20 October 2010
18 October 2010
First off I’m convinced we’ve moved into a parallel universe. Time has not only been dragging its heels, but it’s also been flying by at the same time. I’m lucky if I know what month it is these days, much less the actual date. To be fair, my instinctive response to endless waiting has been to keep busy, so I’ve been burying myself in family research. For weeks my living room has been lost under piles of binders and census returns for Mr Goldfish’s family. Ironically it didn’t leave much room for blogging.
Back in September we had our first appointment at Liverpool Women’s Hospital. First we had a normal appointment and an hour later we were booked in for an ultrasound. So we arrived at the hospital and checked in, I was weighed and measured before being directed to another waiting room. Here I broke out the water, trying to drink a litre of water as quickly as possible.
I was only about half way through when we were called into the nurse’s office. This felt like an interrogation of stupid questions. She asked me if I had heavy periods. I said I wasn’t sure, I figured it was about 20mL on my heaviest days. “Well it’s what you think, do you think that’s heavy?” she asked. Do I think that’s heavy?? I don’t know; I don’t sit around with my girlfriends comparing our periods! As far as I’m concerned it’s normal. She also asked if I had regular periods. I made the mistake of thinking she meant regular in length, rather than they come every month.
The worst part was the lecture though. She asked if I had a current smear test. Now I know it’s recommended that everyone have a smear test, and I know all the reasons why, but I’ve made the decision not to have one. I spend an awful lot of time in the doctor’s office as it is, I don’t want to look for additional problems. I know the type of health issues I have, they are all vague problems that make life awkward but aren’t serious enough to kill you. So I decided to skip it, all medical treatment is optional and I opted out.
I’ll admit that I have had it done before, before my Fibromyalgia was diagnosed. I’d made an appointment because sex was painful, so it’s really no surprise that I found the speculum exceptionally painful. I was told nothing was wrong and given some useless advice and dismissed in a way I would become very familiar with over the years. It’s an awful feeling, when people treat you like your whinging or lying, like your being awkward on purpose. It’s condescending and insulting, and something I try to avoid.
So it’s no surprise it got my back up when the nurse at Liverpool straightened her papers, carefully put down her pen and laced her fingers together before starting her lecture. “Well. You’ll need to get a smear test. It’s something everyone should get, ESPECIALLY before becoming pregnant.” Really? Why didn’t my doctor mention it then when I had all my pre-pregnancy blood works done? UGH!
Eventually I escaped the nurse and was sent to get more blood drawn. By this point my bladder was nearly bursting, which really didn’t help me stay calm as they tried to stick me with a needle. The first two nurses wouldn’t even try to draw my blood. They claimed I’d left my veins at home. Eventually they found an off-duty sister brave enough to try with a very tiny needle that took ages to fill the vials. My heart was racing, but I was so glad to be done.
So now running a few minutes late, we dashed across to the ultrasound department. Here we had a 15 minute very uncomfortable wait. I’m an old hand at ultrasounds after years of kidney stones, I’m used to the painful digging around in your stomach as they try to get a good picture and it’s not really a problem. Unfortunately this time it wasn’t enough and they decided to do an internal ultrasound as well. To be fair it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected, right up till she jammed the probe into my ovary. That was enough to make my eyes cross with a gasp of pain. The technician replied “Oh it’s all right, I’m nearly done” as she continued to press painfully.
To say the least I was grumpy leaving the hospital, it took at least 15 minutes for the aching to go away as I walked awkwardly through the hospital. And it’s probably taken two weeks to get the negative feelings out of my system.
Since that appointment Mr Goldfish has had another test, and at least showed improvement, now he’s got 2% healthy sperm instead of 1%. Apparently the loose boxers have made a difference, but not enough to really change things. He’s also just submitted a sample to hospital lab, to see if they have the same conclusions. We’ll find out on the 2nd of November.
