Last time I visited Vee was the first time I didn't see Max.

That's mostly what I remember from our trip last year. His absence - at least his physical absence - caught me off-guard when I walked through the door, even though I knew (of course) that he was gone. There was something about... seeing him not there. I'd met Vee face to face a handful of times prior to that, and I'd never seen him not there before.

This time it seemed more normal. So did Vee - that is, in a certain manner of speaking. Whenever I see her she seems to be holding it together abnormally well, but last year was especially awe-inspiring. She was not just functioning. She was actually coping. Or perhaps she was just distracted by the way I got so horribly lost I turned up for her home-cooked lunch closer to dinner time, then somehow managed to throw it all around her lounge room. I guess if I was that busy concentrating on remaining graceful and accommodating whilst setting up trundle beds and portacots for my hours-late guest and - I might add - facilitating doctor's visits for her son and then shampooing tomato out of my carpet and easy chair I probably wouldn't have time to fall apart either.

Still, there were brief moments when it bubbled to the surface, and in those moments I wondered how she kept from spilling over. This time, it was... well, the not-spilling-over seemed more like a given. Something she does with ease, every day, but not (I'm sure) all the time.

We visited her home, their home, the one she shared with Max and then also with Boo and then only with Boo, in the final week before she emptied it of its contents and headed for higher ground - higher both geographically and, I hope, emotionally. This time I marked our agreed time of arrival down in my calendar as several hours earlier than our actual agreed time of arrival, totally baffling Vee when I turned up on time babbling about being horribly late. She took some great photos she's not happy with but everyone else is, and she taught me a new recipe which I am yet to try and have so far not thrown onto anyone's carpet. PB enjoyed being at Boo's house even better than riding on the bus or giving Surprise Baby "train rides" in her cot around the hotel room or even chasing helpless pigeons whilst making a horrid, loud, and highly irritating screeching noise, which I thought was his favourite thing ever. And we enjoyed ourselves, too.

Thanks, Vee - you're a wonderful host and an amazing woman. And despite what you might feel, a darn fine photographer, too.

My mother said to me last week, "You know, before you lot were born, I used to hope you'd have interesting lives."

"You didn't read much Chinese philosophy in your youth, did you?"

"I have lived to see the error of my ways."

Happily, my life has become much more boring overnight. My hormone levels yesterday were at baseline, so the two things on my ovaries are clearly non-functional cysts, and today's ultrasound showed them already collapsing. I have started FSH injections. We'll see what's happening in six days.

--

During the past few months I have been surprised to find my status as an IVF patient changing. Someone described me as a "veteran" and various people have started calling me "brave". On the one hand, I'm not sure I qualify as a veteran if I'm only up to retrieval number two, but on the other, it is my seventh IVF treatment cycle counting FETs and retrievals which never made it to transfer, and if you add on the two IUIs it's fertility treatment cycle number nine. Nine sounds big.

But I still wasn't ready to think of myself as anything other than a slightly tarnished newbie until I met my original IVF buddy at the clinic this morning. A former colleague from work, she started her first IVF cycle a mere week ahead of mine. And she's having her first back-on-the-bandwagon transfer for number two in a few days. I'm currently wavering between jaded self-pity, and smugness about how hardcore I must be.

Today I am shocked and heartbroken.

And tired. So far this week I've been working, studying in the evenings, and getting up at three hourly intervals during the night because the dog keeps wanting to be fed. I have been instructed to feed her as much as she'll eat, so all day I tempt her with various doggy treats, which she refuses. Then all night she nudges me awake to demand food. This morning I didn't have to be out til nine, so I set my alarm for eight, hoping to catch up on some rest. At 6:45 my father woke me up to say, "Don't worry about getting up early - I don't need a lift anymore." Thanks, Dad.

--

On Monday morning I returned to my workplace of yore, and it hit me like a brick. I've come a long way since last November, but the familiar setting brought back overwhelming feelings of despair as if they'd been lying in wait, quietly watching for me to step through that door. Twenty-four hours - not enough of which were spent sleeping - later, I was rostered alongside this colleague (call her S) listening to Beloved Dog's latest blood test results, which are poor. "Fuck," I said, the first tearprick causing a blink. "It must be me. She was getting better before I came back to town. Every time I arrive she gets something else. I swear I'm cursed. Actually cursed." For a second, S looked at me. Then she burst out laughing.

"I was being serious," I said.

"I know - that's what makes it so funny." A few guffaws later and she pulled herself together. "Sorry, but that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." Then she looked around furtively and indicated an oft-unused corner with her head and a waggle of her eyebrows. Soon we were sitting side by side on the floor, our backs against the wall, quietly secreted away*. "So tell me about IVF," she said. "How does it work?"

I can't for the life of me remember anything humorous about our conversation, but we spent much of it in hysterics. Such punchlines as, "...which is when I started to think about killing myself," had us doubled over with mirth.

At a certain point we started to talk about her pregnancy. "You think you've got problems - look at me!" she exclaimed, and for some reason we nearly died in the throes of our ensuing merriment. "After that talk," she disclosed, having collected herself, "I started thinking, gosh, you know, my sister got pregnant all the time, often by accident, even when on the pill. And here's me, I've been using contraception faithfully for ten years straight, and not one single pregnancy! So we got a bit sloppy and the next thing you know... then I thought, well that's good, I can do it. Now if I could just put it on hold for a while, because I'm really not ready. You know?"

"I have never experienced that sequence of emotions." (Cue roars of outrageous hilarity, amidst which she managed to choke out, "But I hate kids!") She's on maternity leave soon. We've arranged to catch up for lunch.

Going home, I felt better. When my fertile friends decided I was too difficult to talk to, I struggled with the thought it was all my fault. My conversation with S, apart from providing me with an hour of much-needed laughter mixed with genuine sympathy, allowed me to believe it wasn't.

