friends, in this post-Dr Phil world, I refuse to be a victim. A victim of unfortunate circumstance I may be, but a victim of grief, NEVER! I am stronger than this, and like Colin Firth in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, I will beat this....
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Ok, now for the real update.
I still feel shitty that it took this long to test me for all the immune/genetic issues related to recurrent miscarriage. I requested these tests twice in the past 2 years. Have we been wasting valuable fertile years and A-grade blasts, when all it'll take is a dose of your friendly, neighbourhood steroids to stop my body rejecting our spawn? Is this it? Is this the answer to the 50 gazillion dollar question? I can scarcely dare to hope, yet I gain some relieved finality from being Unexplained no longer. A weight bigger than my fat, ever-expanding, comfort-eating arse has indeed been lifted. A modicum of hope dares to quiver in my battered heart.
I hope I don't force that next little spot out.
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