First, I sorted out the "medical stuff" folder. In it I found receipts for several packets of pessaries I had not yet claimed from our health insurance company. Of course, I had to remedy that. So I presented my receipts to the lovely lady behind the desk, and she looked, and she said, "Ugh - progesterone pessaries. I hated those so much." And she smiled at me. Then she processed my claim and gave me $125 cash.

---

With the cash, I bought spotty-dots*. Three colours - red, green and yellow. Red for Stopping Here, green for Going To Singapore, and yellow for Wait, Let Me Think That Over For A Bit Longer. To my credit, I haven't used much of the yellow.

---

I then had a lovely chat with the relocation person. She sent me some paperwork, and talked me through what to do with it. My visa application will take about six weeks. She sent my details to the removalists, who will ring me directly to sort out what's going where and when. They may... and this is really exciting... be paying for the relocation of the dog (under our "air freight" quota). Guess I'll stop tossing up whether she can come and start getting her export certificates organised.

---

Next, I sat down at my computer and wrote my letter of resignation**.

Dear thingamy thingamy,

I know you're getting tired of fitting in with my IVF schedule, to the point of suggesting I take an unpaid leave of absence until I'm either knocked up or given up. Which was kind of sweet and offensive at the same time. Sometimes I think it's because you're genuinely concerned for me, and to be honest you have been supportive up til now. I know you "struggled" with conceiving your daughter (in that you had to have some fertility testing but fell pregnant just in the nick of time before starting any treatments) and I guess my heart hasn't been in it for the last few months, as far as my job is concerned. So maybe it's me.

Then again, maybe it's you. I would probably be coping better if I didn't have to put up with quite so much shit, and to be honest I disagree fundamentally with much of your management philosophy - something I realised long ago but for various reasons decided to ignore. You actually have quite a high staff turnover, truth be told, and I'm certainly not hopping back out the door in quicker-than-average time.

In any case, my husband lives in Singapore now, and besides, it's high time I took back some control over my life and made a few decisions about where it's going and what's important. So I quit. Four weeks and I'm outa here. Starting Monday.


Sincerely,
Bea


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I think... something in my life is starting to come together.

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*I did have some cash left over. They weren't super designer gold-leafed spotty-dots.

**This is not the actual letter, obviously. I may want to do a few days' casual work for them when I'm visiting Oz as an IVF tourist, in order to pay my trip.

---

I also appreciate the comments over the last post. So the photo is going ahead. I'm over it already. Ho hum, it's official - infertility is always going to be a part of my life. That's ok. And my mum deserves her family picture. It's just nice to know you understood.

Er... I haven't actually sent this. I feel bad because this admission is going to disappoint some people. Don't get me wrong - I would, I absolutely would except I doubt it would get Mr Bea's approval. He's nice you see. We're like chalk and cheese that way. Maybe with a little tweaking?

But if you want to send it, be my guest.
**

Dear Family and Friends,

Ok, well I know there are people on this list who probably don't care very much, and are going to feel a bit astounded in a moment that I'm revealing this information to them on account of our relationship not being that close, but you see I only want to say this once so I thought a blanket email might get us all straightened out so we can get on with our respective lives minus the irritating comments and the hushed gossip. So here it is.

The reason I fly back to Australia each month is for IVF. We started fertility treatment in 2005, and our first IVF cycle began in January 2006. So now you know.

I've noticed that people often don't know what to say after I tell them this. Or at least that's how I usually excuse the things they say next. For those who are thinking of replying to this email, or indeed speaking to or interacting with me in any way in the future, I have prepared a set of guidelines for your prior edification:

1. I do not want to hear about your brother's wife's cousin's workmate who tried for years and miraculousy fell pregnant after they stopped trying/adopted/consulted a naturopath/etc etc. Their diagnosis is probably different to ours and their story of little relevance. Plus the fact that someone else fell pregnant against such odds that their specialist still bores people with the tale at dinner parties twenty years later does less to comfort me than you obviously imagine.

2. Do not offer us unsolicited advice. You have no idea how much time we have spent looking into every avenue and weighing every decision. I am also rarely in the mood to justify ourselves to you.

