To heal, first and foremost, you have to want to heal. It sounds trite, and more than a little dismissive, as if everyone hurting is doing it on purpose for the attention, or perhaps to annoy. The thing is, some of the time we are doing it on purpose, but usually for a different reason. We carry our grief, our anger, and our resentment for further than is necessary when we haven't yet decided what to do with it. We have, after all, paid dearly for our pain. It's not reasonable to expect us to part with it easily, even though it is ugly and burdensome. Tossing it aside - "letting go" or "moving on" - is not our goal. Instead, we seek a transformation; a suitably valuable exchange.

A friend asked me this week to talk with her about IVF, as it has just been recommended to her as a course of treatment. How does she feel? I haven't met up with her yet, but from initial accounts, not great. She tells me I don't have to agree to the discussion - perhaps I'd rather not go over that period of my life again. Perhaps I am trying to put it behind me, to forget. I tell her that is not the case. I want her to understand that if I can transform any part of my sorrows into something that helps her along her path, we can both end up closer to healed.

And the truth is, I am ready to be healed. It took a long time after the birth of The Prata Baby for the process to start - I had to consciously set the task aside for a while in order to focus on caring for a newborn, and I think I underestimated the amount of damage I'd sustained. I was going well, you see, I was coping ok with our infertility in the leadup to his conception. I mistook that for being able to, afterwards, listen to conversations on gender disappointment or ideal age gaps without wanting to snap people's heads off, either figuratively or literally, and I was wrong. These days, however, it almost warms me to hear such naivety, as if I'm reassured by the notion that some parts of the world, at least, are running as we'd like them to run. And there is a practical sense in which infertility has lost its hold on me. Yes, we still have to go back for those frozen embryos, but since Surprise Baby's birth I have been feeling fully content with our lot and willing to surrender the rest to the will of the unknown*.

But I'm worried about this meeting, all the same. My friend already has a honeymoon baby, and is experiencing secondary infertility, which I have never really known. Second time around, I found it far, far easier to front up to the fertility specialist and set the wheels in motion, and everything fell into place a short time later. I am trying, in advance, not to shrug her off because of that. I am trying to remember that she isn't pre-adjusted to her membership in the infertility club like I was when we started trying for number two, that it's the first time around for her on this crazy, sometimes terrifying ride. And that anyway, she's not me, and can't be expected to react in exactly the same way as me at all times.

So I'm trying to figure out what I can possibly say - if, indeed, I am called upon to say anything at all other than, "Hmm... oohhh... gosh... dear me..." which, I suppose I mustn't forget, is entirely possible. Does she want practical information about medications or procedures? Does she need help deciding which path to take? Is she expecting me to give her some magic balm to make the confusion go away, because honestly, I don't have one, despite my prior experience and a great deal of wishing one into existence for the benefit of myself and others. All I have is the belief that she will, on a day too far away into the future, find herself smiling to hear fertile folk talk of trivial concerns, her heart warming with the reassurance that some part of the world, at least, is running as she'd like it to run. A belief that someday, she will find herself ready and willing to transform the pain she is now feeling into something better, to exchange it for something equally valuable, but much more gratifying.

Your input is appreciated.

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*This may change. We'll see.

Our Christmas tree is, like, six and a half feet tall. Perhaps, to some of you, that doesn't seem so big, but when you look at it in the context of our teeny-tiny cottage, it's enormous. If I want to be able to access my back door, or the computer desk in the corner of our living room, I have to set it up so the back half is squashed into the corner, the branches bent upwards as if they never came out of the box. I can only decorate half.

And they're such adult decorations, too. The baubles and floral arrangements are insanely fragile and almost painfully refined. No bold primary colours here; no cheesy but unbreakable Rudolf figurines. Instead, we have delicate bouquets of golden leaves, glimmering, rust-coloured berries and little tiny harps. None of it is right for our house, or our lifestyle. None of it makes sense at all - except to us.