"Goodness," she said, wiping her eyes after yet another improbable fit of amusement. "I guess you have to laugh, don't you?"

"No you don't," I replied. "It's stressful, and tragic, and painful, and uncertain, and isolating." And just when you think the road is smoothing out, you come home to find the blog world in crisis. "You don't have to laugh. There's not a damn fucking thing about it that's funny."

She nodded. And with that, we fell down laughing too hard to breathe.


--
*We weren't skiving. We'd actually both finished our shifts by this time.

Busy week.

• Used Qantas online feedback form to praise woman who did my booking last week. Woman is identified by staff number, not by name. Hope it gets through to right person. Thanks, Nica, for suggesting the idea - great minds think alike!


• Caught up with friends. Real, comfortable-feeling friends. Didn't discuss anything infertility-related. Felt all warm and fuzzy and cared for.


• Got offered a place in a Masters course (bioethics). Enrolled. Lots of paperwork still pending. Started trying to track down books on reading list in such a way as to avoid bankruptcy. No books so far. Class starts Monday.


• Discussed new postgrad image at length with several people, who advised me on wardrobe and makeup. Culminated in buying new sunglasses. Arguably more important than buying new textbooks.


• Spent quality time with beloved dog. Beloved dog looks awful - like a dog who's been sick for almost a year straight. Toast-rack thin. Sparse hair. Inability to play like she used to. But very bright and happy, and hopefully on the long road to recovery. Suppressed frustration with parents, who can't tablet her even though she's an extremely easy dog to tablet, because these drugs are not supposed to be handled by women who are trying to become pregnant and it's sweet of them to do this for me, even if it does take them for-freaking-ever and the tablets get spat all over the place. Love you Mum/Dad.


• Had deep and meaningful discussion over kitchen table about Aunt who complains constantly about the stress of being a grandmother to my mother, who is starting to feel like someone needs a slapping.


• Read half a blog for the Roundupaversary. Other half pending. Neglected to take my camera to photograph the clinic for the Virtual World Tour. Kicked myself.


• Emailed MD about test results, no response! Phoned today - machine. Will try again tomorrow.


• Worked on IIFF.


• Started sniffing. Back on long protocol. For those catching up - decided on long down-reg. Synarel debacle. Changed plan to short down-reg. Airline debacle. Now back to long down-reg. Stay tuned.


• Ran around clearing backlog of medical claims, gathering end-of-financial-year documents, etc etc etc - all those "well, I'll leave it til I get back" errands I've been putting off for a couple of months now.


• Lined up part-time work for duration of stay in Australia.


• Bought new organiser!


• Checked adsense account - up to $76.43!


• Read fantastic summary of the characteristics of a "survivor". Feel like I've failed the "quickly" part of the description, but it's not too late to cultivate the necessary attitude. Entered "cultivate survivor's attitude" into the Saturday afternoon slot in my organiser.

To what extent do we get the friendships we deserve?

When I think back, I'm amazed HSGF and I were ever so close. During our inseparable phase, we befuddled each other constantly with our mutually alien worldviews. She would say incomprehensible things to me, like, "But you must have a crush on someone," and I would say incomprehensible things to her, like, "If you want to go out with him, ask." I think I was addicted to her drama, or at least fascinated by it, and she? Well, I don't know what she saw in me. She once told me she admired my strength of character. Another time she said she was jealous of my hair.

In hindsight, that lonely day in the toilet seems predictable. It's not that she's an uncaring person - I once saw her cook a large batch of shark-cartilage-laced rumballs for a woman she knew with cancer - but she and I could never relate. In a lot of ways, I guess I got what I came for.

I emailed a friend over the weekend about UF's baby shower. Happily, I did my time as the group's Shower Gift Organiser before we started IVF, so for the time being I am officially off the hook. I thought now would be a good time to hand over some money and forget about the whole thing. "Gosh, I don't know," came the reply. "I'd have to contact T and C to discuss things and sort something out and we're all just trying to hang in there with life at the moment, it's not going to be simple..." and I found myself murmuring, "Fuck, guys, is anything ever?" and succumbing to a familiar thought: "These people are actually insane."

These are the friends who, when I let out a cry of frustration during a study session a few weeks before our final exams, fell over themselves to offer me valium and prozac, when all I really wanted was to rub my temples momentarily and get on with it. A high proportion of the group (nearly half) have taken extended (6-12 months) "stress leave" from their jobs since graduation. If I started telling you about their complicated relationships we'd be here all night, and we'd end up angry. In truth, we don't really understand each other, but they like having me around because I calm them down, and I like having them around because they wind me up. In a lot of ways, I guess I'm getting what I came for.

It comes to the crunch with this: I haven't been the one they've turned to for comfort or solace in times of need. When such-and-such happened to C, she went to M. And when that other thing happened to M, she went to N. And N has gone to T, and T, N, and K and K have done their fair share, but there have been precious few times when anyone's come to Bea, which has been ok up til now, because I've never needed to go to any of them. Anne spoke about not wanting to be a leech, and perhaps there's some of that going on, but in any case it says something about our friendship when I can't ring them and tell them they've fucked up, because I don't feel they owe me any better.

The thing is, I have other friends. Friends from whom I can demand more. So why haven't I chosen to confide in them? Well, here's where it gets tricky. The people I've confided in so far have been my friends. The people I would be (arguably) better off confiding in are our friends. And I can't say anything if Mr Bea doesn't want them to know.

Scott Meyer is a freakin' genius.

