Infertile Fantasies

Creative for a Cause

2009-07-10T07:47:00.001+08:00

Vote for Vee's photo in the Canon "Creative for a Cause" competition.
If she wins, $60k goes to a cancer research charity (Rainbows for
Kate). Voting ends today so hurry! More info on Vee's blog.

Or go directly to the voting page.

Thanks.

Rainbows for Kate

2009-06-29T23:28:00.001+08:00

...for more info.

So Close - book shower for Tertia

2009-05-03T11:37:00.010+08:00

On page 20 of So Close, Tertia has a moment where she predicts that her journey to parenthood may be more difficult than she thought even though nothing has happened yet to point in that direction. Have you ever had a moment of premonition like that and if so, did it come true (this moment of premonition can be about fertility or any other aspect of life)?

A lot of people claim to have had premonitions like this about infertility. I had a premonition like this about my mother's breast cancer. Well, not about that precisely, I just felt a vague and impending sense of doom, and looking back, I think it was, and it wasn't, some sort of magical extrasensory perception. Magic, they say, is just something sufficiently complex that you can't quite fathom it out at the time.

The first factor to account for was that I had been on a pretty good streak for a couple of years, and I knew it was unlikely to last, based on brute statistics. That didn't mean my mother was about to get cancer - if I'd had a couple of bad marks on my school assignments I probably would have connected the two just as easily and moved on to better times. But as I looked around me and saw how lucky I was compared to others, I suspected that, since I wasn't actually charmed, sooner or later it would probably even itself out somehow. By the same token, I imagine a young and happy couple, married just long enough to have sorted through the initial adjustment, moved into their first little home, settled in their jobs, brimming with domestic bliss, feeling ready for a baby, and thinking somewhere, in the backs of their minds: how long will our good fortune last? Knowing, deep down, in a vaguely uneasy way, that this luck is not deserved, and that the troubles they see around them could as easily fall on their doorstep, too. So that was the first thing.

The second factor to note was that my mother discovered the lump some months before she let us know. There was an anxious time of deciding whether to go to the doctor or not, the going to the doctor, the tests, the results, the consultations with specialists, the formulation of a treatment plan... and finally, before it all swung into action, the telling of the children. You can't keep a secret from someone you live with and care for on a daily basis without them twigging that something is up. It will come through in your moods, your body language, the thoughtful little pauses you make when you think nobody is looking. At fourteen, I was too self-absorbed to figure it out fully, so what I got instead was a vague but intensified sense of impending doom. In the same way, I imagine the woman with undiagnosed endometriosis or PCOS, not knowing that something about her body isn't quite right in any way she can describe, but at the same time nevertheless knowing that something about her body isn't quite right. And perhaps it's sometimes the same for male factor infertility, too. Perhaps there was an incident in the past - an illness, say - which may have affected the system, which turns itself into a niggling worry long before any diagnosis is pursued. It wouldn't be the case every time, but there are often clues to be found in hindsight, and premonitions are surely how they trouble our foresight. So that was the second thing.

The third factor, I believe, was just garden-variety existential dread. It's a big thing, turning from a teenager into an adult - a major leap in one's life. Things will never be the same again, and you can't really be prepared for how they'll change. There will be responsibilities to handle, strange new problems to negotiate, and people depending on you, when you are used to being the carefree soul whose world revolves around herself. Under the circumstances, who wouldn't feel an impending sense of doom - one born out of nervousness alone? The leap into parenthood is similar in so many ways. It's a new transformation. So that's the third thing.

Afterwards, reflecting on my premonition, I had to admit one more factor - as proof, this time, rather than explanation. The truth was that some of the fourteen-year-olds I'd grown up with had experienced this impending sense of doom, and some of them hadn't. And some of them had hit hard times shortly thereafter, and some of them hadn't. And there seemed to be very little relationship between doom expected and doom eventuated - to a great extent it was a load of old bollocks. Later, on the journey to parenthood, I noticed the same thing. Some friends expected problems and some didn't. Some conceived easily and some didn't. There was relatively little connection between expecting problems and experiencing problems when it came to conceiving children. I began to see it as a mere conceit and then, later, after I'd lost a lot of my bitterness, as a simple reflection of personality. Some people respond to good fortune by growing uneasy. Some people read subtle signs more readily, or more pessimistically. Some people worry to a greater extent about what's to come.

I had an impending sense of doom before my mother's diagnosis of breast cancer. I also had one as we started trying to conceive. I think it was, and it wasn't, some sort of magical extrasensory perception. Magic, they say, is just something sufficiently complex that you can't quite fathom it out at the time.

Question(s) for anyone who manages to still read here and hence finds this:
Do you think ESP exists, and if so, is there a rational explanation for it? Also, have you read Blink, and if not, why not? Ditto So Close?

Learn more about Tertia's book shower at Stirrup Queens. (She has a book too, but it's still in the post.)

The Baby Doctor: Explaining IVF To Children

2008-09-06T10:51:00.002+08:00

I was offered a copy of this book to review, and I said yes, because I just thought it was a top idea. There are two aims. The first is to help you explain your child's conception to them - a sort of alternative birds-and-bees talk - openly and at an early stage so they can grow up knowing they're just another type of normal. The second aim is to help explain to your older child what's going on in mum and dad's life as they try again.

I was especially impressed with the second aim. When my mother discovered a lump in her breast I was already in my mid-teens, and even my youngest sister was as old as nine, but I believe it when people say that all children, regardless of age or maturity, are affected by upheavals in the household, and I am firmly of the opinion that age-appropriate communication, rather than hushed whispers and inexplicable tears and outbursts, is the kindest way. And when I say "firmly of the opinion", I mean "let me try to think up a whole other sentence just to emphasise how much I believe that". In fact, I would even go so far as to add two sentences, just to be on the safe side. There.

The book tells the story of a particular family who are trying to conceive their second IVF child. There is a brief and simple explanation of IVF itself, but most of this short tale is devoted to life outside the petri dish - the reasons for the treatment, the daily injections and frequent appointments and blood tests. I love the way it portrays the usual feelings of IVF as normal and not-the-child's-fault, and I applaud the subtle suggestions it gives in terms of how to react, both of which things are woven neatly into the storyline. On one page, the teary mother is sad coming home from the clinic after her blood test, so the little girl tries to cheer her up by offering her a lollypop. On another page, there's a chance for Grandma - or other babysitter - to take the hint by helping the older child craft up a get well card for mum on EPU day. Very clever and constructive.