3 September 2010
23 August 2010
18 August 2010
“Tell the story of a first kiss.” Oh, do I have to?? While I suspect that many first kisses are awkward, but I surely win the award for making an embarrassing fool of myself. To be honest, I don’t think I’m really that fond of kissing. Having someone that close to my face makes me very uncomfortable, and that discomfort makes me self-conscious and stiff.
My first proper kiss was when I was fifteen. I’d had a crush on a boy a year older than me for many months. While I obviously hoped he’d be interested in me, I don’t really think I believed it would happen. Eventually though he did ask me round to his house one evening to watch a film. Unfortunately we wouldn’t get that far.
I spent most afternoons at one of the many after school clubs in our high school. I knew he was at another meeting, so I loitered around the hallway hoping to casually run into him. (Why are our younger selves so embarrassing?) My plan was successful and we went for a wandering walk around the school.
He suggested we go down the stairs, which eventually lead to our cafeteria. I’d never actually used these stairs before, but saw no reason not to. Before the cafeteria were several small classrooms I’d never seen before, where the doors were set a couple of feet back, creating small alcoves. He stepped into one and called me over. In my naivety I thought he wanted to show me something posted on the door, so I was very surprised when he wrapped his arms around me.
I wish I could claim swish sophistication, but I can’t. When he kissed me...I blacked out. I assume I came back to my senses shortly after, at which point I thought “Oh my god, those are his lips!” and promptly blackout again. Eventually I somehow pull myself together and turn the kiss back into a hug. From there I make some excuses and beat a hasty retreat to the school theatre. My heart was racing as adrenaline rushed through my system, my hands shaking. A friend I ran into thought I’d taken some kind of drug. (Who knows why, as I never have.) I had just enough time to calm my nerves before my mother collected me from school, she luckily noticed nothing amiss. If you can’t guess I never went on the date. I couldn’t face him again after that.
While I’m not nearly as neurotic now, I don’t think I’ll ever escape that hint of panic I get with every kiss.
17 August 2010
This used to be my favourite place as a child. My parents were members of a sailing club and this is the main dock by the club house.
When I was quite young I spent all my Sundays swimming off this dock. It used to be a bit tricky climbing back on to. I hated reaching into the dark water and putting my bare feet on its slimy algae covered bars before hoisting myself out of the water. I also remember hanging from the dock’s support braces, swinging like monkeys through the water.
When I was a bit older I used sit on the concrete steps looking over the lake. It was so peaceful and calm. I loved to sit there by myself and day dream, escaping from life for a while. And when darkness fell you had an uninterrupted view of the stars.
I remember long summer days with friends, diving off the dock or bouncing around in HUGE tractor tire inner tubes. I remember the year of the two inch ‘horseflies’ that sent even the teenage boys screaming into the water.
If I had to name my favourite place in the world, this would be high on my short list. I struggle to remember much of my childhood, but my memories of the lake, the sailing club and this dock always bring a smile to my face.
10 August 2010
After a long and emotionally exhausting weekend, I still don’t really know what to think, but several things have changed. On Sunday we finally told the in-laws we were trying for a baby. Till now we’ve kept quiet as we didn’t want people asking us about it all the time, but if we decide to try IVF we aren’t sure it’s something we can face alone.