You've assured me my standards are fine, but I think I still have a fault and it's this: my expectations are crazy. As a consequence I'm caught in an ever-dwindling spiral. You see, I place far too much importance on my own ability to read people - I expect them to respond as I think they'll respond. I choose the one or two friends I "know" won't let me down, place all my emotional eggs in their basket, and fall to pieces when that basket goes crashing all over the floor, sending the contents flying. Then I become even more guarded and selective, and the spiral continues. Because sadly, and as many of you confirmed, it's often the people from whom we expect the most that we gain the least.

But many of you also said this: sometimes it's the people from whom we expect the least that we gain the most. And where are those people in my life? Locked out - that's where. Locked outside in Good Friend Hurt Me So I'm Certainly Not Risking It With You Land, figuring they might as well trudge slowly away. What a warm, trusting, and optimistic soul I am.

The other thing you've confirmed to me is this: Category One friends are hard to come by. But this is also true: Category Two friends are still fine. Maybe they're not gold, but you can buy a lot with silver if you get enough of it together, and whilst I agree with Karen O that you can't substitute endlessly (no amount of Category Eight friends can make up for someone special) perhaps four or six Category Two friends is enough to be getting on with for practical purposes.

Whatever way you like to think of it, the conclusion is this: instinct says withdraw, but logic says open up.

--
The wisdom of the internets:
Full text available in the comments. All the responses were so thoughtful and helpful, but I wanted to pick out these parts.

Baby Blues: "Opening up about infertility... puts our heart out there, vulnerable and easily hurt. And when you don't get the reaction that you're expecting, it hurts the most!"

My Reality: "I have no regrets about telling people that we are infertile. [...] I have found that most people have been great in supporting me."

Carrie: "...now I feel like I know what her friendship limitations are, and that's great, because I know not to rely on her too much. [...] Some people...are so afraid of saying the wrong thing that they just disappear."

Mary Ellen and Steve: "True friends are hard to find."

Karen O: "If having high standards mean fewer friends, it also means there wouldn't be a lot of drop-out friends..."

Megan: "I had a surprising experience last friday with a friend i know through my profession. [...] He said all of the right things at all of the right times. [...] Having just experienced a loss, i'm finding that i'm telling all of my friends about it. it's almost like a weeding process."

Karaoke Diva: "I have yet to find a real true friend who can handle everything I have to give."

Mel: "...a true friend [...] asks how you are even when you tell them you are sick of people asking how you are(they know you don't really mean it)."

Ultimatejourney: "I've been VERY guarded about who I share our story with. I've probably missed the opportunity to gain closeness with some people, but I've also avoided a lot of the pain."

Aurelia: "...Some of the most awful ones I later discovered were people who had their own fertility problems, which they had never resolved or dealt with emotionally."

Melissa: "I do think when people know (and they say they're our friend), they owe us to be there in bad times as well as good."

Sarah: "It's weird what i've found about my friends."

Samantha: "I forgave her, but our friendship was never the same."

Serenity: "...over the years I've found that people are mostly self-absorbed. And they rarely realize that other people's problems are bigger than themselves."

Beagle: "...when life is running along smoothly, we never find out who [true friends] are [...] It's not you. It's just one of life's harder facts that not all relationships can weather a storm."

Somewhat Ordinary: "The one friendship that I've actually dissovled is a very self-absorbed person... It is her total lack of caring to even remember what I tell her that has forced me to stop returning her calls and e-mails."

Caro: "I'm beginning to put myself out there and the friends I have told are getting better at checking on me every so often."

Vee: "I think every one is at a different stage of their life whether they are still partying, or married or have families etc. So our interest are at different levels, but in the end I think they will be friends but we will just reach that point at a different time...."

--
(Apparently those weren't my final thoughts after all. Lots of new thoughts being mulled over. Post/s coming. Discussion going on elsewhere in the meantime.)

A few days back, I had a lot to say about friends. I think I have less now, but perhaps it's just better distilled. Let me start with a story about my oldest girlfriend, from whom I received an email over the weekend.

When I was twelve and thirteen, High School Girlfriend (HSGF) and I were inseparable. Then came The Cancer. My mother was diagnosed when I was fourteen, and things changed for our family, and for me. Initially, HSGF said she was sorry and gave me a big hug, but after a month or two - around the time of my mother's surgery - she started complaining that I wasn't fun anymore. I didn't want to giggle about boys, I wasn't available for much extra-curricular socialising, and after a long period of suffering in silence I snapped and told her I didn't want to hear about the latest fight she'd had with her mum, because she should be bloody grateful her mum was alive and well. Shortly afterwards, she took up with a new friend, and when a teacher found me locked inside the girls' toilets crying when I should have been in class, HSGF was happily ensconsed in her own world somewhere, and hadn't even noticed I was gone. I knew it was over then. Something had been permanently lost. Years later, I think it must have been tough to know what to do at fourteen, and I hold nothing against her. We still keep in touch. But since that day in the toilet she's never been... how shall I put it? She's no longer a Category One friend.

Some months after that Mr Bea came along. He was fourteen too, and male to boot, but despite these considerable disadvantages he knew what to do. And it turned out to be surprisingly simple - apparently what I wanted was for someone to ask me, from time to time, how I was really, and then stand awkwardly by, occasionally mumbling, "Um..." In short, I needed someone who was prepared to put themselves aside to care about me*.

I know - I can get really self-involved sometimes.

Earlier this year, when I was... well let's just go ahead and use the word pregnant - with Jester, I started a private blog to give factual updates to family and friends. And I asked University Friend (UF) to read the blog, but she declined to do so despite several requests - an act which culminated in her announcing her pregnancy to Mr Bea on the same day we received the pathology report from the D&C. I heard a lot during the next few days about how stressed she'd been over telling me and blah blah blah which was all very sweet but here's the thing: it was absolutely no fucking good to me. She gets no points at all for being so wrapped up in her own Announcement Dread that she neglected to care for me, despite clear and specific written instructions on how to do so.

