Still Passing Open Windows ....

Really?

My RE phoned to say we have great embryos. Great. Can you believe it? And lots. Lots and lots. Ok, maybe not lots and lots because we are probably capable of zooming through many but we have lots. It's a wonderful feeling, it feels like a little lift from a balloon that keeps me from hitting the bottom with a thud, someone's arm holding me up and keeping me from getting too low.

The fact that they were not my eggs feels less important too. I'm excited. It's just odd comments that get to me and get me thinking of yak breeding on the Russian steppes. 

"His younger daughter, his real daughter, she's very warm with us always," says my mother-in-law, "But you know his older daughter has different genes, she's adopted, so it's understandable." 

I can practically see H tear off his shirt to reveal SuperHusband underneath, "Look at Carlynn and her sisters," he says, swooping in and grabbing the falling concrete block before it crushes me.

I play with the salt and wonder about buying a book on yak cheese making.

"The same parents and 3 very different personalities," continues H and the conversation moves on to one of my sisters, who can provide enough stuff to talk about for hours, and I am suitably distracted.

I suspect this is not the last comment like that from either my mother-in-law or my mother. Fortunately, and ironically, the men in our families are a little more tactful. Or maybe they just talk less and the opportunities for gaffs are fewer. 

Got to update, got to blog ....

(To get the full effect of the title, it needs to be sung to the tune of "Got to sing, got to dance ...). It has been ages, I know. I have been home, to my parents which was wonderful. I saw lots of friends. There was not too much baby talk. The worst questions came from my grandfather and my sister, and pissed me off mightily but on the whole were manageable and for the most part, I was able to just have a week at home.

Now I am back, in the thick of a northern winter and gearing up for another cycle. Well, gearing up in a manner of speaking. I will not be physically involved at all, which, I suppose, is a good thing. Sort of. You see, I would like to be involved. I would like to be the one providing the eggs. That I am not affects me in a lot of little ways.

For example, "Let's go to Scotland and look up your family," says H. "No," I just say simply, not wanting to go into it, not wanting to explain that my family ends here and now, that any children who might possibly (miraculously) be born will not have my grandmother's hands which I see in my own, will not carry our particular blue eyes, will not have the deformed-looking little toe my father and I have which gives us hell when we wear narrow shoes, and who knows if they will have that quirky sense of humour which will have me and my cousins in hysterics while other people stare at us perplexed. 

How does family history work with donor egg children? These miracle children might possibly be interested out of sense of curiousity but they will lack the odd feeling of being at home in a country they have never visited, like I feel when I go to Germany and unexpectedly feel my 2 German genes going "Toll! Fantastich!" They cannot say "I come from a long line of people who have fought to remain here," when they visit South Africa. Actually, I cannot say that either, seeing as I live overseas. So, maybe I am overworrying all this. Maybe, like most worries, it won't matter one jolt in the years to come.

In the meantime, I have taken up knitting again and I am cruising @m@zon and looking at books like this: 

because I just know that if I buy this book, I will fill my house with funky little watercolour angels and awesome homemade Christmas decorations and my life will be dense with colour and interest, which would make a nice break for H from the little dark cloud I currently walk around under. And that's given me an idea: I can NOT buy the book but copy the angel idea and hang little watercoloured black clouds from the ceiling to decorate the flat this festive season. (I will of course line them with glitter to add a suitably festive look.) That way, I can remain true to myself, being both creative and yet frugal enough to satisfy my Scottish genes.

Love and Leicas

I am in love. I have just discovered Leica cameras. The pictures they take are incredible. So much atmosphere is captured. It blows me away.

"How much is it, if I can ask?" I say.

"$19,000," says the proud owner, looking a picture of his four month old daughter.

"It's the price of a small car," says H the next day as we drive to work.

"It's the price of a small car and a half," I say. "It's the price of ...," I think aloud, "Almost 2 egg donors ... plus the price of ... mmm, yes, almost 2 egg donors ..."

which would equal, given our rate of sucess, zero babies. Yes, we are moving on to our third egg donor and still have no pregnancy, no baby in site. Incredible, n'est-ce pas? 

To give the full background, the first donation was cancelled en route due to poor response. The second donation, with a different, previously successful, donor, yielded 2 embryos and zero pregnancies. We are pressing forward, more out of a sort of disbelieving stubbornness than anything else. This has to work at some point, doesn't it? It just seems incredible that there are so many babies out there and I seem totally incapable of having even one, even when I have other, fertile women's help. Unbelievable. Fascinating too, in a way. I wonder which will run out first: the money or my stubborn refusal to give up. Unfortunately it feels chillingly like it could be the money. Man, am I going to be a twisted old lady if that's the case. 

Dish towels and colour schemes

Well this cycle did not work. Surprise! And so on to more important things: decorating my flat. 

I have a love-hate relationship with our flat. The flat itself is fine. The location is ... well, it's ok, it could be a lot worse. It could also be a lot better, and as I am a glass-half-empty type of girl, I tend to harp on the "it could be so much better" side of things. 