Though we might be pleasantly surprised, I strongly suspect that IVF will be pure and utter hell. First off I have severe needle anxiety, which doesn’t get better, no matter how many injections I’ve had. IVF requires at 12-22 days of injections, plus the possibility of daily blood tests. I can only imagine what state I might be in after weeks of phobic stress. Added to that, the second round of injections will likely be Oestrogen. In the past, normal birth control pills have turned me into a gibbering mess, so again I can only imagine what a week’s worth of hormone injections will result in. Then after the stress of the needles and the Oestrogen possibly kicking off my anxiety and depression...they want me to go into hospital to harvest the eggs. Finally though we have some good news, because of the specific quirks of my needle phobia it’s only applies to going through skin. Because they should be going up through the vagina wall to collect the eggs it doesn’t bother me. Well, it does bother me any more than it would bother most people to have a doctor stuffing a medical tool up their bits. I’m actually more worried about the canular that goes in my arm for the sedation. I might be lucky though; my depression has always surfaced as a self destructive streak, so I may be quite happy to go into hospital. I’ve been known to schedule mole removals when depressed, as it’s a socially acceptable form of cutting. (Unfortunately the depression has usually gone by the time I reach the top of the NHS waiting lists!) Then two or three days after egg harvesting I’d expect to go back in for the first attempt at implantation. Finally, I have no idea how my Fibromyalgia may affect any of this process. None of these worries deter me necessarily, but I can’t help but think that would be a horrible strain on any marriage. Trying to face it alone and in silence seems completely mad, so we told his family.
We’ve also decided to change hospitals. Originally we were under the impression Mr Goldfish was being referred for tests so we chose a hospital near his work. While there may be some more tests, we’re now fairly certain IVF ICSI is our only option. I’ve looked at the hospital reviews online at the HFEA website (Human Fertilisation Embryology Authority) and while you really can’t compare the numbers there are some key differences. Liverpool Women’s is open an extra day on the Saturday, which I’ve read can help when trying to implant an embryo. They also do more than 3 times as many procedures, something like 1394 to 426 at the other hospital! Hopefully this might mean shorter waiting lists, but also more experience with awkward sods like me.
I think I’m going to go through with it, but the sheer number of tests terrifies me. I’ve had so many bad experiences with doctors; I don’t go on my own any more, but I’m afraid that my husband won’t be able to get enough time off. My mother-in-law has offered to come along if needed, but she’s working too.
Anyways, there’s not much we can do now until we get the consultation, but I doubt I'll be able to stop thinking about it.
6 August 2010
So we got our test results today. They weren’t good.
My tests came back fine, but Mr Goldfish’s tests showed real problems. The sperm count was a bit low, but more importantly only 1% were properly formed. The doctor has immediately referred us to a Fertility Clinic at the hospital, making out that there’s a real simple and easy solution.
Her easy simple solution is IVF. Specifically ICSI, where they search out one of those few healthy sperm and inject it straight into the egg. It’s only after searching the internet for 1% morphology that I’ve realised IVF is likely to be the only answer...and god help me, I’m considering it.
The doctor just pushed us down this route without even a blink and it seems so easy to go along. Not to mention now it’s not me with the problem, IVF doesn’t seem so wrong. I think it’s related to my recent post about fate. If the problem was on my side, it would be fate telling me not to be stupid, that passing my genes on is a bad idea. But the Mr is the image of health, with no problems. I guess it doesn’t feel the same.
I’m a bit angry really. The doctor just kept telling us to be positive, implying they’d quickly solve this. For me at least IVF isn’t an easy solution. While several of my moral issues have been resolved, I still question whether it’s right to interfere with life. As the cost of the NHS spirals and expensive science can extend life so long...I wonder where we need to draw the line. Unfortunately IVF is one of the most obvious lines in my mind, and I can’t help feel a hypocrite for considering it.
Sorry, it's not a very eloquent post, but I'm not really in an eloquent place at the moment.
3 August 2010
I’ve always believed in fate, but by my own definition. I believe our lives weave a tapestry creating the world around us. I think when we are born that there is an ideal path for us to follow. Not one that will bring us blessings and fortune, but one that plays its role to tell a larger story.
We are by no means required to follow the path laid before us, in fact it’s very difficult to find. But when we can find that elusive place, the effect is quite magical. I’ve never felt luckier than when I’ve been in step with the world. There’s a surprising sense of purpose and reassurance you feel when following your path.
Unfortunately, it’s not a feeling I’ve known recently. I knew it as I wandered the streets of Italy, stumbling across recent acquaintances I never expected to see again. I knew it when I moved to England, settling into life and job faster than I expected. I knew it when I applied to Salford University, my transfer application being immediately accepted.
