It's not like it is on the Telly!

I'm having a bit of a rage. After having had a reasonably ok day where I only swore at 3 people with kids (on the Telly, don't worry) I am now back creeping back into the pit of anger. Every time infertility is shown on fictional television it is always shown as a dramatic thing. Jane in Eastenders couldn't have children because she was shot in her uterus, Diane in Hollyoaks stole a child after her IVF failed, and do I even have to mention the most famous film about infertility: The Hand that Rocked the Cradle. The reality is a lot different, 1 in 6 couples experience difficulty conceiving - yes, couples, not women. BUT difficult in conception of a child isn't Infertility, it's where it takes more than 24 months. Can you imagine a soap running a story for that long, no, because it doesn't fit with soap time lines. I understand that, but I also expect that they show some realism in their portrayal. Last months Eastenders had Tosh (in a same sex relationship with Tina) do artificial insemination at home from a sperm donor: even medicated AI only has around 10% success rate first time. Commonly called the "turkey baster method" by people who don't know any better, and shock horror she got pregnant! Yes, she did miscarry, but it was ok, she had a vodka and went back to work the same day. Grace in Hollyoaks had been shot in one ovary and had "an infection" in the other meaning she could only get pregnant with IVF. Strangely enough she didn't have to go through months of tests, scans, sperm analysis, then waiting for the right cycle dates. No, she had a consultation and started injections the same day. They did make a brief mention of eggs having to be collected, but no signs of her struggling to cope with ovaries the size of grapefruits, no side effects from the drugs other than a few mood swings. After EC (which was barely even mentioned, including the fact that its a medical procedure) she went back to work and two days later was out with her friends on an all nighter. After my EC I could hardly leave the house and was just plain ill. Sadly she had a miscarriage a week or so later. Again, like Tina, she went to the loo, found blood, and declared she had suffered a miscarriage. In reality you have to wait at least 7 to 10 days and have an ultrasound scan, or blood tests, to confirm it. You have to suffer the physical pain that is losing a baby. I know I can't expect fictional TV or Films to accurately represent the pain of infertility or miscarriage because I don't think anyone can really accurately present it unless they have been through it, and everyone experiences it differently. However, a little bit of respect would be nice. A bit of a nod to the invasive nature of the treatment. A mention that there is a lot of anxious waiting involved. Not presenting all women having treatment as being able to carry on with normal life. Staying away from infertile women snatching babies. I'm not asking for special treatment, just a more realistic impression of something that affects so many people that there won't be anyone in this world who won't have at least one loved one affected by it.

Pressure Cooker

When I was a kid Sunday dinner would take my parents hours. There were always a million pots and pans, a pressure cooker, electric knife, veg being chopped from 9am onwards, stuffing made from scratch, Yorkshire puds made from scratch (with one spare to have with some jam for pudding!) Today, for the first time in 32 years the roles were reversed and I (I mean we) cooked my parents dinner. Sadly I hate cooking, I don't see it as pleasurable, it just makes a mess of my nice clean kitchen. In all honesty Mr P does the cooking and I clean up around him. For me GBBO stands for "Great British Bore Off" and fortunately everything we have is always the easy option: the freezer is my friend, and other than the chicken and a few carrots everything else was pretty much pre-done! Throughout this process of "cooking" my husband and I spoke more than we have all week. Most of it was nasty snapping, but it's better than silence. This afternoon, after a few more little digs we eventually talked. Proper talk. Honest, brutal, difficult, but very very welcome. Last night I honestly felt like I might run away and leave him. Today i love him and would fight to the death for him. Things may be crap but as long as we have each other I know there will be someone to dry my tears...eventually.

Volcano

I'm angry. I'm angry that a giant spider tried to attack my arm when I was trying to relax on the sofa. I'm angry that my car voice recognition doesn't understand me: though to be fair, "fuck off" probably isn't in it's pre-programmed vocabulary. I'm angry that my husband called me mardy: for those that don't know what mardy means, it is a bit like miserable, but worse. I'm angry that my fertile (pregnant-first-month) pregnant for the second time Sister In Law is "excited" for our scan next week. I'm angry my husband had told people when the scan was - I purposely didn't want anyone to know so whatever happened we could have time to process it, and that was the "joint decision" we made BEFORE Day Zero!!! I'm angry my two close friends, who are both as pregnant as I would have been if transfer #2 had worked, have their baby showers in the next two weeks. I'm angry that I briefly contemplated what I would do for my baby shower. I'm angry that my husband has been out since lunch at the pub (not wanting to waste his day off staying in with me apparently) and didn't get in until 9pm when he was clearly drunk and out of money. I'm angry that he is now here and snoring and not giving a shit how I feel, not even asking if I'm ok or texting to see how I am. Im angry that we even got a positive pregnancy test - if it had been negative I would be drunk on frozen cocktails right now instead of sober, lying on the sofa in the dark, hating the world. I'm angry I don't know how to put paragraphs in my fecking blog. I'm angry I keep getting mildly optimistic for three seconds that we will get a miracle a week today. I'm angry that I can't be more optimistic. I'm just angry.