Mr Bea suggested she mightn't want to hear about a pregnancy gone wrong in the middle of her own, and I guess that's true, but let's compare: she fell pregnant the first month off the pill, has no previous personal or family history of pregnancy complications or loss, and at the time I contacted her was already weeks ahead of me and into the second trimester in perfect, textbook fashion. I had an assisted pregnancy after years of trying, a history of biochemical losses, an unpromising initial beta, sub-par ultrasound results... Other than reminding her in some vague and general way that things don't always work out, I can't see how my situation affects her. Call me harsh, but that's not an excuse.

Despite this, I was forced to concede that I, too, am only human, and possibly I wouldn't have fared any better had the roles been reversed. I arranged to call her to clear the air. She said some good things in the fifteen minutes of conversation before she rushed me off the phone, telling me she was going to "let me go" now, even as I tried to keep her on the line. I told her I was coping badly, and wanted a friend to check in on me - her, anyone - and email or text was fine. She wrote me one email two days later. She promised to pass my news around. I have heard nothing since, from anyone. I wonder if they think I tell them these things for their own entertainment.

Very few people know about our infertility, and the truth is at this moment I feel closer to those who don't. For the last few weeks I've been regretting my decision to tell - it hurts so much to feel so let down by someone you trusted so much. My battered heart has been trodden further into the ground. I ask: is it me? Are my standards so high no-one can reach them? Am I just too damned self-involved? I want to know: should I write off the whole "telling" experience and just keep infertility to myself from now on, holding everyone at arm's length, even though at times that's not enough?

Today I realised it's like asking a friend on a date. You can go on as you are, which is comfortable enough, or you can take the risk and put your heart on the line. If they say yes - what wonder, what joy. If they say no - what devastation.

But if you never ever ask anyone at all - what loneliness, what emptiness. What tragic incompleteness.

And the truth, so far as I experienced it when I was just fourteen, is that you may break the relationships you thought would never fail, but someone else will come along. People you never thought of or imagined will be the ones who stick by you. If you ask. If you let them know. If you're prepared to put your heart out on the line.

(Final thoughts coming soon, after your feedback.)

---
*There were other friends and supporters, too. Age and wanting to get into my pants didn't seem to be the sole factors. Some of the people who let me down were adults who were old enough to know better, and some of the people who stuck by were, well, people who had no interest in copping a feel.

You don't have to be religious to appreciate this story of King Solomon. I remember discussing it with my mother when I was very young, and the ideas it gave me about motherhood.

Two unmarried women came before the wise King Solomon with a baby, both claiming he was theirs. After listening to each case, the King threw his hands in the air and declared he couldn't decide who the real mother was. Best thing, he announced, was to cut the baby in half and give each woman a piece. One woman stood back, satisfied with the verdict, but the other threw herself at his feet, begging him not to harm the child, even if that meant letting the other woman have him. Thus the case was solved - the child was placed into the custody of the second woman, and the people marvelled at the wisdom of their leader.

And frankly, who wouldn't? Come on - that's a freaking awesome story.

The thing is, my mother explained, only the real mother could possibly care enough about the baby to react in this way. I went away thinking that King Solomon, through his ingenious actions, had unmasked the true biological connections of the case.

Suddenly, today, it occurs to me I may have missed the point. Where in the text does it provide conclusive DNA proof of genetic relationship? It seems to me King Solomon unmasked something much more important than that. Perhaps his wisdom was this: the woman didn't act that way because she was the "real" mother - rather, she was the real mother, because she acted that way.

So this is for all the real mothers out there today - regardless of what definition others may hold. Regardless of whether you've conceived, given birth, passed on genes, or held your child in your arms. Happy mother's day. I recognise you. And you're doing a terrific job.

I remember it happened last year. I hit a point where participating in blogland lost its charm. It was also heading towards mid-year, also just after our first transfer. The feeling went away again. Just wanted you to know my decreased commenting isn't all personal, like, and I'm still trying to keep up with everyone.

Finally, here's a post I didn't publish last Sunday morning (the 29th of April). It pretty much marks rock bottom for this cycle. The moment has since passed, but this record doesn't feel complete without it.

--

When I'm not sleeping properly I have fascinatingly vivid dreams, often with quite clear narratives. I have just woken up from one in which we brought home a healthy, adopted child who afterwards sickened and, after a long period of traipsing around to various specialists, died. The doctor who came to speak with us about the death was angry. He listed off a whole catalogue of the losses we had experienced since starting out on this quest for children, including pets (our dog, who is still not well, was on the Dead Pets List), possessions, immaterial things, and a total of eight lost pregnancies, and asked us how we could possibly have escaped the fact that we were cursed. And given that we were so clearly cursed, how could our consciences have let us bring this innocent child into our care, to suffer and die? He then stormed off with the parting comment that in future, if we had to kill children, we'd better stick to our "own" unborn.

There was some random dream-noise in here, which I'll edit out, except to say we decided to see a practitioner of the dark arts. Suddenly we found ourselves in a Buddhist temple, talking to an African witchdoctor with an upper-crust English accent and an ornament of woven, dried grass through his nose. He said he could do nothing to cure us, although a significant number of couples saw the curse spontaneously lift. In the meantime, he advised me against touching babies or pregnant women, as that could cause them to become sick or miscarry.

In order to monitor the curse he provided a cageful of mice which, he explained, were relatively immune by reason of their rapid metabolism. We were to care for the mice carefully, noting birth and death rates, and when these had improved into the normal range he would move us onto cats, although he cautioned that many infertile people were never able to progress beyond cats.

I woke up wanting to be sick.

--

The pattern seems so familiar. I find myself slightly relieved because I think I may have hit bottom - not that I want to jinx myself. With daylight comes a sudden, life-affirming belief that I am currently at the lowliest place I'm going to be for at least a couple of months. It's a place I might revisit several times over that period but I think, perhaps, it will get no worse and it seems I can survive.