I did an email interview with Leah Bryan, the author, although this is not to leave out Sara Riches, who has illustrated beautifully. Both of them come from our side of the stirrups, with Sara being the proud mum of two IVF sons, and Leah being the proud mum of embryos and reader extraordinaire to foster kids.

Leah's inspiration came one morning, and when she investigated, she found a clear gap in the literary offerings. "There was one in America where the characters are bears and that's supposed to help explain IVF. I thought that just made it more complicated," she said. By setting the story in a plain old family of three, it's all straightforward.

She's also kept the details deliberately simple, so parents can start reading it early on, but intends it to be used as a foundation, so parents can add information as circumstances or agegroup require. "I think that IVF parents know all too well the details of an IVF cycle so I made the book as simple as possible to empower the parents to add in details such as ICSI, frozen cycles, assisted hatching, donor eggs or sperm - any additional details that apply to their family and they feel their child is ready to hear about. Equally they can skip over some of the words and make it even simpler if they want to."

The book contains an album section at the back, where you can add your own pictures, or someone else's pictures, if your clinic was too stingy to give you an embryo photo like mine was, because to be honest, they all look roughly the same at the six-cell stage anyway. This personalises it, of course, helping to continue the dialogue, and also makes it seem that bit more special for the child. "I imagine it could be used regularly as part of storytime from when the child is a baby so that they'll always know how wanted they were and how loved they are," says Leah.

The book won't, of course, cover the many nuances of each individual case, but as she explains, "It does introduce the subject of IVF and makes it easier for parents to continue talking about it. Even young children are good at understanding real versus pretend." If I have one criticism, it's this: I wish the family in the story had names. As a reader, I find it easier to separate myself from the fiction if the author hands me a character complete with identifying moniker. This is probably just my thing. In any case, I'm going to call the little girl Leah, after the author, and poof! the problem has gone away. I'm sure the real Leah wouldn't object. After all, she's the one that said, "IVF is a very special way to make babies who otherwise might not be here and that's something to be celebrated." Obviously a woman after my own heart.

The Baby Doctor is available from Nunhouse Press.

Grand Opening Announcement

2008-06-19T12:10:00.002+08:00

Calliope has made me a header for my pwp Mummy blog, and the first "official" post is up. I think I've invited everyone, except for a couple of people whose email addresses I don't have. If I know who you are (by your blog/comments) and you want to read along, drop me an email, let me know your email address, and I'll send you an invite. Also, let me know if you want to be on the mailing list for updates (which I haven't started yet) or if you just want to check in at your own pace.

Closing The Book

2008-05-28T20:21:00.007+08:00

Short Version: plans from here on out.

My mother asked what my plans were for returning to work. "Plans?" I thought. "Oh yeah - those things. I remember them now." I remembered them so well, in fact, that soon I was devising a quite elaborate one with Mr Bea, involving talk of frosties, breastfeeding goals, adoption, career choices, more international moves, and the astounding array of pros and cons that complicates family building with infertility.

"What would you prefer to do," he asked me, after we'd tied ourselves in knots via that old, familiar routine of looking for a perfect solution that doesn't exist.

"I'd prefer..." and I trailed off to consider my answer. "I'd prefer to take the rest of 2008 off being infertile. Let's pretend, between now and New Year's Eve, that we can fall pregnant again any time we want. I'll plan on finishing this degree, you'll plan on continuing your job here, we'll organise our holidays like people who aren't thinking about treatment cycles, we'll watch our son grow up as if nothing ever threatened to keep him from us, and we'll come back to these confusing questions in 2009." It sounded good to both of us. It still sounds very good. And it brings me to the purpose of this post.

Anonymous reminded me - and rightly enough - to move my blog out of blogher's trying to conceive category, and into the parenting one. I'm not going to do that. I'm not going to, because I'm not planning on turning this into a parenting blog. Since the beginning, this has been the tale of our struggle with primary infertility. It has not been the tale of my career, my hobbies, my family and friends, my full autobiographical history, or my everyday perambulations through the town in which I live. Such things have been mentioned, but only as tangents to the main story. And I feel like the birth was part of that story*. But I also feel like everything to come is not. And despite flirting with the conceit that I want to close this blog in order to "give the infertility blogosphere a happily-ever-after ending" - which is what I came up with when I started drafting this post in my head - the truth is I just want a break from being infertile.

I'll keep this blog open for posts on general infertility or the infertility blogging community. Our personal story is going password-protected (email me, but I'll have to know who you are), although I can't promise the frequent updates you've ~~slogged through~~ enjoyed here. I plan to keep reading and commenting - I would love to see everyone I've come to know resolve their infertility, one way or another, and keep up with the friends I have made along the way. I may be back. Perhaps I will pick up the thread again on a quest for #2. Or perhaps - well, who knows? These are questions for 2009.

In the meantime, thankyou. Thanks for the comments, the emails, the pressies and cards, for coming on board with some whacky activity or other, for linking, for talking, for reading, for being there, for making this doable. I'm not sure what the journey would have been like without you, but I'm very sure it would have been much, much worse, and fuck, it was bad enough already.

And because I never know quite how to sign off on these things except by falling back on a lame cliche - all the best. I hope happiness finds you, or you it.

--
*After some deliberation, I chose an obvious title for that post. I didn't want people "accidentally" clicking over to find a birth story. I wanted a title which announced, in bold, neon writing, that it was not a post for a bad day. Perhaps just seeing the title upset some people. I didn't honestly think I could get away without causing any upset to anyone at all - infertility can be too sensitive a place. Hopefully what I chose was the best possible compromise. Apologies if it still stung.

The day the baby came

2008-05-27T11:30:00.014+08:00

Short Version: Birth Story.

For the first half a week I kept thinking, gosh, I haven't felt the baby kick for some time, I hope he's alright in there. Then I'd remember. He's out here. Our infertile fantasy has become reality. A blurry, fast-paced reality full of appointments with doctors, obstetricians and lactation consultants, hospital stays for jaundice, out of town visitors, and short bursts of activity punctuated by shorter bursts of sleep.