In an attempt to love where I live, I have this big plan to redecorate, which unfortunately gets pushed down the priority list by the other big plan i.e. Have a Baby who Outlives Us. Anyway, we are not talking about that. We are talking about decorating.

My decision this week is the oh so important colour scheme for the kitchen. My current vote is for turquoise and green, and my object of lust for this week is Anthropologie's dish towels. Gorgeous, I just love them. The only thing is, how does one justify $17 for a dish towel? 

The question I want to ask you, darling readers, is what are your favourite house inspiration sites?

PTD

"What do you feel like doing tonight?" H asks me as we drive home from the airport.

"I don't know. Let's see later. I'm waiting to see how long it takes before Post Trip Depression hits so I don't want to commit to anything yet," I reply.

Clever girl. PTD has hit. It probably wasn't helped by the phonecall from our RE to say that only one of the three embryos produced in this cycle is growing and that he recommends thawing our 2 frozen ones. So much for that trip then.

I look out our balcony at the building site opposite us and the slightly menacing house up the hill, as a scooter buzzes annoyingly up the road. The US is looking very attractive at this point. Europe is just looking bleak. Post Trip Depression. It always hits and it always takes me 2-4 weeks to find my equilibrium again, to get back into a rhythm. In the meantime I will just watch TV and eat Reeses, because I bought back a good stock. And if Reeses can't help the blues, what can? I wonder if that would work as a mantra ...

Moral Support

I am not a big driver. It's not my thing. I would rather walk or take my bike. So driving a lot and taking freeways tends to freak me out. In this context, add using the cheapest car rental available and you can imagine my stress level.

We're driving up the freeway, on the way to a historical site 63 miles away. There's a little dinging noise. "What's that?" asks H.

"I have no idea," I say, concentrating on the road and the GPS which is nestled between the steering wheel and the speedometer. ("I'll give it to you for free," says the car rental guy, pulling it out a drawer. "It has no stand.")

H whisks away the GPS to reveal both the petrol light and the battery light illuminated.

"I think we should go back," he says.

"Really?" I ask, concentrating on the road but now throwing worried glances at the lights on my dashboard.

"Yes," he says firmly, "And we should probably fill up with gas first."

"Where do I fill up?" I ask, looking around and seeing hotels, exit ramps and offices. "There are no filling stations! Where's a filling station?" My voice is rising and I'm getting panicky as cars whizz by me on either side.

"I don't know," says H with a shrug, quite calmly. "How would I know?"

"There's nothing!" I say shrilly. "In South Africa there are petrol stations on the side of the highway, here there's nothing! This is a foreign country for me!" 

"Take the next exit," says H. 

I fly by it. I'm thinking. What to do? What to do? Both lights are still on.

"Look," says H, "There's a gas station. Take the next exit. And it's right next to the highway, what do you know? Just to make you feel at home."

"Ha ha ha, very funny," I say.

We fill up with gas and turn around, heading back into the city to the car rental place. 

After we've driven a few miles, H comments, "Look, another gas station, next to the highway," says H, "It's just like South Africa."

And now, every time we pass a gas station on the highway, H shakes his head in mock wonder and goes, "A gas station right next to the highway, just like South Africa." If I wasn't concentrating so hard on the road, I would hit him.

 

A worm

A worm, that's what I feel like, but I'm a happy worm. H is coming. Yay!

I'm nervous about blogging about this cycle. Superstitious I guess. Things look ok. I read today that lifestyle changes take about 3 months to show any effect and while I haven't introduced any major ones, I have been drinking protein smoothies pretty regularly and doing acupuncture weekly and I think it has had a positive effect. I tried to follow a healthy eating plan but after a couple of days I hit a wall and went on a binge of chocolate, coffee and junk food, felt awful and decided that simply trying to eat better was probably better for me in the long run. My inner rebel does not take kindly to being told what to do.

I blame boarding school. It has made me allergic to somone else imposing their ideas on me. My sister loved boarding school, so did H. I still have nightmares that I am suddenly back there. So little choice, so many rules, it makes me shiver just thinking about it. I must remember this on days when I find adulthood hard.

Today I indulged my stationery fetish and bought sketchpads and a beautiful fountain pen. It's gorgeous. If I could figure out how to download photos, I would post one. One of my dream jobs would be to have a stationery store. It would be in a small town with tree lined streets and I'd have a cute house with a big lawn sloping down to a river. I'd have a dog with loads of character and a group of best friends to have coffee with, and my parents would live in walking distance. Sort of like a Gilman Girls-type existence. Do you think I would be bored before a week was up?

Travelling

So here I am, moving into the next cycle. IVF, in case you were wondering. I arrived today, all on my own. H can't make it due to a myriad of reasons so I have a week alone in a foreign city. It's not unknown; we've been here before. It's a nice place to visit too, it's just that I'm all on my own. For a week. And for all my complaining about being a solitary person and liking being on my own, there is a big difference between being on your own at home and being on your own away from home. I feel that strange city loneliness lurking in the shadows. You know that loneliness that is like a huge emptiness, it's almost a childlike fear of being away from your mother. Who will look after me? What if something happens to me? Who will help me?