I may not know that feeling now, but I know I’ll keep searching till I find my way back onto the path.
30 July 2010
29 July 2010
A wedding is supposed to be one of the best days of your life, but mine felt like a disappointment. I mean I was thrilled and happy to be married to Mr Goldfish, but I felt let down by several of our friends and family. It’s not worth rehashing, as it will never sound more than superficial, but since then my wedding dress has become a focus for the frustration and disappointment I felt.
The morning hadn’t started well. We had very early hair appointments, the salon had forgotten to call me back when they opened the dates in their calendar, and these were all that were left.When I got to the salon, I warned the hairdresser that my hair had completely fallen in the hour after our test appointment. I tried to explain again that you can’t dry it straight and then curl it, you have to dry the curl or wave in. So she decided to put it in curlers. I came out looking like Marilyn Monroe. The hair dresser was obviously at a loss and was just hacking the brush randomly at the back trying to get rid of the volume. I held it together till my bridesmaid leaned over and said I didn’t need to look so panicked; I immediately burst into tears. I climbed out of the chair, paid my bill and left. Once home I went straight to my room and cried.
Now this may not seem related to the dress, but my dress was already a compromise. Between my kidney stones and the fibromyalgia I couldn’t wear dresses with boning or fancy bras. The pressure on my skin made me nauseous and prone to vomiting, not brilliant when walking down the aisle. I was turned away from several bridal stores as soon as I mentioned the problem with boning. Eventually I found a dress in Debenhams. It was comfortable, had straps over the shoulders, no train and even better it was on sale! If I couldn’t get the dress I wanted, at least I could get it at a bargain.
I desperately tried to cling to this positive idea that I had bagged a bargain, a smart and savvy bride, but after the horror at the hair salon I just couldn’t. My hair was a mess and my dress felt frumpy, it very much felt like the Fibromyalgia had robbed me. My maid of honour...she thought I was over-reacting. There was nothing I could do about it, so I put my best face on and made the best of the day.
So left down by friends and family, feeling ugly and dismissed; even years later it brings tears to my eyes. I want to be proactive. I want to turn what was painful into something new and positive, so I’m selling my dress on eBay.
I discovered after I bought it, that the dress had been used in the Doctor Who Christmas Special. As I bought it on sale, I’m hoping that I can get my money back, put it towards something really worthwhile. Maybe I’ll add it to my baby savings account, where I’ve been squirreling away all the money I earn taking internet surveys. Use the money to buy a pushchair or to decorate a nursery. Use it to buy some luxuries I’d never justify otherwise. And if we’re never blessed with a family, maybe I’ll think of something to spend it on that will give me a small boost of reassurance and confidence that my wedding took away.
So know anyone who wants a wedding dress?
Edit July 31st : Didn't sell this time, but I've also listed it on PreLoved so there's still hope.
28 July 2010
I love living in Northern England. My family has lived here for generations, and I never feel far from the countryside. Looking out over the rolling hills I instantly feel grounded, like this is where I belong. I’ve been living here more than ten years now, but getting out onto the moors, dales and lakes is a bit harder than it used to be. So I love the little pocket of nature I’ve found near our house. Walking down the path under the bridge, you never know what you’ll discover around the bend.
26 July 2010
Two years ago I began to consider joining a church, and this in itself is proof of desperation. I could feel the depression creeping closer, and while I had my own spiritual beliefs, I found that I couldn’t find strength in them by myself. Life tends to smother me and I cope by staying busy; I fill my life with noise so I can’t hear the worries and pain. It works for a while, but eventually makes things worse by crowding out sensible things like relaxing, thinking and contemplation. So I thought perhaps joining a church would force me to embrace my own beliefs give them the structured time they deserved.