Labour was long, and it took several days to recover. Meanwhile, BayBea (damn, that sounded wittier in my head) got his first bout of nappy rash, and grew jaundiced and sleepy, leading to painful breast engorgement and subsequent cracked and bruised nipples. We were readmitted to hospital, where I had to fight tooth and nail to room in and breastfeed on demand, despite the paediatrician being on board with this plan. Everyone was "concerned that I wouldn't get enough rest" with the bright phototherapy lights and the fussing and unpredictable feeding patterns of a newborn. One night, after my least-favourite nurse tried to get me to succumb to her three-hourly, in-nursery, mum-gone-home-from-hospital feeding schedule by implying that I was an ignorant newbie who was going to harm my child, I found myself sobbing in bed. But they weren't tears of defeat. They were only tears of release, as I contemplated that after years of infertility and pregnancy loss, she was really fucking underestimating us if she thought we would roll over that easy.

Mr Bea brought me a travel mask, a pair of sunglasses, my breastfeeding guide, an armful of midnight snacks, and a wealth of freshly-googled information about newborn jaundice, and by the end of week one we had staked out our territory with the ward staff, and were getting into the swing of it all. Today I am thankful for the luxury of a cleaner. My housework got done this morning whilst I sat, and fed, and traced my finger around the line of our little boy's jaw. As I blog, he sleeps peacefully on my lap.

But I've missed a bit. Let me go back and give you the birth story.

The prostin gel was applied just before lunchtime on Friday the sixteenth. The Braxton Hicks-like contractions I'd been having started to get stronger and more regular within the next couple of hours, and with boyish excitement, SOB told me he'd be delivering our baby that night. I went home, napped, blogged a bit, and waited. Just after dinner, the contractions started becoming noticeably more intense. We popped some music on and I sung my way through a couple of albums' worth of cervical dilation, and then we both went to bed until 2:30am. That's when we made our move to the hospital. I lost my mucous plug on arrival, and they informed me I was 5cm dilated and The Foetus was doing well. Thus satisfied, we proceded to labour gently for the next several hours until SOB popped in on his morning rounds to see why I hadn't delivered yet. At that point I was 6cm dilated and The Foetus was doing well. We continued calmly.

At 1:30pm SOB turned up again to see why I hadn't delivered yet. We spoke about rupturing the membranes to get things going, but when he examined me I was at about 8cm, and The Foetus was fine, so we agreed that it wouldn't be long now and we would leave things alone. He also introduced me to his colleague (SOBC) who would be covering for him until the birth. The next couple of hours saw us going on yet more walks around the labour ward and using the TENS machine which, I had earlier discovered, seemed to intensify the contractions and bring them closer together, rather than providing any relief. Soon we knew transition labour had begun.

At 7:30pm SOBC popped in to see why I hadn't delivered yet. I was at 8.5cm dilated and The Foetus was fine. We went ahead and ruptured the membranes, and the fluid was nice and clear. The midwives were asked to page him when I started feeling the need to bear down, an event everyone agreed was an hour or so away at most.

I think it was about 9:30pm when I started losing my cool. The whole "breathing through contractions" was getting old, so I decided to try screaming instead. At 10pm the midwife examined me and said I was 9.5cm dilated. I asked for some gas, but it made me feel like I was suffocating, so after the first half a breath I just used it to hit against the bed, until after a few contractions something flung off across the room and Mr Bea quietly took it away from me. About 10:15pm I finally found the urge to push.

At 11pm I started asking why I hadn't delivered yet. I was tired of people telling me how close I was - they could tell me our baby had blonde hair, but it seemed to want to stay where it was, ie on a head jammed securely in my pelvic canal. But The Foetus was still doing well, wiggling into new, different, and sometimes counter-productive positions right up until the last minute.

At 11:30pm I started noticing the contractions getting further apart, and less intense, so I decided to call for assistance whilst I still had some strength left to play my part. The ventousse was brought in, and they turned me over into lithotomy position which oh good lord why would anyone give birth that way? My tailbone protested so strongly that I leapt off the bed, sending the foetal monitor flying onto the floor in a terrific crash where it continued to blip cheerfully as the attending staff jumped this way and that in startled panic. After they'd taken stock of the disarray, the bottom half of the bed was dropped down. The equipment was reorganised. I mumbled some lame remark about having not destroyed anything after all, and people laughed. We awaited the next contraction.

The first application of the ventousse nearly did it. I could feel him starting to crown, and when SOBC told me one more push would see him born, I actually believed him, despite the last day and a half's experience. "I can do one more push," I said, with sudden resolve, and in another couple of minutes, I proved myself right. Everything gets kind of jumbled after that. They told me the head was born, then the shoulders. To my utter surprise, someone put a baby on my chest. He felt heavy. And the kicks - they felt exactly the same from the outside as they had done for months on end.

SOBC asked Mr Bea to cut the cord about four times in a row, and Mr Bea dithered awkwardly. I sobbed uncontrollably and asked everyone in the room, individually and sometimes twice, whether the baby was ok, and never really took in their answers. At last I heard Mr Bea confirm that he seemed fine and the midwife said she'd help the baby latch on. Somewhere in the background SOBC was delivering the placenta, and telling me I'd torn a bit and he was going to put in a few stitches. I got an oxytocin injection. I made a passing comment about how weird my belly looked. I saw the baby latch on and suckle.

And then, for the trouble he'd caused us, for all the stress and the grief and the uncooperatively not wanting to be conceived or born despite every effort on our parts, I gave him the biggest serve of his life for some time yet to come, which everyone seemed to think was hilarious except for me.

At some point, all the others evaporated and left the three of us alone in the delivery suite. "What do you think?" I asked Mr Bea. "Shall we keep him?"

"I am way too tired to go into that now," he replied. "Let's talk about it in the morning."

Stats: Born 11:47pm, 17th May, 42w1d, 36hrs after prostin gel applied, head 37cm, length 54cm, weight 3.81kg.

Photos and Name: check the pwp blog later in the week.

On A Friday In May

2008-05-16T10:13:00.007+08:00

Update re: twitter at bottom.

Thanks for all the emails, comments, and even gifts that have arrived this week. It's been enough to bring more than one tear to my eyes.

The Foetus and I are still doing fine here. This morning's monitoring showed everything to be as normal and healthy as at the last visit, and, in fact, there was so much movement going on last night that I ended up making a casual remark about him "having a fit in there". And shortly afterwards sitting down for several hours to google "intrauterine seizures".