Yes, I know I am being pathetic. Totally pathetic. I am staying in a lovely hotel. The car hire company gave me a funky Chrysler saying, "I know you ordered a compact car but you don't mind taking that car  out there?" Who would mind? It's such a cool car. So I have a nice hotel and a car, a fun car at that, and a week just to hang out and do nothing and I'm moaning about being on my own. There's no pleasing some people. So I give myself a slap about the head and plan stuff I know I like to do, but still there's a little voice in my head going, "But we're all alone! Where's the man?" And the most ridiculous thing about this all is that I think I am quite independent. Ha! And one of the things that drives me crazy about my mother is her dependence on my father. Blood is obviously much thicker than water. 

Well, the upshot of all this is that I will probably be a lot more active on my blog this week. Because I have all this time and no-one to talk to, and I got comments on my last post! I still have people who drop by, you have no idea how much it touches me. And, last but not least, I managed to get connected to the hotel internet. All on my own. Without the man. It's a brave new world, ladies. May it continue to be this easy.

And you know the worst of all of this? I am being ever so slightly chilly to H, because even though I know it would be difficult for him to come, it's still like an unwritten relationship test and I think, "If he really loved me, he would come." This is what I think about the man who arranged for flowers and a fruit platter in my room. I feel like a worm, but still a slightly vindictive worm. Maybe I'll have such a nice time this week and discover an inner confidence that ... um, I'm not sure, that I realise it was all ok? I know it's going to be ok in the end, of course it will, I just miss having the man to do stuff with and to have shared experiences with. There we go, maybe by the end of this week I will realise how important sharing life is and how good it actually is to have the man there.

It's about time ...

for another post. Well, it's overdue but we are still having computer hassles and I am limited to H's portable which is with him when I feel like blogging and on the table at home when I feel exhausted and slump on the couch watching American Idol. Am I the only person who thinks at least Simon gives constructive criticism and doesn't just gush on about what range the singer has and how cute that dress is and how they must pursue their dream no matter what? Um, yes, maybe I am understandably cynical about that last one. Some dreams are difficult to pursue. Some dreams don't seem to want to be pursued. And judging by some of the candidates, some dreams should not be pursued.

But, don't worry dear reader (if there is still anyone out there, anyone? anyone?), we are still pursuing the dream. That is all I can write about it. I am following a very low key approach this year. If I don't feel like doing it, unless it's absolutely necessary, I don't. Case in point: my latest alternative medicine practitioner has recommended doing a detox to cleanse the liver after which my body will respond better to treatments, leap buildings in a single bound, beat Paula Rattray in the New York marathon etc. etc. I am drinking a cleansing liquid of sorts and I'm supposed to be avoiding red meat, coffee, chocolate and alcohol. Well. Avoiding I guess is the right word. I avoid them but sometimes they leap out at me from the bushes and I am so surprised that before I realise what I am doing, I find myself drinking a cup of coffee. And on Friday night I had 2 glasses of wine. I was waiting alone in a wine bar, ok? Have you ever tried to wait for 20 minutes in a wine bar on a Friday night and look comfortable? Let me give you a word of advice, without a glass of wine it's impossible, with a glass of wine you can at least make a more believable effort. 

So, hopefully this is the end of my long break. Possibly not though. However, if anything majorly interesting happens, I will definitely tell you. 

Coming in from the cold

Well, we, or rather H, is working on fixing our internet and it is sort of fixed. So that is part I of the news chez nous. Part II is that our surrogate is pregnant.

Yes. I have been holding out on you.

There are lots of posts floating around in my head. On how infertility affects me in silly little things. On what I'm doing to encourage a miracle pregnancy. On our farm. On cool children's books I see at the library. On heading off to breed yaks on the steppes. On compromising and making goat's cheese in the mountains instead. You know, the myriad of things that float around in heads. The one thing I haven't got any ideas for is this. This precious little beginning of a pregnancy.

The first couple of days I was so happy. It would hit me suddenly as I was driving along and I would smile goofily for the next few kilometres at the knowledge that we were pregnant. Being newly pregnant has such magic to it, knowing that this tiny life is starting. Now, though, I am just scared. We haven't even seen the heartbeat yet and it feels like pregnancy weeks are moving at half the pace of normal weeks. I feel like I have known forever but it's only been a week.

On the other hand I feel the healing from this news slowly spreading. I look at babies and don't wonder what age my children would be, I think, "My kid would wear much cooler clothes." I see a crib and decide whether I would buy it, if I was decorating, you know, instead of immediately looking away. I read reviews on children's books and don't just look at the illustrations like I usually do, I consider buying a copy and maybe reading it with little fat hands holding the pages down. And I am so glad that I have no control over the progress of this pregnancy. If I have a fight with H or feel stressed and tired or have to drive long distances or get a cold I don't have to worry if this might be the thing that brings things crashing down. It is all out of my hands and that is wonderful.