It was never a question of belief. I’ve always been aware of something more, though I may not always find the words to explain it. At best, I find it’s a bit like describing fate as a river. You don’t need to believe, to get where you are going. You can struggle down the shallow banks banging your legs against the hard rocks and struggling over obstacles, but if you have faith and trust in the world you can reach the centre of the river. There the deep water sweeps you quickly along to where you belong, with fewer obstacles to face. I’ve been in the centre of that river. Times in my life when it seemed like luck was on my side, where coincidences lined up to create incredulous experiences you wouldn’t believe if you saw them in a film or book. I desperately want back into the centre of the river, but I spend most of my life in the shallows.
Besides trying to step back in sync with the world, I also thought there were some practical advantages of church. First we wanted to start a family, and I felt it was important for children to grow up in a community. When I was young we were members of a sailing club, and the people we meet there became like grandparents to me. I wanted our kids to have that sense of belonging and being a part of something, and to learn the responsibilities that includes.
I also wanted to get out more. My friends from university have all moved away and I live 3,000 miles from my family. Time has made me very isolated and my illness makes it very difficult to meet new people. I’m lucky if I get out a couple of times a week. So I thought joining a church might help me mange my life better, build towards the family life I wanted and be an opportunity to make new friends.
It all sounds good...except for one rather big problem. I’m not a Christian. I can see the good people find in the Bible and Jesus, but to me they are hollow words with very little meaning. For a while I wondered if I could just sit quietly at the back, participating in the spirit of worship and ignoring the details, but unfortunately I’m a gobby thing. When I truly believe something completely, I can’t keep my mouth shut. All I’d need is to hear someone make a homophobic comment or harsh judgement and I’d find myself in hot water.
So I gave up the idea for several months, until one day I noticed a childhood friend, someone I used to sail with, was a Quaker. I was a rather surprised and had no idea what the Quakers believed, so I turned to Google to find out. In just a few weeks I’d bought a few books about Quakerism and attended my first meeting for worship. That was about eighteen months ago now. I’ve attended two meetings a week since, and love the silence of the meeting. I love that we are encourage to experience for ourselves rather than be told what to believe.
Now normally I wouldn’t write about religion, it seems a guaranteed way to offend someone, but last week was a notable event. Last week I decided to apply for membership in the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers). I knew it was something I wanted to do. Specifically I knew it was something I wanted to do before we had a child, but how do you decide when is the right time? Quakerism is definitely something I'm still exploring and learning about, but I suspect it will always be that way.
In the end, I waited for the river to take me there. Last week I was approached by two different Friends on two different occasions, both asking me if I had thought about joining. I took that as a sign. Though I’m a bit apprehensive, I think this is the path I should follow. If I let the opportunity pass I think I could spend years struggling to decide when is the right time to act, all because I was to scared to swim into the river.
22 July 2010
I’d say that I’m sorry I didn’t see this sooner, but I’m rather glad I found it tonight!
I’d been having a good day: I finally got back in sync with the meeting, I found lots of information in the family history library and we went to see Inception which was brilliant. Mr Goldfish suggested we finish this off with dinner at Pizza Express. The first restaurant we tried had a huge queue, so we decided to try another location. When we finally found a table, I was disappointed to discover they’d run out of the spinach and ricotta cannelloni I really fancied. Then as I showed off all my hard work from the library to Mr Goldfish...he knocked his cold glass of water straight into my lap. I was completely soaked! And of course there were no paper towels in the ladies. I made it back to the table and sat in my wet trousers and squashy knickers, only it find out that our food would be delayed another 20 minutes. At this point we gave it up as a bad job, obviously we weren’t meant to eat out. So after a cold, wet and chafing walk home I was just a tiny bit grumpy.
So imagine my surprise, when I discovered that Nudie Princess has given me a Blog of Substance Award! I was completely astonished; here I thought I was just chuntering away in the corner. I never really thought anyone would want to read it. So it’s with great gratitude that I that Nudie Princess, the award really brightened what has been a miserable evening and gave me a lovely warm glow. So here's how it works:
- Give groveling gratitude filled thanks to the blogger who awarded you.