SOB asked what I wanted to do. "I want to do whatever is safest," I told him firmly.

"Well, with everything looking so good, we can continue to monitor," he explained, "but at this stage, and with such a favourable-looking cervix, the potential benefits of a gel induction probably outweigh the potential risks."

Enough said.

So I had a dose of prostin, took the train into town for a meaty and sustaining lunch, and returned for more monitoring. Because The Foetus still looks fine and the Braxton Hicks-like contractions are starting to get nice and regular - although not yet painful - we have left it at that and I've come home. The nurses studied the CTG trace and unanimously predicted we'd be arriving at L&D between 10pm and midnight. SOB agreed, but asked me to front up first thing tomorrow at the latest. You'll have to excuse my lack of stats. Since the machine was recording everything, I chose to focus my mental energies on fashion magazines, so I really can't tell you exactly how far apart anything is or anything like that, however, I do think you should watch out for this season's floral prints.

I feel like I should say something profound, or meaningful, but I'm coming up short. Yesterday, I bought some groceries. The cashier asked, "How many years of marriage before get baby? One year?" and she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Nine," I replied.

"Oh. Nine years," she repeated, her face becoming serious. "You try try lah, or just wait?"

I drew breath to answer before I decided what to say. "It's been a bit complicated," I admitted after a pause, and she managed to nod in a way that conveyed sympathy without a trace of pity or awkwardness. Then, as she handed me my change, she looked at me directly and sincerely. "Then I hope it goes very very well for you."

Yes. Well. Amen to that.

(Further updates probably through twitter, right sidebar, sorry, never did get around to fixing that.)

--
(Update re: twitter - it's 9:30 here, and things do seem a bit more intense, but I'm guessing it'll be more on the "midnight" side of 10pm-midnight.

Anyway, I dropped in because a couple of people have asked about twitter. You should be able to see updates on the sidebar as I text them, just like reading a really short post, in a sidebar. Otherwise, click a bit, see what happens.)

Billy vs Bobby vs Benjamin

2008-05-13T13:54:00.009+08:00

Short Version: latest appointment update, probably inducing Friday if no progress. Then some musings about the fundamentals of marriage, during which I discuss infertility and baby names.

I suppose I should update you on our latest appointment. After monitoring everything possible, no problems have been detected. I am feeling reassured for now. If nothing happens by Friday, however, we will probably try to induce. I rung Mr Bea to report on the appointment and told him that, whatever happens, he should avoid scheduling work meetings early next week since he'll no doubt be on paternity leave. This seems to have made him irritable. Husbands.

--

"The trouble with all your name suggestions," I said to Mr Bea, "is that they're far too common."

"One of my requirements is that the name be recognisably common," he retorted.

Seeing the impasse, I pressed my fingers to my temples and said, "I wish you'd told me your baby naming policy years ago. I could have gone off and married a whole different person."

He looked at me strangely - carefully - as if deciding how to react. Then he broke into the grin I was expecting and turned back towards the computer to google the biography of the most famous person to hold the name under current consideration.

It was a flippant comment, til he paused. I guess, in hindsight, it's kind of strange. You know, what with the male factor infertility and so forth. What with the IVF and the OHSS and the years of misery and loss and so forth. I'll admit I sometimes thought about how different our lives might be if he was fertile. I even remember asking myself, once or twice, if I'd trade him in for a different model with proper sperm. It never took long to answer no, of course not. It was like asking if I'd prefer to die than to struggle with infertility. Fertile or infertile, I always thought of him as the right choice of husband - there's more to the package than genes, after all. There's being able to navigate the maze of challenges life can throw at a marriage. You can't just pick that up at a sperm bank.

Baby naming, on the other hand - now there's something to make you consider your alternatives. I mean, this is the first time we've differed fundamentally over an important parenting decision which will affect our child for the duration of his life. These things, so seemingly surmountable next to the years of barrenness and grief, these are the real tests. It's not the biggest crises you have to watch out for, but the problems which most show your weakness and differences. The creeping catastrophes; the questions upon which you just can't agree. Sometimes the deal-breaker isn't donor versus IVF versus adoption, it's Billy versus Bobby versus Benjamin. On the home stretch of an apparently healthy pregnancy, it's worth keeping that in mind.

(Thankfully, we have made headway on a shortlist.)

A Foetus By Any Other Name, and Fun With TCM

2008-05-09T18:14:00.006+08:00

Short Version: last-minute name crisis, and labour-inducing TCM.

So, several months ago - like, four or five months ago - we decided on the perfect name for this baby. Wait, no, that's the fantasy version we've been caught up in. What actually happened was we both thought we'd agreed on the perfect name for this baby, when in fact we had misunderstood each other entirely. Only recently did we discover this fact, which has led to much starting all over again from scratch. Obviously a good time to be starting from scratch on name choices, what with the baby overdue and visitors in the house and the subsequent not-having of private conversational moments. Does anyone know what cultural tradition withholds the name announcement for the longest time? Because I'm thinking of claiming that cultural tradition.

--

Everything is still fine enough in there to continue waiting, apparently. I've got to admit, this is starting to make me nervous. Mostly, I'm worried about the safety of The Foetus in utero, but I also have minor concerns about the level of intervention I'm looking at if labour doesn't happen as it should, mainly because I'm worried about the safety of The Foetus during a highly medicalised birth. Basically, I'm worried about the safety of The Foetus. I just think we'd all be better off if everything went normally, don't you?

This has led to much googling of terms such as "what does a mucus plug look like" and "ways of inducing labour". In terms of the former, it seems mucus plugs (should you see one prior to labour at all) can have anything from a distinctly, well, pluggy appearance, plus or minus a tinge of blood, all the way to the other end of the spectrum which is very nearly indistinguishable from globs of semen. The problem with which is, of course, that globs of semen are also very nearly indistinguishable from globs of semen.

On the "inducing labour" front, having ticked off all the at-home methods, I found myself reading about acupuncture. One article, based on an interview with an acupuncturist, raved that when labour-inducing treatment is given from 41 weeks, about 80% of women go into labour within 72 hours. The remaining 20% are given a followup round of treatment, and nearly all them will go into labour within 72 hours of round two. "Wow!" I thought. "So what he's saying is, nearly everyone he treats goes into labour by forty-two weeks! That's incredible!" So without pausing to so much as cynically ask what happened in the control group, I marched me off down to the clinic in Chinatown recommended by my yoga instructor.