On the twenty-second of December, 2006, I wrote about our family's hierarchy of trees - the biggest at our Grandparents' place, where we all gathered to exchange gifts on Christmas morning, my parents' slightly smaller version, and our own, little desktop tree - just big enough for two. I wrote about how, over the years of our marriage, I had looked forward to upsizing our tree as we built our branch of the family, and about how, that year, I took it upon myself to re-evaluate our status in the scheme of things, to sit down with infertility and renegotiate what it could and could not have, and to, basically, buy a fucking big tree with a whole stack of very adult-looking decorations. Which is no longer right for our lifestyle.

But I put it up anyway, because it means something to me, this tree. It means something to me when The Prata Baby - bless his little heart - unpicks the very delicate, very refined bouquets in the earnest misunderstanding that the individual pieces are supposed to be separately distributed amongst the other decorations, or when he brushes against the very delicate baubles in his rambunctious charging around the house. It means something to see the playgroup craft activities taking over the branches, one by one, cutting an as-yet small, but nevertheless unforgiving line through the tasteful cohesiveness of the display. It even means something when I lift a broken decoration out of storage and wistfully place its pieces in the bin. Life is changing, and evolving; the past is gradually being chipped away. But I can still see the imprint of our history. And I can still taste how it felt to draw that line in the sand to say gosh, infertility, I can't stop you taking this or that. But these things here - they're mine. They're mine and you're not having them.

Merry Christmas to all, and special greetings to those still waiting for life to smile on them.

It's amazing what I've learnt since I first stepped into a fertility clinic in 2005. On Friday and Saturday just gone, I found myself distinctly a-flutter. On edge. Tense. In times gone past, I would also have felt slightly out of my depth. "How am I going to cope with this rising sense of panic until Tuesday?" I would have asked.

Five years and many test results later, I simply thought, "Of course - it's 3-4 days until the test which will tell me what I am waiting to find out. If I concentrate on breathing for the next 36-48 hours, I'll feel fine again."

I went to work. I came home. I actually got around to putting away the pile of laundry that's been inhabiting the couch for longer than I care to admit. We have a second couch again now! It totally transforms our living room. I did a lot of dishes, I arranged an expedition to the shopping centre for... a single packet of breakfast cereal. I suggested a home movie night, complete with Pixar animation and popcorn, and set off to the rental shop. I shuffled around, packing Mr Bea off on his latest business trip. I breathed. Slowly. Carefully. Deliberately. And tonight, at only t minus 36 hours, I can feel that wave of tension subsiding again - just like I knew it would.

The last twenty-four hours are easy. You just have to learn how to surf there.

So yes, to back up a bit, Mr Bea has gone off on another business trip to a place many time zones away. Yes, this was one of the chief reasons I wanted to get this over with last week, together with the I-have-to-wait-how-long-for-an-answer factor. The whole process would have been a lot easier with his logistical and emotional support, but what can you do? Except get your child up before their natural rising time, drag them to the clinic in their PJ's with a picnic breakfast, and then hope the timing works out so you can catch your husband by phone as your ships kind of pass in the night afterwards? If the result is good, I'm not worried - everything else will just have to work itself out. I don't have a plan B for if the result is not good, but I am toying with the idea of going completely to pieces on my blog. Consider yourself warned, and if you have any other ideas, let me know. Bad scan results with husband out of town is one situation I never really learnt how to cope with.

Short Version*: I muse about the ability to plan your way through various stages of life, including pre-infertility, treatments, pregnancy and parenthood.

Long Version:

I used to be a planner. I was always dreaming big dreams, exploring my options months, or even years, in advance. And then came infertility. How many of our biographical musings contain that phrase?

Over the last couple of years I've learned not to think ahead, because thinking ahead is either overwhelmingly scary, or painfully disappointing. I've coped rather better this year by never thinking beyond the next step. In the end, I actually lost the ability to worry about anything more than one step away - though there's often been enough anxiety in that to keep me in goodly amounts of stress. But whilst this bite-sized approach has kept me from exploding vomitously up til now, I am starting to realise I'm in danger of... not eating the best meal. Uh, let's leave the eating metaphor behind.