- Share your five word blogging philosophy.
- Nominate further bloggers of substance.
Hopefully I've already covered number one, but my blogging philosophy? I’m not sure it’s a philosophy so much as an aim, but started this blog as an attempt to say all those things I kept inside. The things I was afraid to say or struggled to share.
To speak truly and freely
I’m rather ashamed to admit I’m already struggling with this. The last Writing Workshop entry, I avoided the more serious topics because I didn’t want to sound like I was always miserable or simply obsessed. The result was a rather rubbish posting that didn’t really say anything at all. So I may not always achieve my aim, but my blog is definitely an attempt to be truthful without fear.
Now comes the hard point, I have to pass the award on. I’m afraid I’ve only been writing this blog a month, and for two of those weeks I’ve been so busy I’ve barely read anything. So rather than try and recommend a blog to you, perhaps you’d recommend a blog to me. Who should I be reading? I don’t necessarily mean the most popular, but those that really speak to you. Perhaps with your recommendations I'll discover the next award winner.
The Gallery this week had really left me stumped. The prompt is ‘A Novel Idea’, where you take a photo that represents your favourite book or novel or children’s story. Unfortunately for me, I love fantasy and thrillers. So unless I wanted to terrify the neighbours by creating a crime scene in my front yard, I was going to struggle.
After taking Mr Goldfish’s grandmother to Dunham Massey, where deer roam the lawns, I was tempted to cheat and pick Bambi as my story, but I felt that wasn’t really in the spirit of the challenge.
So I went to my bookshelf and tried to work out what my favourite book was. The only thing that stood out was an old battered book of fairy tales I’d had since I was very young. The Twelve Dancing Princesses and Other Fairy Tales.
So I went back through all the wedding photos we’ve ever taken and all the parties with no luck. Finally I casually flicked through the photos I’ve taken the last few weeks and found this photo from our local Walking Day. Not a brilliant photo for this application, but you don’t find yourself twelve princesses everyday.
18 July 2010
Friday we went to see the doctor. As a first appointment it wasn’t too bad; we were lucky and managed to get an appointment with the doctor I prefer. She’s a slim and cute woman, who doesn’t make a point of being condescending or patronising.
As we left her office, Mr Goldfish’s first comment was that you shouldn’t give statistics to a mathematician. After 12 months 84% of couples will get pregnant. Of the remaining, half will get pregnant in the next year. So if you filled a room with one hundred couples a year ago, there would be 8 left still with a chance of getting pregnant and 8 who wouldn’t. Ignoring the fact that we have no idea what effect age would have on those statistics, we didn’t find them as optimistic as the doctor did.
As expected, for me I was given the useless advice to relax. At times I wish I could speak in bold or italics, so I could try and explain that I’m not just a bit anxious. I have diagnosed Anxiety with a capital ‘A’. We were also given a bit of contradictory advice, in that we should try and avoid scheduling so we can apparently relaxed and enjoy it. When I pointed out that between fatigue and low sex drive that would be difficult; she said I didn’t have to enjoy it, I just had to be there.
For Mr Goldfish we did discover something new. He thinks he had mumps as a child, which could be causing a problem now. So next week we’ll go in for tests. I need a blood test on the 19th and 2nd day of my cycle, while Mr. Goldfish needs to take in a sample. If the tests come back fine, then we might need to press for a more accurate understanding of my anxiety. Till then though this seems like a reasonable beginning.
In the play, the character is supposed to throw the bomb out the window where it will then explode. During rehearsals it’s immediately apparent that we have a problem with our bomb. They can’t throw it through the set window as it makes a clatter when it lands on the other side. So in their infinite wisdom the director and stage manager ask someone to stand just off-stage and catch the bomb as it’s thrown.