I don't know what you're picturing here. I know when someone says "TCM practice in Chinatown" to me, I get visions of crowded and narrow alleyways punctuated by incense-spewing temples, wooden shopfronts decorated with lanterns and dragon motifs, mysterious little doors with bells on them leading into cluttered, poorly-lit dens, wizened old Chinese men with crazy beards and crazier mannerisms, and racks of pungent-smelling dried stuff, the origins of which you don't want to know.

It would be more accurate to picture a doctor's surgery. You know - blandly-coloured waiting area, polite nurses in crisp uniforms, practitioners strutting down the hallway in neat, white coats to their neat, white consult rooms with computer screens and tidily-framed certificates on the walls, the pungent smell of rubbing alcohol... doctor's surgery. I registered at the reception desk and cast around for a magazine. The nurses took my temperature and blood pressure, and I was called in by a young, female practitioner with neat, black spectacles, to whom I explained my situation.

"I see," she said, and wrote something in Chinese on my neat, white, patient card. "Could you stick out your tongue, please? Uhuh." More notes. "Now let me check your pulses..." What followed was a history of a vague range of medical conditions or complaints, at the end of which she announced that she would recommend a session of acupuncture, followed by "some herbs". You've gotta hand it to these TCM dudes. They don't hold with any of your new-fangled concepts like Explaining Things To Patients.

The acupuncture happened in a treatment room, and was augmented by a scary electrical device turned up high enough to make all four of my limbs twitch with every pulse. "Any pain?" she asked.

"It's not pleasant..." I replied diplomatically, hoping she would make it stop.

"Yes, but if no pain, then ok." And she left the room. For a loooooong time. And lo and behold, if my uterus didn't start to cramp and contract*.

Eventually she came back, switched off the ~~torture~~ device, and released me with my powdered... whateveritis which I am to take twice daily for four days, in a small amount of warm water, thirty minutes after a meal, and definitely not in conjunction with any "western" medicines.

My uterus stopped contracting on the way back down the hall.

I'll let you know how it goes.

--
*Although it has been doing this at random anyway.

One View of the Cathedral

2008-05-07T16:28:00.007+08:00

Short Version: conversations with the fertile world: how I feel about "getting my body back".

I have an email sitting in my inbox and I don't know how to reply. It's from someone who's due just after me, and she chats merrily about how, like her, I must be looking forward to "getting my body back". I feel like I only just did. I'm more afraid of losing it again.

I don't have to explain it to you. I don't have to explain the tyranny of non-functioning organs and hormones. I don't have to explain the helpless pleading to follicles, eggs and embryos. I don't have to explain the gradual, humiliating submission of my self to my LH or P4 levels, despite expensive and painful efforts to whip them into line pharmaceutically. I don't have to explain the unbidden and unwanted anger, jealousy, frustration, anxiety.

To some of you, unfortunately, I have to explain what I wish you all knew yourselves: the triumph of winning the battle against one's own body. For some, this means refusing to be controlled, any longer, by a menstrual cycle, or defined, so completely, by infertility, childlessness, or loss. For me, it has meant lucking out in the treatment lottery. This pregnancy has been a leash on my errant body, a tattooed symbol of power and ownership. For the first time in a long time, my body has been doing what I want. I have it back. Now, this moment, I have it back. Who knows what happens from here?

I realise that even amongst those who have been pregnant, not all of you have experienced pregnancy in this way. At least since Twin A, I've had things go normally (touch wood) and that makes a difference. Still, I think all of you - however different your path so far - can draw on enough common ground to appreciate my point of view, and can see why I'm not feeling impatient to "get my body back". So I don't have to explain it to you.

I wish, though, I knew how to explain it to her.

Twitter Updates

2008-05-06T11:48:00.003+08:00

Check it out! I'm on twitter. Not to sound blog-obsessed or anything. But you can now check out the sidebar (to the right! to the right!) to see if I've updated with any exciting news.

Baby-Making Sex

2008-05-03T08:35:00.003+08:00

I saw one, tiny glimmer of light when we got our MF diagnosis. Whatever lay ahead of us, it wasn't going to involve the type of lacklustre sex that has no purpose beyond that of producing a baby.

Let's just say I'm experiencing a sense of irony.

--

Almost forgot - there's some nursery pics up at the picture site. Don't get excited - we haven't painted and decorated (being a rental property) more just purchased and organised.

Idle (and Non-Idle) Chatter

2008-04-28T22:27:00.004+08:00

Short Version: 1. Post-partum depression act, please read. 2. Maternity clothes discussion. 3. Baby kicks. 4. Warning of impending absense due to visitors.

First, for the Americans: this about post-partum depression legislation (via Rachel, who provides info on post-partum depression and infertility).

--

"I'm busting out of my maternity jeans," I announced the other day.

"Too much belly?"

"I'm busting out around the thighs."

"Oh... ah... er..." Mr Bea trailed off, looking panicked.

"It's probably all muscle," I hinted.

"Absolutely!" he agreed, with relief. "Bound to build up the leg muscles with all that extra weight you're carrying." He paused and looked at me. "I've stuffed that one up, haven't I?"

At nearly forty weeks, especially after infertility, I am disinclined to rush out and buy more maternity clothes. So it's on, people: the race against time and fabric.

--

The other night, I was lying on my side on the beanbag when The Foetus gave a nice, solid kick. And I heard the beans go "shush". All of a sudden, it felt like he didn't just exist inside my own body, but as part of the world. That little shush somehow made him a good bit more real.

--

My parents-in-law are arriving tomorrow. If I drop off the face of the earth, try not to read too much into it.

Just Another Non-Manic Monday

2008-04-28T16:03:00.004+08:00

Short Version: general Monday update, everything fine and the same, random observations.

Do you know what it feels like? It feels like The Foetus is trying to physically push his way through the cervix by bracing his legs against my ribs and diaphragm. Not gunna work, little buddy. You have to set off this whole hormone cascade and actually dilate the thing first. Trust me.

--

Today I saw SOB and everything is still fine, although I got that feeling again where... well, before he palpates my abdomen he rubs his hands together vigorously to warm them so I don't get a shock when he touches my bare skin, which is all very good and professional and everything, but as I lie there watching him do this, him towering over the exam table, I just can't help but expect him to throw his head back and cry, "Bwahahahaha ha haaaa!" It's a mite disconcerting.