At the end of the first trimester, people started asking us questions - important questions; ones we hadn't got around to thinking about because, you know, they weren't part of the next step. Do we want prenatal testing? Are we planning to find out the baby's sex? Will we be buying a delivery package or paying as we go? These have always struck both of us as being rather out of the blue, and we have floundered for a response, no matter how clearly we should have seen them coming. I'm starting to realise that, all going well at the detailed scan, of course, more of these questions will come: when shall we book prenatal classes? what are our preferences for delivery - room type? thoughts on various drugs and procedures? what stuff should we have waiting at home on the presumption that all will go well? what should we tell our families about when to visit? We don't have to start considering these questions yet, says my infertile mind breezily, but an insistent voice has begun to point out that my planning timeframe does need some adjustment. Perhaps, it says, I should start learning to think two steps ahead.

Immediately I have begun to try and think a frazillion steps ahead, just like I used to. Aside from the fact that I can't think about "happily ever after" without imagining an overwhelming range of tragic alternatives, it makes me wonder: how many steps ahead do you have to think when you're a parent? I believe one is good for infertility and two is fine for pregnancy, but between those telling me, on the one hand, that parenthood removes all spontaneity and everything must be strictly planned, and those telling me, on the other hand, that you can't plan anything any more when you're a parent because the kids will always throw a spanner in the works, I admit I'm a little confused.

But wait. Don't answer that yet - it's too many steps away. At the moment, I'm aiming for two. It's going to take some work to get it right.


--
*I'd forgotten temporarily about the short/long version thing. I'll have to get into a habit.

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.

Drum Up Some Noise is a project based on the idea that sometimes, the best solution is to thrash the crap out of something. We take no responsibility for any breakages, but would love to hear a recording, see a video, or read a description of your efforts.


Here's how it all started.

And these are the people who've participated so far:

• Vee and Max whose entry can be found here or here. They've used proper percussion instruments, which just happened to be lying about the house.


• Me and Mr Bea whose entry can be found here or here. We've used a washing machine, two umbrellas, a dessert spoon and the empty bottles from all the wine we've consumed in our sorrow.


• Somewhat Ordinary who described her efforts in the comments here. She used her drummer brother's practice kit.

I'll be adding to this list over time. Advice on recording strategies coming soon...

First - there's a new "how to" post up at IIFF, about making a cartoon-style video. Just for those interested in entering the upcoming second round - "Seasons" - screening online from July 28th. (And there's plenty more shameless festival promotion where that came from. Oh yes.)

--

So y'all remember the curse dream from Monday's post, right? Remember how MLO suggested some rememdies? Now, I don't believe in curses and I don't think she was implying one exists in our case, but sometimes you need to do something to build your confidence in the future, even if it's something whacky and superstitious. Especially if it's something whacky and superstitious.

I decided to start with a ritual of purification*. Then Vee offered to get out her drums on both our behalves, and somewhere in the exchange we said to each other, "Wouldn't it feel great to just make some noise?"

True to form, Max and Vee achieved this intimidatingly good result:

Or if that's not working (due to file transfer limits) I just uploaded it onto Myspace.

Whilst Mr Bea and I managed to prove that you don't have to have a drum kit, practice, or even a sense of rhythm to participate! It took under five minutes, using only a washing machine, two umbrellas, a desert spoon, and the empty bottles from all the wine we've consumed in our sorrow, to prepare and record this:

Or listen to the version I just uploaded to Myspace.

But we thought it'd be even better if all our bloggy friends recorded some household percussion of their own, so we could play it all together in a curse-busting cacophony of mighty sound! Huzzah!