The ill-timed pregnancy announcement hit me particularly hard last week. She was my STAR. I was expecting the announcement and ready to be happy for her in the usual mixed-feelings way, but I was not ready for her to fuck up telling us so badly. I feel desperately alone this weekend. My real-life support network seems suddenly, frighteningly small. If I can't rely on my STAR, who is left?

I feel seedy, as if I'm hung over. I get daily headaches and frequent nausea. Logical Bea, in some weird, detached way, is forcing me to eat even though food seems repulsive. It's very comforting - I know The Beas will get me through. Mr Bea thinks I'm physically ill and is asking if I need to see a doctor. It all sounds terribly alarming when I write it down, and the truth is I'm not ok, but I know I'm going to be. I know all I have to do is endure. It's a little more intense than usual, but at the same time so familiar. Now the darkness, but after this, the light.

Your shiny new husband has just arrived home from overseas, and I knew you were keen to start a family soon. That's why I invited you to view our private blog. So you could remain informed and make your announcement to us at the most appropriate time possible. So my husband wouldn't find your announcement in his inbox an hour or so after learning our latest loss was an apparently normal son.

We've been together for fifteen years and I can still count on one hand the number of times I've seen him cry. I appreciate you did try to protect me, but it's not enough.

Why didn't you accept my invitation? Why didn't you read the blog first? Couldn't it have waited another week?

I gave you the opportunity - why did you turn it away?

When I was young - about primary school age, I think - I was prone to the same unsociable habits as any other child my age, and I came in for the same amount of scolding from the adults around me. "Bea!" they would say. "Stop whining/annoying your playmate/picking your nose!" But my mother always took a different tack. She would take me aside and, looking stern but patient, pose the following question: "Is there any reason you're doing that?" And I would usually pause uncertainly, caught off-guard by being made to analyse the basis of my actions, sometimes causing my mother to prompt ("Is your nose itchy? Runny? Sore?"), but inevitably I would come up with some excuse, whereupon my mother would explain why the solution I'd come up with wasn't an acceptable one, suggest a list of suitable alternatives, and close with a warning about what type of punishment I could expect were I to repeat my behaviour now I knew better.

On Tuesday I phoned my mother about the fact I hadn't heard from her since I wrote to her about our loss. "I sent you an email on Saturday," I began.

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly.

Then I heard my mother's voice from my own lips, stern but patient, saying, "Is there any reason you haven't contacted us since?"

The plain truth is my family is bad at these things. But I learnt that lesson a long time ago so there's no need to rehash it all again. Really, my mother's only following in the footsteps of the woman who raised her. It's funny how life reminds us we're our mother's daughter, after all.

Little Sister emailed Mr Bea to check on me. She said my mother is distressed to the point of threatening to buy a plane ticket and come over, apologised for having read the password-protected blog uninvitedly, but assured us it's for the best as it's allowing her to give wise counsel on the appropriate things to say and do. To think, I didn't tell her because I'm the Big Sister. The Little Mother. How hard it is to reshape the mould.

**Addition**
Shortly after I published this post, a bunch of flowers arrived at the door from my family.

A few weeks ago, when my family started enquiring as to the status of our cycle, I set up a private blog to provide them with updates and pictures. I thought I would wait until we had answered the "ectopic" question - no need to cause unecessary panic, although I remain fully in favour of the necessary variety - and then let them in on the news as it happened. But even after that scan I hesitated. It's hard to carry this burden without the help of our families, but it's harder to feel they've let us down. In the past, I've often regretted giving people the chance.

Last week I rung both my parents and grandparents, hoping they'd raise the topic, looking for an opportunity to explain what's been going on, baldly seeking a few words of comfort. I find it difficult to broach the subject in conversation, and after being fobbed off the first time, they've decided to stop asking. Several phone calls later, my mission had failed. So on Saturday, I sent my parents an invitation to the private blog.

They've visited several times over the last few days.

I've heard nothing.

I don't know what to do about it except post this entry, in the hope that someone, somewhere, will read it and think, gosh, well, mental note, there is a fine line between pestering a couple for information and ignoring the situation completely, and I'm one step closer to figuring out how to walk it. So here it is:

I know it's hard. I know it's awkward. I know the rules seem to change on a daily basis and you're always afraid of causing offense and getting your head snapped off. But please - don't give up. As long as your heart's in the right place, you'll be forgiven. Don't stop calling. Don't stop asking if we want to talk about it. Don't stop making the point that you're here, and you want to help.

Just please, whatever you do, don't leave us alone.

**I just thought of another one (second-last paragraph)**

If there's a complaint I hear over and over again from those who have conceived easily against those who can't, it's this: "Why can't she just be happy for me?" Or perhaps, to spell it out a little more clearly, "Why can't she be demonstrably happy for me, to the exclusion of all other feelings? Why must I be constantly reminded of her sadness as I'm discussing my success?" And I have to admit, I'm guilty as charged of this offense. As someone who's just bad at faking, my traditional response is to concentrate on looking vaguely happy as the announcement is made, whilst leaving it up to my long-suffering husband to verbalise our congratulations. Ongoing babble about your pregnancy is more likely to be met with somewhat disinterested nods and grunts than the enthusiastic banter you desire. I'm sorry about this. It's a deficiency of mine, called "single-facedness". It's probably a sign of diminished EQ.

But I think we can all agree it's better this way than the most likely alternative, wherein I jump up and down with glee as if I'd never experienced infertility and then finish my performance with a few sincere and breathless words, such as these:

"Gosh. Well, all I can say is you're brave announcing it this early." (Smile of complete admiration.)