--

Today, SOB signed off on my birth plan. I know! First labour, and I have a birth plan. How cute! The thing is, though, we're giving birth in a foreign country, with its own cultural practices, and no-one, including SOB, is inclined to wait until I'm 7cm dilated to have an argument over my fong.

--

People keep commanding me to be things. "You're so close! You must be excited/nervous/impatient/etc!" At this stage, I find I'm neither excited nor scared. I'd describe myself as quietly waiting to see how it turns out. It seems infertility beat my sense of anticipation into such a pulp it has not yet recovered. As for patience - we've waited this long, another couple of weeks seems easily doable. I'll get back to you on all these. They may change.

--

I've also been asked if we're ready. I'm never very sure how to answer. The best I can do is tell you that, give or take a cot, a carseat, and a cute little cloth nappy stash, we're about as ready as we've been for several years. Which is to say ready enough, I hope.

--

New pictures up on our picture site. Email me if you want to see and can't.

The Cramping Phase

2008-04-26T13:43:00.003+08:00

Short Version: as the title suggests, really. Pretty sure it's not going anywhere fast, though.

So I wouldn't call them contractions. They're twinges. Cramps. They're uncomfortable enough to make me slow down my walking and, every so often, to suck in my breath. Last night they disturbed my sleep. But they don't last more than a few moments, and I get the idea a contraction, as such, should hang on for, at the very least, what? ten or fifteen seconds at a stretch? If not much, much longer. So I think this is more of an irritated, my-pelvic-floor-is-squashed-now response to having The Foetus sit so low, rather than an actual onset-of-labour type thing. Plus it seems to happen in response to either a) The Foetus moving or b) me getting up to walk around or c) my bladder and/or bowels becoming full, but never d) just spontaneously off its own back. However. I thought I'd mention it.

The Hoarding Phase (And P.S. Note)

2008-04-24T08:08:00.008+08:00

Short Version: perhaps you'd call it nesting, but I think it's more accurate to call it hoarding.

"Check out our freezer," I said to Mr Bea. "It's half-full of frozen food, and the other half is coming soon."

"Excellent thinking."

"Then I had a sudden urge to stock up on toilet paper."

"Well, we do have a lot of guests arriving, that's for sure*. And we don't want to run out of toilet paper."

"I've also started hoarding beer."

"Oh."

"You don't seem pleased. I thought you'd be pleased about the beer."

"Beer is pleasing, I'm just not too keen on the picture I'm getting in my mind of my nearly-nine-month-pregnant wife struggling uphill from the shops to our apartment with her little grocery cart chock-full of beer, whilst the neighbours stand around and tut and whisper behind their hands about how I probably beat you when I'm sober."

"I didn't see any tutting or whispering."

"Nevertheless. Maybe you should leave the beer-hoarding to me."

--
*We are booked solid with guests during May and June. I also have my uni exams somewhere in there. And something else might be happening... what is it...? Oh yeah. We will probably be taking care of a newborn. If you don't really hear from me until July, you'll know why.

--
P.S. If you were in Australia last night, or for some reason had access to Australian news, you might have noticed that my clexane video from IVF Shoot 'Em Up made a news montage about the recall of said drug. My belly was on national news! Cheers for the head's up, Jules.

Changes are a-foot, a-breast, and a-pelvis

2008-04-20T11:56:00.000+08:00

You can't get a good bitch-slapping round here even if you ask for it! You guys are sweet. But I don't want to lose my perspective - it's one precious thing I've gained from the infertility - so those who offered to bitch-slap if asked, I hope you're prepared to make good on your offer if and when.

Short Version of this post: stuff is happening. Don't get too excited - I think I still have a good couple of weeks to go.

Question: hypothetically speaking, if your husband comes to bed late despite prompting, would you say a proportional response involved a) a small amount of verbalised irritation or b) beating him out of the house with a pillow in a wild frenzy, then locking the door, forcing him to sleep outside on a sun lounger under a sky threatening to rent itself apart with a violent, tropical storm? Hypothetically speaking?

I think my hormones may be fluctuating again. I've woken up with the same kinds of hot flushes I experienced in the first trimester; my breasts have suddenly gone up another cup size, with accompanying tenderness; my pelvic cavity has regressed from a cheerful, hardworking body part to a whiny, toddlerish body part ("Slow dooooooown!" "That huuuuuuuurts!" "I need to go to the toooooooiiilet!" and so on - pretty tolerable, but it does seem heavier down there); The Foetus seems restricted, more or less, to squirming rather than kicking; and I just feel, kind of... restless. Like pre-menstrual restless. I'd say it's my nesting instinct kicking in, but to date I have only progressed as far as getting grumpy at the standards of tidyness and cleanliness around the house, but not as far as doing anything about it.

So I'd say my hormones are starting to fluctuate. Suddenly, it really does feel like the end is coming close. Which I think, together with the fact that the storm didn't actually break until 6am (by which time I had relented and unlocked the door), is why Mr Bea has decided to be patient and forgiving with me.

As if I could make up for it somehow

2008-04-16T10:38:00.007+08:00

Short Version: invitation to a bitch-slapping. The bitch would be me. Subjects discussed - birth, infant care. And infertility, again.

You know how, sometimes, what you need isn't unconditional validation and support, but a good, stern talking-to from a friend? This is one of those times. It's about the birth. Well, it's not just about the birth, that's the whole issue - it's about the infertility. It's always about the infertility.

Every so often someone asks me why we're keeping The Foetus' sex a secret (except from you guys), even though we know ourselves, and I say something flippant about how much I enjoy teasing my mother, but that's ~~not it~~ only ~~a small~~ an initially small but steadily increasing part of it. If pushed further, I will add that we wanted gifts in a more imaginative variety of colours than the traditional pink or blue, but that's really nothing to do with it. When Mr Bea and I discussed it together, our reasoning was two-fold. First, there was this sense in which we were still feeling trepidacious about letting people know we were "having a baby" at all. We were far too scared to commit to having this baby.