What do you think? I give you one week! Bang something**! Record an mp3/4 or video! Post it on your blog and leave a comment here with the URL, or email it to infertilefantasies at gmail dot com and I'll post it here, with a credit!

Hit something! Drum up some noise! You know you want to!


--
*I, er, did the housework.

**Oh, good grief. This is the infertility blogosphere - you can't still be thinking of that.

If you can pay cash for your D&C, do. If you don't, you will receive a credit-card-bill-shaped reminder of events three and a half weeks after your loss.

After the scan that Friday, so as not to keep Mr Bea hanging, I sent him an email with a message so vague as to be indeciferable to those not already in the know - but it went missing. In any case, it didn't mention the picture.

"Do you want to see it?" I asked when I'd eventually caught him up, and he blanched slightly and said he wasn't sure. Mr Bea is a glosser. If a thing bothers him, he likes to try and make it less real. Me, I'm a confronter. I'm a "meat comes from killed animals not the supermarket, you nitwit, and if you can eat it when it's nicely filleted you can eat it when it's presented with its head attached and if you can't deal with it become a vegetarian" kind of girl. Now, when it comes to eating flesh, quite frankly I feel I have the moral high ground. But in coping with pregnancy loss there's no moral ground at all - just an inhospitable abyss, from which each person tries to climb by whatever means they can. Yet when Mr Bea said he wasn't sure about the picture, some ugly reflex in me threw him a look which said, "Have some bloody backbone, man," so he acquiesced and sat down to see.

"What am I looking at?" he asked after a pause during which he frantically searched the photo in the hopes of not having to admit ignorance.

"It's hard to see - it's the zoomed-out view, and blurry at that. The little round thing just there?"

"Huh." And I watched him as he tried not to shrug and say, "That? That's all it is?"

---

At several points I've thought about giving our embryo/s a name. It's something I haven't done before, but I now see the value in it. Adding a name adds reality; it adds the ability to ritualise and process a loss. It fits with my approach as a confronter. Of course, Mr Bea is against it, being a glosser, but that doesn't mean I can't have a secret name, just for me. Leading up to transfer I decided I was going to call this pair Shitter and Fuckface, based on the reasoning that an embryo with a cute name like "Jellybean" or "Bubblegum" is bound to get flushed down the toilet, whereas "Fuckface" will grow up to be a physically huge and devastatingly intelligent adult, who will exact cruel and excruciating revenge on those who inflicted this early psychological trauma, before turning to a life of heinous crime - and what could make a parent more proud? But at the last minute I chickened out, because really, Fuckface, what kind of mother would that make me? and so the pair went nameless.

Now we're down to one.

I think I'll call her Jester. Because regardless of outcome, this pregnancy feels like some sick bastard's idea of a practical joke.

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P.S. Thanks for supporting the IIFF - special thanks to the contributors, of course, and those who spread the word on blogs and messageboards. It's great to see so many people touched by the work of our film makers.

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!

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*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."

Several bloggers have talked about past griefs and upheavals and how it's helped them cope with their current infertility. And that's not to say it was always worth it. Some lessons just aren't worth the teaching. Nevertheless, at times like these you come to see these tiny, silver linings on that long, black cloud. For me the long black cloud was my mother's breast cancer.

To put it bluntly, my parents handled the whole thing badly. It took an awfully long time for our family to repair the fallout from that episode, and thank God we had the chance. During the seething years that followed her illness I nurtured a fervent wish to come down with some horrible, life-changing medical problem, just so I could show them how it should be done.

I know - serves me right, huh?

You see, I believe a patient has responsibilities. Responsibilities towards those who want, and try, to help. Responsibilities which, if carefully observed, will be rewarded a hundred times over in the kindness of friends and family. Because let's face it - even those who've walked in your shoes can easily forget what it's like. The rest have no hope. And few of us are lucky enough to know that one-in-a-million person whose talent it is to soothe. So if you can stand being lectured for a moment or two, I want to give you my opinion on how to be a model patient.