"Well, you've got good reason to feel confident now you're in the second trimester. After all, these days the rates of fetal death, premature labour and serious maternal complications are quite low." (Encouraging pat on the hand.)

"Hey, if you ever need someone to take your mind off thinking about all the things which could still go wrong, just give me a call. That's what friends are for!" (Big bear hug.)

"Let me give you some advice I wish someone had given me the first, second, third and forth times I fell pregnant: do not, whatever you do, google the following terms...." (Earnest expression, followed by casting about for paper and pen to write said terms down.)

"So, was it a natural conception? Oh, it was. Still! I imagine it you guys are probably thrilled even so!" (Bright smile.)

So, in conclusion, I'd like to apologise for any lack of excitement in my response to your announcement. However, as you have so wisely told me on countless occasions, you have to look on the bright side, because it could be worse.

Our relatives can count. They've started asking probing questions, which range from the rather direct, "Any news yet?" to the slightly more roundabout, "Do you have a travel date for your next trip?" to a basic and ambiguous, "How are you?" of the kind where you can hear the eyebrows waggling down the phone. We say we don't know anything yet. It's true.

We've thought about telling them what's going on. I did tell my mother about our initial positive for FET#1. Her responses were 1) an excited awe at the wonder of modern medicine ("Isn't it amazing they can tell the outcome of a pregnancy so early?") 2) what she referred to as "disappointment" ("You must be disappointed - I am too - but there's always next time...") and 3) a helpful entreaty to look on the bright side and count my blessings ("Well, you're much better off than a lot of people with your problem. At least you know you can get pregnant. And in any case - this result might still work out!"). Her summarising statement was, "Never mind." None of these were helpful enough to make me want to keep her up to date from there on in.

They come from a world where you're either pregnant, or you're not. Pregnancy loss is an isolated tragedy which doesn't happen all that often anyway*, and the really early ones don't count. They're not up to date with the details of our history - I'd have this whole backstory to fill in. And there's still a small but real possibility of something more sinister like an ectopic. On the one hand, I don't want to get angry with them because they're not taking it seriously enough, and on the other hand I don't want to have to soothe my mother out of a state of panic. And I don't want to have to cry and wail and become dramatic in order to get my point across.

They may be dying to know, but it's better for us all if we keep them in limbo. At least til things get slightly less ambiguous.

---
*Perhaps that's unfair. My mother does know plenty of people who've had miscarriages - even recurrent miscarriages - so she knows these things do happen. She just doesn't expect them to happen, certainly not to anyone in her family.

I'm in a pretty good mood this morning. Mental note: living away from your husband gives you a "get out of downward-spiralling depresssion free" card on the day you go home. Maybe it'll last til beta? One can only hope. At any rate, you'll find the following post isn't really indicative of my mood at the moment. I wrote it about a week ago, during the Whinge Amnesty, which (and I consider this fair warning) ends.... now.

---
I had coffee with That Friend last week. And let me say upfront, oh boy do I adore her. I really do. But I just have to get a few things off my chest.

First, a quick list of Things Which Probably Shouldn't Annoy Me But Really Do:

1. No-one is phoning for your sons, neither of whom can form sentences yet. Especially not the one who can't even form words. Why you feel the need to provide a complete rollcall of every fucking person in your household on your answering machine message is beyond me.


2. $1.65 can supply an underpriveliged child with a year's worth of eyesight-saving vitamin A or buy a handful of apples to use as training treats for horses at the local Riding For The Disabled association. Or it can buy your toddler a babychino he didn't ask for, doesn't want, and will eventually spill all over the table, possibly breaking the cup*. So, you know, whichever.


3. I've seen your sister-in-law once, across a crowded room. We have never been formally, or even casually, introduced. I do not need to hear about her second consecutive pregnancy since we started trying to conceive. Especially when she is less than six weeks and has decided to give up on work now because she's "having a baby".

I would, however, like to thank That Friend for having the decency to look apologetic when she realised I wasn't laughing at her joke - the one where she says she can't wait to get back to work after this latest addition to the family** because, dear lord, get me out of here! Haha!

Special thanks also go to friend number two - my STAR. In response to That Friend's complaints about not having a life anymore, she stepped in quickly to point out that between being a medical student by day, studying medicine at night, and earning enough money to put herself through medicine by doing overnight and weekend work, really, she doesn't have a life either. And her parents don't sweep by and do a day's prac for her every now and then when she's feeling rundown. Thanks also for then turning to me and asking if I have a life, thus allowing me to point out that no, in fact, I also don't have a life, although in my case it's less due to insane business than having to put everything on hold every time I want to do a cycle, followed by the crippling depression of taking hormones and having things go wrong. Good point, well made.

I really think the immediate post-transfer period was the only time I could have withstood That Friend's company. Does that sound too much like sour grapes?

---
*I'm introducing the term Parent Poseur to refer to those couples who take unecessary actions to remind everyone of their parenthood whenever possible. Like ordering unwanted babychinos, because, hey look! I have to buy babychinos when I go to coffee shops now, because I have a kid! When organising mutual social events with a Parent Poseur they will always insist you change one aspect of the plan to suit their family lifestyle, even if they have to make something up. Later you will check with other parents and they will roll their eyes and agree that the couple in question were just being difficult. And smug. Parent Poseurs embody the mature form of the Pregna Donna.

**Did I mention she hadn't even conceived her first when we started trying?

So here's the thing. I have friends and family back home, and none of them are especially offended if I go about my day-to-day life without updating them constantly on its minutiae. They don't complain to me, for example, if I fail to let them know what I had for breakfast each morning, or how often I go to the supermarket and what I buy there. They might, however, have a tendency to get icky if I come home from living overseas without catching up, or at least letting them know.