But we also just... well, we just wanted to keep it a surprise. It was our private information, and we controlled it. Infertility made that precious to us, having taken so much of our privacy and control away. Even if we had tried to keep as much as possible of our journey a secret, we would have needed to tell our GP, our fertility specialist, his nurse, his reception staff, the phlebotomists, the scientists and lab assistants, the anaesthetist, the hospital admissions people, the clinic's nurse counsellor, the chickie who comes in twice a week to freeze semen, the accounts department, the claims staff at two separate insurance agencies (one state, one private), several pharmacists, the security staff at the airport who checked my needles through, and any number of people at the clinics in Sydney (where our recurrent miscarriage specialist works) and Singapore.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinking, "Girl, if you're complaining about a loss of privacy and autonomy, you're talking to the wrong face. You had insurance, two sets of gametes, a functioning uterus, and a partner who was on the same page. Come step in my shoes and we'll see just how violated you feel." I'll cop to that - it's true. Infertility doesn't treat us all equally, and so far it has treated us relatively well. But although it takes more from some than others, there's no doubt it gets a certain piece of us all. It has robbed me of my desired level of privacy and autonomy.

And, God help me, I want it back.

Somewhere in my presumed-fertile past I didn't much care about my birth experience, and not so long ago I had whittled my aspirations down to a single, live, take-home baby (bonus points for being healthy). So when, and how, did this new transformation occur? When did I start worrying about the fact that I might want pain relief or need any number of interventions? When did I gain this ardent passion for exclusive breastfeeding? Why do I feel such a need to prove that I can do it alone? And how, when there are genuine things to worry about, can I be afraid of simply... needing more help?

Also, where the fuck do I get off even wanting these things? Did I not get beaten down hard enough, that I've bounced back so quickly and with so many extraneous demands? Have I learned nothing? Have I forgotten it so easily?

I want to be ok with whatever has to happen. My head has my priorities straight - I'll be fine, it says, with anything that brings The Foetus home safely. I just want to be sure my heart will agree.

You may start speaking sternly now, I can take it and won't hate you, I promise.

Finishing Touches

2008-04-14T17:08:00.004+08:00

Short Version: Another appointment, everything fine, officially at term now with SOB saying he doesn't mind when I go into labour from here on in. I discuss my labour preparations.

"I don't know why the prenatal class teacher spent so long drilling us on pelvic floor exercises," I said to Mr Bea the other night. "Every time The Foetus headbutts my bladder I get practice pretty much automatically!"

"Er... yes," he answered, awkwardly. "Is that the kind of bawdy, intimate humour you have girlfriends and a blog for?"

Based on that conversation, I'm supposing he doesn't want to hear about the evening primrose oil capsules I've decided to stick up my neveryoumind. Do you want to hear about the evening primrose oil capsules I've decided to stick up my neveryoumind? Wouldn't be the worst thing you've read on the blogs today, would it?

I've got these evening primrose oil capsules. I've heard you should stick them up your neveryoumind on a daily (or is it twice daily?) basis, starting from about thirty-six weeks or as soon as you get around to it afterwards. Ideally, this should be combined with perineal massage, which is something else Mr Bea would be embarrassed to discuss, although I would like to point out that he's man enough to actually do what he has to do. (It was the same all through fertility treatments. We have this unspoken agreement that the sperm samples he obtained in the clinic "men's room" were produced more or less by magic.)

But bless him he will, for example, brew up a nice hot cup of rasberry leaf tea, which he doesn't like talking about either, but that's more because it bores him. So I've got the rasberry leaf tea, the pelvic floor exercises, the perineal massage, and the evening primrose oil up the neveryoumind, but I am in two minds about one matter: sex. You see, I've heard that the prostaglandins in semen are most efficiently absorbed through the gut. Then again, you won't get any perineal massage or pelvic floor workout that way, will you? Things to ponder. And perhaps to discuss, but only with girlfriends and blogpeople.

So have I missed anything?

The Moral Dilemma of the Second-Hand Cot

2008-04-09T11:45:00.008+08:00

Short Version: Cot purchase and safety/environmental/animal welfare announcement in one.

I nearly posted to ask you to resolve a moral dilemma for me, except then I thought of the perfect answer. So now I'm posting to boast about my answer under the pretense of keeping kids safe by disseminating information about the hazards of cots. Let's face it - most of you are well-versed in this stuff already, being the info-savvy, long-prepared, safety-conscious people you are. Frankly, if anyone knows this stuff and takes it seriously, it's an infertility blogger, think about it. Then again what the heck, you can't repeat an important safety message enough times, and there's always the chance you'll tell me how wise and clever I am. Therefore on with it.

It started when we saw a second-hand cot for sale. I know, we have the bassinet for starters, but it won't last for long, and I happened to see this at a good price, plus, hey! recycling! so I arranged to view it, tape measure in hand. Why a tape measure? Because I wanted to make sure it conformed to safety guidelines (pdf), and for that you need a tape measure to figure out how big all the gaps and things are. Happily, the cot passed the test and we arranged delivery to our flat.

That's when the dilemma started. Because the people wanted to get rid of not only the cot, but also the bedding, and they were using far more of it than is recommended by Sids and Kids in their safe sleeping FAQ (pdf). There is also the issue of using second-hand mattresses, which is discussed in the above brochure, and although the SIDS people haven't found enough reason to recommend against using one provided the mattress is otherwise safe, I am paranoid enough to want a new one anyway. So my dilemma was this: so much bedding, so little desire to use it. What does one do with two cot bumpers and five tiny pillows that one considers to be a death trap for infants? As well as a second-hand mattress which is arguably safe, but you never know?

When you have things to get rid of you have several choices: you can sell them, you can give them away, or you can chuck them. Now, whilst chucking them seems wasteful, selling them or giving them away involves a high risk that someone else will use stuff on their baby which you consider to be below acceptable safety standards, and there's something not quite moral about that. Profiting from their ignorance (by selling) does seem worse than passively accepting their ignorance (by offloading for free) but it doesn't really make the second option right.

Of course, ultimately there's a limit to my responsibility for other people's parenting decisions. I don't, for example, feel the need to picket stores that sell cot bumpers and baby pillows, or accost strangers wheeling prams in order to grill them on their tot's sleeping arrangements. On the other hand, I am clearly responsible for advertising used equipment as "used" and for being honest about my reasons for getting rid of something if asked. If I were to make up some reply about not liking the colour, that would obviously cross the line. But am I required to explain myself to people who don't ask me? If I am, is that enough, or should I go further by refusing to hand over the goods to anyone intending to use them for a baby, contrary to safe sleeping guidelines? If the second, am I required to ensure, absolutely, that the products don't get used for someone's baby in the future, or is it enough to gain reasonable satisfaction of such? What about my responsibility to the environment - to recycling and reducing landfill?