Alone in the dark

I had an early start today and it's not over yet. At 2.30am I woke and immediately remembered what had happened. I thought I might have those few minutes of oblivious confusion, but no. For two hours my eyes stayed open and I just lay in bed saying "don't cry, don't cry, don't cry...." until I finally gave up and went downstairs to watch TV. Instead of watching trash I dug out and old journal and started to write. I say write, I mean scrawl. My good pens are all dead (oh, the irony) and there is something a bit weird about writing about completely heartbreaking misery in pink and purple sharpie. It helped. I felt empty. A bit like a Dalek - mostly just a tough impenetrable empty shell with a tiny little voice hidden away deep within saying "help". Mr P went to work, slightly late, a little hungover, but still oblivious: telling me to rest up and saying he hoped Bubba and me would have a nice day. I heard his car start and cried. I thought that my "telling my mum and dad" drama from the previous day (I don't think I blogged it - I don't need to, other than to say Im their only child, we are very close, it was beyond hard) 3 hours of tears, TV, google, tears, pleading, angry words, tears, sad words, promises. In a more rational moment I thought I had probably better see a Doctor. By some miracle the Wife of Satan was not on reception and it was a nice lady who managed to interpreted my hysterical sobbing and said "So you need to be seen today?" The GP also managed to comprehend some kind of meaning from my garbled "it's just...I don't know...I can't...I'm sorry..." so after a few "um...yes..." and that weird wincey eye thing that people do when they see a three legged dog struggling to do a dump she sent me on my merry way with a diazepam and a sick note. I didn't think the day could get worse. It did. Mr P was so depressed when he got in - turns out it was because he fell out with his work friend, he nicked his ruler or something equally not important in the grand scheme of shit. After dinner he said "Why haven't you mentioned Bubba? Why are you talking about holidays? You seem really depressed. What was up with your Dad, he looked a right miserable bastard tonight!" I always thought I was strong. Now as I sit with a packet of diazepam, Im not so sure.

Day Zero

Life changes, fast. One minute you have a head full of "ooh the garden needs weeding" and "Stupid drunk Big Tim has blocked our car in again" and the next it's "my baby has died." Tuesday nights pessary was like any other: and hour (ok, maybe an hour and a half) in bed with Cruise TV and an ice lolly. Then, going for my post-pessary wee I did my usual over-zealous wipe and scrutinisation to be confronted with pink. Tiny pink dots I checked the pad, and found a few more tiny pink dots. My rational brain whispered "it's fine, you just scratched your bits - chillax woman," but the pregnant part of my brain screamed "it's over - your baby is dead." After a melt down I managed to calm myself and called the clinic. They did the usual "it's absolutely nothing to worry about, we will call you tomorrow, just relax." I did as I was told and relaxed, and it worked. The next morning I felt loads better but they offered us a scan at 11.30 and who was I to refuse such an offer. Mr P was white as a sheet, I was cool as a cucumber. All I could think was about the statistics of people who get to keep their baby after seeing the heartbeat at 7 weeks and I couldn't wait to see my baby. In fact I felt lucky being able to see Him so early: he has a name - Bubba. The transvaginal scan was like a million others I have had: the silence, then the bad news. Normally it's about a cyst, fibroid, fluid. This time it was about a very tiny black circle. No heartbeat. No fetal pole. No yolk. No baby. At 6w6d there should be something, but there is nothing. Just a black hole that has sucked in everything around it and destroyed life. Mr P just things Bubba is being lazy and when we have our "proper" scan next week everything will be fine. But Mr P hasn't got a PHD in Dr Google. He hasn't spent the last five years obsessively reading about infertility. Thirteen years ago on September the 17th I lost a baby: I thought it was a late miscarriage at the time, but I now realise it was probably a chemical pregnancy. It doesn't mean it hurts less.