And it's not like I come from New York, or Mumbai, or some other massively big, faceless city which turns on its wheels each day with nary a care for the comings or goings of the likes of one such as me. No, my home, despite being the third-largest city in Australia, is still described by many as a "big country town". My family moved there from various parts of the world about a hundred years ago, when it was just getting started, and hardly any of us have moved away since. Plus, I spent a good twenty-three of my formative years just traipsing around, forming connections, building friendships, and generally participating in the local community, and have since gone back for more. The long and the short of it is this: I will be seeing someone I know next week who doesn't have a clue we're doing IVF, whether I plan to or not.

"So what's my excuse?" I asked Mr Bea earlier in the week.

"Surely you can fudge it?" he replied. And mostly I can. Especially this first time. But I think we all know that, inevitably, we can't maintain the same level of closetness as we have so far.

"B and C, for example," I explained. "They're our oldest friends, and they're both free during the day a lot. I thought maybe I..."

"B knows."

"What?"

"B knows. I told him."

"What? When? Why? What?"

"Back when it all started. I just, you know, wanted to chat to someone about it. So I told B. I'm not allowed to talk to people about it now?"

"Of course you are." And really, I'm quite relieved to find out that all this time I've been fretting about Mr Bea and how he's coping and everything when I needn't have worried because, you see, he's been seeking support. I'm just a little baffled he didn't mention this earlier, and I'm adjusting to the fact there are people who have known, unbeknownst to me. Over the next several days we had a lot of conversations like this:

"So that time, you remember, when we were at that place, and this happened, and... he knew?"

"Yes, he knew."

"So when he gave me a hug just before I left and I said, "That's not a hug," because he usually hugs so ferociously and he said, "Well I can give you a proper hug if you're feeling up to it," and... he knew?"

"Yes."

"And when C asked me what I was going to do in Singapore and before I had a chance to answer B jumped in and said I should become a Lady Of Leisure, and painted this caricature of a women who swans about having facials at the salon and complaining to her friends about the maid, and I said no, I'd rather become a reclusive eccentric who only comes out of the house at night and refuses to use any mode of transport other than the humble pushbike and always wears purple, then C joined in and had a turn and soon the original question had fallen by the wayside never to be brought up again and.... he knew?"

"He said that? That's pretty smooth."

"Goshdarn. Well this does put a new spin on things."

"Are you finished with the questions now?"

"Did you tell anyone else?"

"Just P."

"P knew? When? So you mean that time we...?"

So it looks like the "friend" situation is more sorted than I imagined. What about the others? Well, riding on the back of an idea given to me in a comment by Lut*, I have created our IVF FAQ. It's a blog! It's an FAQ! It's everything you ever wanted to know about B&A's infertility but were too polite to ask, except the things we don't believe you're entitled to find out! If necessary, I will print little business cards and hand them to people, especially where the alternative is smacking them upside the ear. Mr Bea has made me tone it down considerably, and the above link will be removed once I give the address out, just out of general paranoia. I've written it with a particular audience in mind, but feel free to make suggestions. And feel very free to use the idea if you think it will help!

---
*I don't know how to link to a specific comment, so here it is, from the Model Patient post:

"I have set up a special e-mail address that my friends can put on their baby-pics mailing list. My husband filters them for me. So far, no one has sent me anything there, so we'll see how that works."

I want to talk about two things in this post. I'm telling you this upfront because I'm worried my points will eat each other and you'll end up walking away thinking, "Right - sorry, was Bea trying to say something?" So I want to talk about two separate things. One is the stigma surrounding male infertility, and the other is That Friend.

You know That Friend. For me, she's the first person I told about our infertility, way back when we started seeing FS. I've known her a long while and her history of trustworthiness, sensitivity and compassion drew me to her amongst all others in my life, and she does try. Goshdarnit, sometimes I just want to hug her for trying, but I'm afraid to go near in case I lose control and cause her grievous bodily harm for irritating the actual fuck out of me. Yes. That Friend.

Now, I'm willing to admit it's not all her fault. Not by a long shot. How could she have known, for example, that it would make me want to scream when she called me up those times during her pregnancy, timidly asking if I wanted to have coffee with her and she can have someone sit #1 if I'd like because she doesn't in any way want to make me uncomfortable only she can't really hide the fact she's showing now and we don't have to talk about any of this anyway, we could just discuss the weather if I like unless I want to talk about it of course in which case she's more than happy to lend and ear and all I could think was coffee? Seriously? You're planning to drink coffee at me? Why don't we just go for a nice, big, dirty syringe full of junk down a back alley somewhere? I mean do you see me drinking coffee?

Which is, of course, way over the top. Way.

No, I don't blame her for that. Nor do I blame her, really, for the story I am about to tell*. It could have been anyone, that's the sad thing.

You see, she was telling me, this time, about a social event she'd been to recently (oh really so you go to social events now well you don't see me going to social events etc) where a woman had casually mentioned in conversation that her daughter and son-in-law were doing IVF with donor sperm. Friend's husband, knight in shining armour that he is, rode to the rescue. He told the woman firmly that she should stop talking about her son-in-law's problems to everyone, as the poor man would be horribly embarrassed. "Some people are just so insensitive," was the conclusion, at which point she paused to reap my approval.

But let's think about what happened. A woman talks freely and openly about male infertility, and the crowd shouts her down. "Don't speak about that!" they cry. It's shameful, you see, it's taboo. Something to be embarrassed about. That's what their reaction says. So who's insensitive?

On a more practical note, what should they have said? How about, "Are your daughter and son-in-law ok with you telling people this?" If the answer is yes, what's to hush?

I love That Friend. I wish she, and the world, knew the right things to say.


---
*Don't worry, there's plenty more I can still blame her for, if I'm in the mood. I've learned you can never tell for sure which people will help you through. Despite their best intentions, there are those you should never call for comfort when you have bad news. Unless you find the experience of boiling rage comforting in some way. Bless her little cotton socks.