The biggest mistake my parents made was withholding information(1). We were given the barest essentials - less, I would say, than the essentials. Our parents would retreat pointedly to their bedroom to discuss specifics. Conversations were whispered around us. My mother was "going out" today. She would "be in hospital for a few days". With a few extra words we could have been told, quite straightforwardly, that she was having chemo, undergoing surgery, being treated with radiotherapy. Questions were not invited. Any sort of curiosity about the subject was actively discouraged. Yet when our behaviour clashed with my mother's treatment - when, for example, I asked to go out in town with friends in the middle of, unbeknownst to me, my mother's radiotherapy and high risk period for everyday infections - well, let's just say things went badly for me. The lesson is this: in order to demonstrate care you need to know there's a problem. And the more educated you are about that problem, the more likely you are to succeed in helping. As a patient, you have a responsibility to provide people with the information they need to support you. You have no business getting angry with someone who doesn't know better, unless you've first tried to make them understand.

Of course, it can be hard to rehash every aspect of your latest treatment to everyone who remembers to ask, and nobody wants to give a Problem X 101 lecture or Q&A session to every new person they tell. You need to provide this information in a way everyone will feel comfortable with. A list of resources to consult, or an appointed "public liason" officer who is equipped to pass on news and answer questions. Someone who can give out advice on what to do for you, and when, and how.

You also need to spare a thought for how your supporters feel. Perhaps they're not hurting like you, but hurting they are. Hurting, and feeling bad for focussing on themselves in your time of need. You need to give them permission to process how they feel about this. Permission to turn to someone for their own support. If you can find the energy to care for them a little, you will get it back in spades when they return, refreshed, to care for you. When my mother had breast cancer, we had no-one. Shortly after her diagnosis, she sat us down and theatrically ripped up a Kid's Helpline poster, saying, "If my children have problems, they come to me and no-one else." It was as if she was afraid, already, of disappearing from our lives. In the end the person she hurt most was herself.

Lastly, you have a responsibility to direct and correct the help you are given(2). No-one will learn how to treat you unless you teach them. Don't make them guess, and don't let mistakes become habit. Give clear and specific directions, and if people do something wrong, correct them kindly and immediately. Then praise them for trying. You don't need to get nit-picky - if they're improving, reward them and leave it at that. Next time you can expect better again. It sounds tiring, but it's less tiring than seething in resentment over inappropriate remarks. If you can't summon the energy to explain yourself, you need to tell people to leave you alone. When you do this, ask them to check back in at a specific point in the future - tomorrow, perhaps. Or simply ask them to talk to you only via your liason officer. Far from thinking you demanding or ungrateful, your supporters will be relieved to know where they stand. Believe me, I know.

For my part, I think I'm doing ok. Not "model" perhaps, but it's clear I've gained something from what our family went through. And it's worth it. For everyone. Especially for me.


---
Today is the day I would have been due if our first pregnancy hadn't been "chemical".

I'm not saying this because I'm having a hard day. There is no unresolved grief here. Still, it didn't seem right to let it go by without mention.


---
(1) I feel I should explain here, because it sounds like I'm making an in vs out of the closet argument. Most people don't know about our IVF, and I'm happy with that decision. Moreover, those that know don't know everything. We don't generally give them cycle dates dates. We don't discuss our diagnosis. I certainly don't give my mother daily cervical mucous reports, complete with details of whether there could be any "semen confusion" or not.

The point I'm trying to make above, is that you should give someone the information they need to support you. Or else stop expecting their support. For example, you might just want to tell them you're having a difficult time at the moment, and are expecting it to continue for a while. You might want to say it's about infertility, but go no further. Or you might say you're doing IVF. There are resources which address all these levels of detail, from general-purpose supporter tools to books on the medical process of ART. I don't think you should be more specific than you feel comfortable with, I just don't think you should leave them hanging.