Now you’ll remember, when we built this prop we made it out of wood. It’s not exactly soft and fluffy. The actor throws the bomb out the window and it flies into the stage girl’s waiting arms...only then to bounce into her face. BANG! For just a moment there is silence, before she cries “My nose! My nose! You broke my fucking nose!”
We continued to use the prop for the rest of the production, but only the lads were allowed to make the catch after that.
7 July 2010
From the beginning we knew trying to conceive would be difficult. I’ve always had a low sex drive, but I also have Fibromyalgia, which is a chronic pain and fatigue condition, coupled with Hypermobility. Sex just isn’t that easy when you’re exhausted, everything hurts, and your nerves are all miss-wired. Add problems like hip joints slipping painfully out of place and wrists that bend too far back...to say the least, it becomes something of a mine field.
So from the beginning we knew we had to plan. Trying every other day for a whole month was completely out of the question. A couple of months before we started, we began taking Basal temperatures every morning. This gave us a good idea of when we needed to try and we kept it up for about six months. The problem was that you start every single morning thinking about pregnancy. You can’t escape it, and when things don’t work, the thermometer is a constant reminder that it’s not as easy as you hoped. So we switched to the ovulation tests. They aren’t as cheap, but having a few weeks each month when I could just ignore the whole subject was a god send!
I should probably add here that through either nurture or nature, anxiety runs in my family. I’m fully aware that I shouldn’t get so worked up over things...but that really doesn’t help. The biggest problem is that my anxiety is bad enough to short my cycle. My cycle is somewhere between 24-27 days generally, when my mother came to visit for a month I cut that down to 22. I can even do it intentionally. I knew my husband was going to be out of town one month so I let my anxiety run riot and shorted that month to 22 days. It’s an impressive trick, but it means if I get stressed and accidentally short a cycle...that’s my fault.
And as times passed, I’ve become more stressed about getting pregnant, creating a vicious circle. I’ve been avoiding this blog the last few days, because I dare not let myself think freely. I might think about the whole messy process of trying to conceive, getting even more stressed and anxious. So not only am I censoring everything I say, but now I’m trying to censore what I think. Every time a stray thought wandered through my mind I’d smash it, desperate to smother everything. It doesn’t work. Ignoring huge elephants in the room is not a peaceful pastime.
So we decided it’s time to go see a doctor. I completely and utterly dread this. For months I've been spotting a few days before my period and had a huge spotty rash down both arms, which I think is stress related. A quick check on the internet suggests that chronic anxiety can lead to low progesterone, which leads to early spotting, which is a sign that something is wrong. If I’m right, it sounds like an easy fix, but who wants to go into their doctor’s office and say “Hi, I can’t get pregnant because I worry too much.” It’s ridiculous! Then you get the condescending look from the doctors, like you’re only just on this side of sane, as they placate and patronise you.
I hope going to the doctor’s won’t be that bad, but I’ve had a really bad run of them. In any case I don’t have a choice. The wonderful Mr. Goldfish is making the appointment and in charge of talking to the doctor (as they don’t think he’s mad), I’m just there for the tests. In ways I hope it’s his tests that show problems, as it would make a nice change. However he’s the picture of health and I’m the one falling to bits. If there’s going to be a problem anywhere it’s bound to be me.
4. Good writing, good content comes with practice and with authenticity. Yes, that word. It is about writing from where you are at. It is about writing honestly about the things that matter to YOU. That means not being afraid to write about pain. It is not about being perfect. If you don’t feel like blogging, don’t blog.I’ve realised that for the last year trying to start a family has been my life. If I try and avoid a subject that’s winding its way through every aspect of living, of course I’m going to feel boring and soulless. I can’t speak freely or truly when there are huge fields of banned territory.
10. And, which is what I said in my talk and I’ll say it again here: blogging is ABOUT your life, it is NOT your life. Your blog will be soulless and boring if you are not getting out there and living. So switch off you computers and go and do something different and fun.