These were the questions I was going to pose to you when the answer hit me. The perfect place for unwanted and unsafe baby bedding is the local animal shelter or vet clinic. (Or, if you know someone, a neighbour with an elderly dog.) Why?

Cot mattresses are ideal surfaces for medium to large sized dogs with mobility problems (including those with arthritis or those temporarily bed-bound from illness). The soft cushiness will help guard against debilitating and potentially dangerous bedsores, yet the surface is close to the ground and therefore relatively easy to get onto and off. Depending on the make of the mattress, it may also include protection against leaky bladders and drool.
Small pillows can be used in clinic settings to prop patients into good positions - for comfort, ease of breathing, attachment and use of IV lines and other equipment, extra protection of wound areas, or positioning for x-rays.
Cot bumpers, with the help of scissors, needle and thread, can be turned into mini-mattresses for small patients, or a number of thin pillows.

Any way you look at it, vet clinics and animal shelters can make good, safe use of your unwanted baby bedding, and I feel that by handing it over to such an organisation for that defined purpose, I have made a reasonable enough effort to ensure that no harm comes from their future use. So that is what we have decided to do. Perhaps you can think of further ways to safely dispose of unwanted cot bedding (and if so, please add them in the comments).

To sum up, there are a few reasons I went ahead with this post:

I wanted to remind people to check their safe sleeping guidelines when setting up their nursery. These guidelines can save little lives!
I wanted to remind you not to dump when you can recycle! The planet (and your local vet clinic, animal shelter, or whatever) wants to put your unwanted stuff to good, safe, alternative uses.
I was feeling smug about my solution and wanted to display my smugness publicly.

So there you have it. Goodnight and sleep well.

Proof That I Listen To Advice, Sometimes

2008-04-07T10:51:00.005+08:00

The IIFF Awards have been handed out. Head on over to the ceremony!

Short Version: I admit to the wisdom of my readers, and start nesting a little. Oh, by the way, I had another appointment and everything is normal. Weekly appointments from now on.

You were all right. Those of you who said it was no big deal and that it would work out either way - you were right. However, those of you who encouraged me to try and smooth the road by being prepared - you were also right. And those of you who pointed out that a bag packed by Mr Bea is a dubious proposition... well, let me take you back to our honeymoon, and a lesson I should have already learned.

In the hurly-burly of our wedding preparations nearly, gosh, nine years ago now, Mr Bea was assigned the task of packing a honeymoon bag. Long story short, he did quite well except for the underwear. Now, whilst I'm sure we can all find amusement in the fact that my groom forgot to pack any underwear at all for his bride to take on our honeymoon, I'm not so sure I'd be laughing about it in the maternity ward.

So I have packed. More accurately, I have thrown what I would like to pack into a plastic bag and dumped it into the bassinet, which is now out of its box and set up. I have also managed to drag Mr Bea to Ikea to buy dinky little storage solutions, and I have sat down and, well, I guess organised is the only word for it, the baby stuff.

"So that whole pregnant/nesting thing - not a myth?" Mr Bea said, poking his head into the nursery last night.

"Apparently not, from what I've read, although I do wish my instinct would kick in," I replied, stuffing a onsie into a drawer along with other onsies of arguably similar size*.

"Right..." he said, looking pointedly around the room.

"All these other people are way organised. You should see the Spock's nursery, with its ocean theme, and its boat-shaped bookshelf, and its drawers upon drawers of thrice-washed cloth nappies and infant clothing."

"How many pre-washes are you up to?"

"So far? Zero. Although, in my defence, most of our nappies haven't arrived yet."

"Yes... I do think you made a good choice when you decided against a legal career."

"Are you going to poke fun, or are you going to come and learn about the organisational intricacies of my changing system?"

"Will you hit me if I answer honestly?"

Anyway. I haven't got anything photographable yet, but at least I can see what we've got and where it is. And I'm in with a decent shot of being hygienically-clothed in the hospital. For now, I think we're good.

--
*"0-3 months" really does cover quite an eye-opening range of sizes, doesn't it?

Congratulations! You're a Sponsor!

2008-04-04T15:31:00.007+08:00

I just sent my last Blogher payment to Team On The Road. Which means, if you're reading this, you're already a sponsor! But you could always top it up...

Why You Should Donate to Team On the Road
(and join the team yourself)

Of course, if you'd rather try and win stuff on eBay, that's fine, too:

Take Back the U.T.E.R.U.S.

Still Thinking It'll Never Happen

2008-04-03T14:12:00.006+08:00

Short Version: I wonder whether I need to be getting more organised.

Tell me if I'm wrong. By the time most of you wake up in your respective time zones and read this, I will be thirty-six weeks pregnant. I have, you know, stuff. After yesterday's car seat purchase, I officially have the sort of minimum requirements needed to get us through the hospital stay and, say, the first two days at home. It's not washed. It's not neatly laid out in a cute, fully-decorated nursery. It is, in point of fact, stuffed into the built-in robe in the spare room such that I can close the door and no visitor will know we even have stuff.

I haven't packed a hospital bag. Mr Bea asked when I was planning to pack a hospital bag. "I guess sometime..." I said, equivocating over whether to delete another 500 words of the essay on surrogacy I've been rewriting over and over again for several weeks now. "Damn, I've gone and contradicted myself again. I'm going to have to completely restructure this whole argument. We also have to pre-wash everything at least once, but you know, they say first stage of labour lasts eight to twelve hours, and is it just me, or is that heaps of time to throw some stuff into an overnight bag and put on a couple of loads?"

"And maybe arrange the nursery, set up the bassinet, put a few spare meals in the freezer, that type of thing?"

"For example."

"It depends. Are you also going to be rewriting your essay still?"

"Ah! I think I've worked it out! Do we own a copy of anything by Kant?"

Probably it'll all get done in a flash when my nesting instinct kicks in suddenly, any day now.

Right?

IIFF4 - Finding Out, Letting Know, Realising

2008-03-29T17:14:00.002+08:00

We had a small field this time, but a great one! Go check out the entries (including mine).