3. Do not send me any more unsolicited pictures of your young children. This is not because I hate you for reproducing or your children for being born, but is simply in order to avoid future scenarios in which, for example, I receive your birth announcement with attached photos on the same day my followup hCG titre confirms the imminent end of yet another hard-won pregnancy. Because that upsets me, that's why.

In fact, I would go further and point out that, since one in six couples experience infertility and few of them choose to broadcast their woes to the entire world in a manner such as I am now doing, a pregnancy or birth announcement sent to a fifty-strong CC list of family and friends has a pretty good statistical chance of landing in the inbox of someone who is, unbeknownst to you, struggling to conceive. I therefore request, on behalf of all my assisted conception pals, that you exercise some level of tact when making such announcements. Anyone who can attach a photo to an email is also capable of setting up an online photo gallery or babyblog, and I would suggest that a brief description of the bare facts, with a link for those who want pictures and further details, is ideal.

If you've already made this mistake, don't worry - I have forgiven you because you didn't know any better at the time. NOW YOU DO.

4. If anyone dares underestimate the impact that this is having, or implies, however indirectly, that this is less important than it actually is or that I am in some way over-reacting, or even - heaven forbid - tries to point out some sort of bright side, I will have you, I promise, and you do not want to feel my wrath.

5. If what you're about to say can be described as a platitude, just don't.

6. If you are travelling any time during the next year and want to know if we'll be in Singapore on such-and-such a date so you can arrange to stop over, the answer is, "I don't know and if it turns out we are be prepared for the fact you might have to absent yourself from our presence and make your own fun for most of your stay, depending on the prevailing situation." This is the best I can do. Live with it - we have to.

I thank you for your attention and look forward to your enlightened responses. If there is anything I have said which requires further clarification, I would be only too happy to help.


Yours,
Bea

People often write letters to their newborn babies, knowing it will be years before they learn to read. More before they learn to understand. But you will probably never read, or understand. So I feel strange, writing this.

Maybe it would be more fruitful to write a letter to the embryo who makes it. The special one I hope is in there - the one who will taste, touch, and witness the double edges of my maternal love, cutting both ways. But then, that would feel strange, too. Because I'm not sure that one exists. Yes, I can feel him/her in my mind - like Santa Clause, or the Tooth Fairy. People keep assuring me s/he's real, but I'm too old to accept a few cake crumbs as proof of existence.

You, however, my precarious little embryo - I can believe in you. Your life, however brief and insignificant, is as solid as anything upon this earth. As solid as a mountain, or the wind, or the history of time itself.

Tonight, you are safe. You nestle amongst your siblings, more unique than snowflakes and twice as cold. Nothing is going to harm you tonight. But tomorrow, we will set in motion a series of events which will lead to your development or demise. I am afraid for you, because the odds are against you. But I will do it anyway.

I can't leave you in safety. It doesn't make sense. Without risk, there is no gain. Without peril, there is no possibility. I only wish the danger was smaller. I won't make it go away.

But don't think I do this without regret. My decision may be clear, but my thoughts are turbid with fear and melancholy. It's the right thing to do, but baby - I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for what I'll put you through.

I hope one day you'll understand.

XO.

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Update 26/6/06: Our little embryo survived the thaw and started to grow again. None were lost this time... none yet, at any rate. Now s/he goes into that black box of uncertainty - 16 days til we look for her on the other side.

We would like you all to know that we are expecting a child on the X of XX.

I'd also like you to know it's been hard. For a start, we've spent years living in uncertainty, and then there was the IVF and the complications of IVF and the being bedridden in hospital for ten days on morphine unable to even pee for myself, month off work and stop me now before I bore you blah blah blah blah blah.

Why am I telling you this?

Because I've noticed it's customary, when couples announce their pregnancy, for people to say, "Congratulations!" as in "Aren't you lucky!" And we are lucky, truly. There are many infertile couples who are worse off than us, and many things unrelated to our infertility that we have to be thankful for.

But, you see, we're not just lucky. We're People Who Have Lived Through And Worked To Resolve Their Infertility. And frankly, that makes us pretty damned fucking good.

So a mere "congratulations" isn't going to cut it here. I want nothing less than, "Congratulations, you guys are freaking awesome and you rock."

Love,
Bea and Mr Bea at some point in the future