Secondly, I’m frustrated by how little information is out there. It’s a common problem thousands of couples face, yet it feels like a taboo subject no one talks about. It’s so painful that we all stand silently, isolated and alone, when people all around understand and sympathise.
This week we were completely convinced I was pregnant...only to be disappointed again. After trying for twelve months now, it’s finally time to go visit the doctor. It seems like a good starting place for a blog.
5 July 2010
I was 21 and attending a top-rated design university. My course was a five year degree in which we alternated three months of classes with three month internships. In the winter of 1999, the job market was looking scarce, and it seemed unlikely I would find a placement. Rather than continue on, taking another three months of classes, my mother suggested I take the travel alternative.
Each student was offered one opportunity to substitute a travel quarter for the standard internship. This gave you the chance to see with your own eyes the great works of art and architecture around the world. I jumped at the chance. Within three weeks my itinerary was submitted to the University, I bought my equipment and had my tickets in my hand. I was flying 3,000 miles across the world to spend three months backpacking around Europe on my own.
While the countries were beautiful and the architecture inspiring, that was only the facade. For three months I stepped out of my life. No more thought about the bills or the rent, no more deadlines and projects to worry about, I didn’t even have to take out the rubbish. For once I was free of all the niggling thoughts and worries that plague everyday living.
I discovered that there was another way. That I didn’t need to live a life smothered in stress and anxiety; that I didn’t have to keep racing along this path that had been set before me. I finally had time to stop and consider what was important to me. Ten days after the plane touched down, I rang home and told my Mum I couldn’t go back.
As I continued my trek across Europe I learned that I like my own company. I learned that I could just let go of all those things we are told to worry about...and I’d still be alright. I learned to shake free of mass opinion and discovered passions of my own.
While it was a holiday of museums, tourist attractions and even a whirlwind romance, the real exploration was of myself. I returned home just long enough to complete the final term of my third year and put my affairs in order. Just five and a half months later I was flying back to the UK, ready to start the next chapter.
29 June 2010
For me, we’ve been on a cycle of hope and disappointment for over a year now as we try for a baby. Due to my long term health conditions, we always knew that caring for a child would be difficult, but we were also told that my kidney stones would make any pregnancy high risk. So in the year before my wedding we tried to get my kidney stones treated. Clerical errors meant that my appointments were delayed several months, but finally after two years I was declared stone free.
While we’d been waiting for the doctors, we’d started preparing. I stopped my Depo injections after the wedding so they’d have plenty of time to clear my system. We took Basal Temperature readings for months so we’d know when to try. I had pre-pregnancy blood tests done to make sure nothing was wrong. I filled myself with iron tablets and pre-natal vitamins, so I’d be in the best health. We read books and websites, optimistically planning for when we received the all clear...
Growing up when I was young, we were told virtually anything could get you pregnant. Sperm was some insidious fluid that got everywhere, much like the germs on anti-bacterial adverts. I suppose it kept us safe, but also terrified. No one really mentioned that things could change. Now, when I actually want to get pregnant, nothing works. Each month I cross my fingers and hope for good news, and every month I crash back to earth with disappointment. It took us two years of patience and hope to get to the point where we could even try to realise our dreams, and after a year of failure it’s hard to decide what to do next.
Obviously if things don’t work this month we’ll make an appointment with the doctor, but I have a difficult relationship with doctors at the best of times. Being ill with invisible disorders for which there are no clinical tests, always leaves the doctor in doubt. And while I appreciate IVF is a wonderful thing for some people, it just isn’t for us. I’ve read the common advice “relax” and “stop trying so hard”, but I don’t know how to. In the three years we’ve been planning and waiting four babies have been born in our extended family, amongst my friends the number is nearly three times that. My life’s been put on hold for years, with the hope that we could eventually have a family. Now I wonder if I have to let that dream go.
Right now we are in the hopeful stage again, trying desperately not to count the days till July 8th. If anyone has some luck they can spare, I could sure use some right now.