You guys know how inconvenient ART is. It's not a question. I know you know. But it never ceases to amaze me how those around us - even those you think have been made to understand - fail to catch on.

---
Example 1:

Mr Bea's Dad: So - I thought I might drop by in June. Is that good for you guys?

Mr Bea: We, er, don't know. Bea? How good might June be?

Bea: Let's see... based on our history so far that's FET#5 in Feb, FET#6 in March/April, then May/June is either FET#7 but could equally be IVF/ICSI#2... actually I'd say June is bad. Of course, FET#5 could bomb so badly that IVF/ICSI#2 happens in Feb/March, or else we could still be plugging away doing FET#12 of IVF/ICSI#1 sometime in December, though that's extremely unlikely. It's hard to say.

Mr Bea: Or you could get pregnant. For real this time.

Bea: Oh. Yeah.

Mr Bea to his Dad: Um - did you get any of that? Well, to summarise it's probably best if you ask us again in May...


---
Example 2:

Bea: So, Mum, I'm coming home for another cycle in February.

Bea's Mum: February? When in February?

Bea: I don't really know. Maybe mid? I'll know the dates once I ovulate in January. It's kind of weird giving you specific detail about my ovulation dates, by the way.

Bea's Mum: But we're going away in February! And it's booked! And can't be unbooked! Now I feel bad in case we miss you! You're really not sure when?

Bea: Really not sure, plus it's no big - if I miss you in Feb it's sadly quite likely I'll see you in March/April. I can't have everyone I know trying to plan their holidays around our cycles, that gets silly.

Bea's Mum: But then we'll miss you in February!

Bea: Like you'll miss me in January.

Bea's Mum: Oh, I wish I knew when to plan things!

Bea: Yup. And me, babe*.

Bea's Mum: Is Mr Bea coming?

Bea: No, he won't be coming unless I actually, physically need him**.

Bea's Mum (surprised): Oh? Why not?

Bea: Because it's not practical, or even possible, for him to take two weeks off in every six, that's why. It's the same reason I'm not going to be able to hold down a full-time job here. We've been through this.

---

One day perhaps they'll understand, just like you do.

---
*I might not have actually referred to my mother as "babe".

**Even then we have frozen sperm as back-up, but we'd like to use fresh, especially the new, vitamin-enhanced fresh stuff coming our way*** in 2007. Also, remind me to tell you Mr Bea's fly-day semen-dash story sometime. Unless I already did.

***No pun intended.

It may seem a little out of date to be blogging about Christmas now the New Year has flipped over, but sometimes it takes a week or so to figure out how you feel about something.

On Christmas morning, I picked up the present from SIL and began to open it. Seeing the back of a photo frame inside, I rolled my eyes and said, "Yep, as predicted, a photo of Nephew for Christmas." But it was ok - expected, accepted, a running and open joke we have with SIL about how parents are morally bound to give photographs of their cherubs away as gifts forevermore, or at least until teenagehood. Mr Bea and I were smiling at each other as I pulled it free of the wrapping paper and turned it over to have a look. Then my face fell.

"Ah, I see your sister has decided to start sending us photos of children we don't even know." Because there they were - Nephew on one of Santa's knees, and another little boy on the other.

Mr Bea craned to look. The other boy, it seems, is a long-lost and very distant cousin, born in the same year as Nephew. The parents have been hanging out. I may have met them once. I sat there for a moment, til Mr Bea gently pulled the picture from my hands and set it aside.

Later he called his parents. They were attending the traditional family gathering, although this year things were a bit less traditional with the addition of a jumping castle. "That seems over the top," Mr Bea said to his Dad. "In my day we were perfectly happy to amuse ourselves with a cricket bat so venerable it had been passed down from father to son for generations, gathering a new layer of duct tape at each handover, whilst stuffing ourselves full of too much sugar and trying to make sure our presents lasted the required twenty-four hour probationary period beyond which it is no longer a punishable crime to break them."

His father agreed. I, on the other hand, lost it. "Don't you see what this means?" I said. "Each year from now on, there's going to be this big, exciting thing at Christmas and each year our children - when, if and however we have any - will be left out."

"But that sort of stuff always happens to younger cousins," he said.

And I guess that's the point*. Ours weren't supposed to be the younger cousins. Ours were supposed to be the same age as the rest of them. Our child should have been sitting on Santa's other knee. Our toddler should have been bouncing tentatively up and down on the castle at the family gathering last week.

I know I'll still find people to share the experience of parenthood with - families we wouldn't have otherwise been close to, and even families we wouldn't otherwise have met - but they won't be the ones I'd chosen. This infertility isn't going to have as temporary an effect as I'd hoped. There are opportunities being lost forever**. At the end of Christmas Day, the wedge between what I thought my life would be and what I realise my life is grew a little bit wider.


---
*It's also this - what enticing treats will be presented at future gatherings to remind us, year in, year out, that our children are not in the same agegroup as the rest of them? "It's one thing," I said, "to struggle to keep up with a game of backyard cricket, but it's another to watch the older kids participate in an expensive, awesomely exciting and much-trailed activity while you're left to sit in the corner making your own fun. Frankly, I think it's rude. It means the main event of Christmas day is now something that excludes people who don't have children in the same agegroup as your cousin. The biggest thing about a Christmas family gathering should be something everyone can share." A week later, I still stand by that last sentence. Christmas is a family event, not a kid's birthday party. Phew, it's good to get that rant written down.

**Hopeful Bea won't let me post this without pausing to acknowledge, one more time, the opportunities which will no doubt be created. She doesn't know what they are, and the mystery is kind of enticing. Thanks, Hopeful Bea, now please tone it down before someone hits you.