I also think if your situation directly impacts on someone, they have the right to extra information. If your mum is taking you to the hospital for your retrieval and looking after you for the week afterwards, you really need to explain a few things to her so she's equipped and organised to help you. That you're having an IVF retrieval, for example. In other words, you need to give them a level of information which is appropriate to the level of support you're expecting from them. In much the same way I thought I, as someone living with a cancer patient, had the right to know they were having chemo on a certain day. When someone goes through pre-treatment stress and post-treatment sickness, it has a direct impact on their interactions with those living under the same roof.

I also think you should encourage people to ask questions (but not to expect answers). Asking questions shows they care and want to find out how to help you. People generally respect non-answers such as, "That's not important," or, "I don't really want to go into all that." If you give these non-answers, make sure you actively affirm it was still ok to ask. The important part of the dialogue - the subtext of showing you care enough to keep up with each other - doesn't need details. (Ok, you can go back.)

(2) As in, for example, the help registry. (Ok, and back.)

It's not the last time I'll mention the International Infertility Film Festival on this blog, but I am going to return you to your regularly scheduled program.

I know it's report card day, but I'll get to that later.

Meanwhile, remember this series of posts about infertility coping strategies? Add this from Nica. Affirmations in the form of questions. What can I do to improve my chances? What has gone right so far? Etc etc - it just might work.

In cycle news, I've just worked out where this veritable blogging frenzy is coming from. I'm ovulating. Shortly you will notice a sharp decline into a more relaxing slothfulness, punctuated I'm sure by the usual end-of-cycle breakdown between January 4th and 7th. Just so you can't say you weren't warned.

I was flicking through the online excerpt of The Infertility Cure last week after it was recommended to me by gracie (who didn't leave a contact/url - but thanks gracie!), when I read that the average couple goes through seven cycles of ART before they conceive or give up. Seven. That number keeps coming up.

• Mananabanana conceived on their seventh (and last) cycle.
  
• A woman at one of my transfers said she was on her sixth (and second last) transfer.
  
• A message board discussion (at Essential Baby) some months ago indicated a wide consensus that seven transfers was enough.
  
• Let's not even start on biblical sevens.
  

"How many cycles have we done?" Mr Bea asked.

"Well, that depends how you divide it up," I answered. "Because it's only been four transfers and you can't really count..."

"How many ART cycles?"

"Seven."

It's interesting. As a species, we seem to have an inbuilt quit-point. You can imagine how it went, back in the prehistoric days. Two cavemen have heard a rumour you can make fire by banging two rocks together. "Here," says one, handing the other two clods of earth. "Try it. Huh. Ok, try again. No? Try again - it must be true, I heard it from a friend of a friend of mine. And again. Again. Again. One more time. Tell you what - why don't we try flint?"

We've invented this myth of human progress as based on persistence, determination, perseverance in the face of great odds. But the real story of human progress is one of giving up. Without that, we're just apes in a cave, banging clods of earth together, getting nowhere as we watch them crumble apart.

More thoughts on quitting by our Stirrup Queen and Serenity.

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Disclaimer - average means, of course, that some people will do more and some people will do less. I'm sure no-one's taking me literally here, but I thought I'd mention it. We're all faced with different circumstances - diagnosis, response to treatment, external factors... I just saw the number seven come up a surprising number of times in all sorts of different situations and it got me wondering whether there was some sort of evolutionary principle involved. I was not, in any way, trying to say that doing more or less than seven cycles is wrong, not least because our individual decisions on where to draw the ART line are based on a complex array of factors and what I would still like to think of as a sophisticated knowledge of human biology. My main point is that quitting is an essential part of the success story of the human species. Ok, I think we're all clear.

You guys rock. You really do. Things are much clearer to me now than they were this time last week, although I'm sure it won't last. Luckily, we've written it all down. And now, for what it's worth, I want to tell you what I've learned.

I've learned that, in this uncertain world of infertility, it's impossible to set the rules ahead of time. Saying you'll quit after cycle X, or you'll do as much as it takes, no matter what, is a recipe for anxiety - as is any other rule about how you'll react on a given day, or to a given situation. There's enough worry without the fret over whether you'll be able to follow through on your self-made promises. And that's not to say you should throw out all your standards - but you need to give yourself permission to take it as it comes.

As for the short game, the flash points where everything is an overwhelming crisis - they're going to come and go. You may be able to identify a pattern, or a situation that sets you off, or you may be struck down without warning. Whatever the case, you need to ride them out, nothing more. Analysing and problem solving mean nothing here. The only thing that counts is your ability to distract and de-stress. Meditation or exercise, whatever music puts you in a better frame of mind, breathing exercises, or busying yourself with some sort of achievable task - whether work or recreation - can tide you over until the panic subsides. Until it's time to make the next choice; to roll the next set of dice.

And if you're ever wondering why, and there's no logical answer, try picking up a coin. Weight it on one side, according to your prognosis and the number of embyos you're transferring. Then flip. Because the universe plays just such a mystical game of chance.

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If anyone still has any bullet-proof coping strategies they just have to share, you just have to share them. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'll be reading.

So much of the stress of ART is not based around specific events where things have gone wrong. Rather, it's a background stress - the not knowing how things are going to turn out in the end, and the wondering what bizarre and unexpected twist is going to derail it all next. Good, I can see you nodding along.

What I've noticed, and what I don't know how to deal with, are the flash points. The predictable meltdowns that punctuate a cycle. It's taken me four FETs to identify the pattern, and though I imagine it's not the same for everyone, I also suspect I'm far from unique.

Two days before the next test or procedure. That's when it happens.

Two days before the next blood test, ultrasound, or transfer, you can find me crying, hyperventilating, snapping irritably, unable to sleep properly, having difficulty getting through my day to day life, and feeling generally overwhelmed. On these days it reaches a point where having children becomes a secondary priority, eclipsed by the desire to just make it all stop. Of course, after a few hours, I am back on track. But while it lasts, it's horrible, just horrible.

I suppose identifying the pattern is the first step. Well I've done that. Good for me. But now what? Tell me - I'm not the only one, am I? So having been there, dealt with that, what advice can you pass on?

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I'm going to throw out the first suggestion. Try to arrange things so I'm not facing additional stress on that day. Turn down the invitation to that social event. Arrange my work so I'm not doing the shift that causes me the most anxiety.

There's a balance to be struck between giving myself permission to opt out on that day, and keeping myself busy and distracted. But I think I'm working out how to strike that balance. Example: getting a haircut and having coffee with a good friend would be a good idea. Working a long and hectic shift followed by dinner with nosy relatives who can't stop talking about who's had which baby and when am I going to follow - bad idea. Sitting at home with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and consult Dr Google - another bad idea. You get the picture. Still working on how to arrange my life so this is possible, but that's another post. Let's work with theories for the moment, and forget the practicalities.

What else?

I guess we tend to use "should" and "shouldn't" a lot more than is good for us, when it comes to what we think or do under certain circumstances. Because it seems for every permission there is an equal and opposite permission.

Permission to hope, and permission to not hope. Permission to be sad, and permission to have fun. Permission to get out there, and permission to stay in and crawl under a rock. Permission to give up, or to keep going. Permission to make your own choices, and not follow everyone else's - and I'm talking about those who have been in your shoes (those who haven't we obviously ignore because how do they know what they'd choose?).

Permission to indulge and nurture yourself, whatever that means today. But also permission to scold yourself and tell yourself to buck the hell up.

Permission, in short, to do what you need to do, instead of what you imagine you should be doing.

And here's one to add to the list - permission to change and grow. To start reacting differently to certain situations.

It's easy to fall into patterns of behaviour and, having established them, to repeat them ad nauseum well beyond their period of relevance. To choose an example - I think we all know what it's like to carry on as if we still like talking about other people's pregnancies. When people expect you to be "Pregnancy Sympathiser Person", it's easiest to play along. But if you eventually break this pattern, it's just as easy to get stuck in the new rut. People expect you to be "Don't Talk To Me About Your Pregnancy Person" and it can be just as awkward to move on from there.

Why do you (ok - let's switch to "I" at this point) feel the need to automatically respond the way I did before? To save myself the energy of coming up with a new behaviour, and establishing new social patterns? To meet the expectations of others? Whatever the reason, I'm sure it's not a good one. This is, apart from a shitty, fucked-up situation, also a life-changing series of events. I need to give myself permission to grow, to change, to adapt, to accommodate - to become the person I'm going to be because of, or despite it all.

I hope she's nice.

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I also want to say thanks for all the thought-provoking comments. I feel I'm really learning something here. If anyone has any more, I'm all ears. Meanwhile, I'll be working on Strategising - Part Four.

Oh - also - I started temp charting today! I'm a little bit excited. Do you think "first thing on waking" means upon becoming "consciously aware" or "able to perform the brainstem reflex of hitting the snooze button and tying yourself up in the sheets for half an hour before realising it's morning"?

I started posting this in the comments, but it got too long. Here's what I'm hearing.

Most people don't like the idea of a deadline as a coping strategy. Or at least not when put in those terms.

Deadlines are set for other reasons, of course (though I really hate the idea that money is one of those reasons - it's just an extra level of unfair.) But no-one so far has said they told themselves, "We'll do X number of cycles, and if that doesn't work, we'll move on," purely because it helps them to think that way. Because it helps them to know that, whatever happens, they'll never go through this shit more than X number of times.

Yet I know there are people who do think that way. I met one at my first transfer. It was her second-last transfer, and I'll always wonder if she was successful, and if not whether she changed her deadline. Because when it comes to the "creeping deadline" strategy the "creeping" is as important as the "deadline". You calm yourself down by saying, "Only two more cycles, no matter what!" but you keep yourself from worrying about their failure by secretly giving yourself permission to carry on.

So, to sum up, I'm beginning to think coping involves giving yourself permission to keep going, and also permission to stop. Permission that doesn't hinge on the outcome of your treatment.

I'm also toying with the idea of "permissions". (Can you tell?) Permission to keep going. Permission to stop. Permission to hope.

What other permissions do we need to give ourselves in order to cope?

I'm going to attempt to make this post seem more important than it really is, by linking it to the National Infertility Awareness Week "Take Action" campaign happening over at Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters. Don't let the linkage fool you - I'd love to think of this as a selfless act of "reaching out" to the infertile community, but in truth it's as much about y'all "reaching out" to me. So let's not go overboard and paint me saintly, or anything.

I've been thinking about coping strategies over the last twenty-four hours. I want to start a discussion. I'm going to try to stick to simple outlines today, and follow up later in the week once I have your responses and thoughts. Now, obviously, different things work for different people at different times. Which people? What times? Would you find these strategies helpful? Well, what have you found helpful, then?

Here are two strategies I'm thinking of trying out:

Coping Strategy One: A Firm Belief In My Own Mediocrity (aka "that stuff only happens to other people")

It's paranoid to believe I'll be one of those unfortunate patients who, without any sort of explanation, fails one transfer after another, or loses pregnancy after pregnancy. Isn't it? I mean, I know these are real concerns and real people (some of whom might be reading this post) have to face them. Is it naive to make myself believe that won't happen to me, or is it necessary? And if it's necessary, how do I do it?

Coping Strategy Two: The Creeping Finish Line (aka "just one more cycle")

The trouble with agreeing to do as much IVF as it takes, is realising it sometimes takes an awful lot. The thought of being prepared, if necessary, to go through years of IVF can be overwhelming. What about agreeing to a limit, subject to last-minute changes of heart? Or does the pressure of having a deadline do more harm than good?

Well? What do you think?