Monday 30 December 2013

Happy New Year

It's been a long time since writing and I've missed it. Apart from being caught up in the usual Christmas madness, I've actually been doing a lot of reading and research about different therapies to help me move forward in a very pro-active way. After my last entry late November, we went home to Ireland to visit my folks. It was the first time I had seen my family since having published the blog and so it was really lovely to see them all. We have a lot going on at home just now however, so going back is never easy these days. It's always a strange mix of emotions and this time round, it was no different. Life gets more and more complicated as you get older. Things happen.....and when our 'baggage' weighs each of us down, it is hard to both share and to empathetically admit other people's difficulties into your own inner world. It hurts so much seeing your loved ones suffer in any way and at the same time their pain seems to amplify your own. So how do you deal with it? How do you nurture that person-to-person connection .... but not to the detriment of your own mental health! 

My first big step forward was signing myself up to a local Cognitive Behavioural Treatment course. Throughout the six sessions, I've not only learned about practical methods to apply to daily life in combating negative thought patterns. But more importantly, I've enjoyed the comfort of being in a room surrounded by other like-minded anxiety suffers and listening to the reassuring words of qualified psychologists as they put labels, theories and explanations to all our worries and behaviours, therefore 'normalising' them and instilling in us a feeling of self-belief and being in control. 

Upon the recommendation of our group leaders, I downloaded a phone app on Mindfulness (essentially a guided meditation resource) where I happened to stumble upon two video clips entitled 'How to Change Your Brain' and 'Integrating the two Hemispheres of our Brains'. Seconds into the first clip, I was hooked,  both by the fascinating content and also by the calm and carefully considered delivery of the speaker - Dan Siegel, who I later discovered to be a Harvard-trained clinical professor of psychiatry, co-director of the Mindful Awareness Research Centre at UCLA and founder and director of the Mindsight Institute. "Mindsight",  he explains "is a kind of focused attention that allows us to see the inner workings of our own minds. It helps us to be aware of our mental processes without being swept away by them, enables us to get ourselves off the autopilot of ingrained behaviours and habitual responses, and moves us beyond the reactive emotional loops we all have a tendency to get trapped in. It lets us 'name and tame' the emotions we are experiencing, rather than being overwhelmed by them. The focusing skills that are part of mindsight make it possible to see what is inside, to accept it, and in the accepting to let it go, and finally, to transform it". 

So.... perhaps you can see why my attention was captured. Just two days later, I had the book in my hands, entitled 'Mindsight - Transform Your Brain with the New Science of Kindness' by Daniel Siegel. I read it cover to cover within five days, gripped by its every page like I was reading some sort of suspense novel. I found it incredibly reassuring, inspirational and refreshingly in-depth in its content. I am unashamedly a new devotee.... I've suffered from anxiety on and off and in varying degrees pretty much all my life. It manifests itself in the form of OCDs, sometimes debilitating hypochondria and intrusive thoughts. All three have been an almost constant feature of my life since becoming infertile. But for the first time in years, I am managing to NOT run away. And it feels good.... really good. I urge anyone with any level of anxiety to treat themselves to a copy of this golden piece of literature. Just one read has helped me beyond all measures. But I know it will be my lifelong literary companion from here on in. 

Another incredibly empowering website I happened to come across very recently is one called 'Conscious Transitions - Counseling Through Life's Challenges'.  It has been created by therapist Sheryl Paul who has devoted her career to steering people through difficult transitions in life. Whilst her two main points of focus are 'Getting Married' and 'Becoming a Mother',  she has broadened her practice to include other major transitions such as getting a divorce and dealing with drug addiction.
Here is an excerpt from her website which may spark your interest:
"Many of my clients suffer from the hell-realm of intrusive or unwanted thoughts. Thoughts like, “What if I’m a paedophile?” or “What if I’m a mass murderer?” or “What if I have a terminal disease?” or “What if I don’t love my partner enough (or at all)?” or "What if I hurt my baby?"  parade through their brains day and night without reprieve creating a state of perpetual misery. The irony about people who are prone to intrusive thoughts such as these is that they’re among the most gentle, loving, sensitive, kind, creative, and thoughtful people you’ll ever meet. The thought is so far from reality that it’s almost laughable, except that it’s not funny at all because my clients believe the lie which, of course, creates massive amount of anxiety. Or maybe it’s not ironic at all......Perhaps it’s precisely because of this high level of sensitivity and empathy that their mind has gravitated toward an alarming thought as a way to try to avoid the intensity of feeling with which they respond to life....Once you take hold of the seductive thought-vine, you’re on your way down the black hole of anxiety. The further you go down the hole, the darker it gets and the harder it becomes to find your way back out to the light of day"....But "once you start to pay attention to your feelings and trust that you can handle your emotional experiences, the intrusive thoughts begin to diminish. Again, the thoughts are a distraction, a first-layer attention-getter designed to force you to turn inside and attend to your inner world. Thus, when you’re perseverating on an anxious thought, the question to ask yourself is, “What am I trying to control, avoid, or fill up?” or “What is this thought trying to protect me from feeling?” and see if you can connect to the softness of the human heart, knowing that what you find when you bring your loving attention to the quiet places is always, always, a pearl."

We spent Christmas with my husband's parents at their home - just the five of us (and the dog). As we all know, Christmas can be fraught, stressful and full of unfulfilled expectations. We can approach it with wholehearted festive jollity or with fear and trepidation. This year, I approached it with a sense of calm. Thanks to everything I have read, learned and written in the past weeks, I was able to escape from my noisy mind and truly relish some really beautiful moments.....
On Christmas night, we all sat around the table together to the usual turkey feast. Having cleared our plates and wine glasses, we broke into an impromptu 'sing-along' of 'Away in a Manger', gazing lovingly at our little girl as she looked back at us bemusedly from her high chair. I know it sounds like something out of a cheesy family movie, but I can't tell you how perfect it felt at the time. My mother-in-law actually burst into tears at the end of the second verse, saying nothing more than, "It's just lovely..." I guess we all just felt a wave of immense, open-hearted gratitude to finally be there - together, sharing a very special Christmas with our precious miracle.

Losing my fertility was the hugest shock of my life. I know I'll always have to work at allowing myself to be happy and to trust that feeling again. But at least I now know that even if I'm not feeling "good", "happy" or even "fine" every minute of every day, it is there - real, solid and always within my grasp.

On that note, I want to wish you all a very happy new year and very best wishes for the months ahead.....

Sunday 24 November 2013

Return from Absence

It's been a strange couple of weeks. I find it difficult actually seeing people in the flesh having poured out my heart and soul in writing. I am aware that what I write might seem starkly contrasting to how I appear because I have become so good at playing things down. Even when I choose or others choose to mention the blog or how I'm feeling generally, often the words lose their impact and sincerity because my very tone conveys that habitual message of "I'm fine, don't worry. It's all good." It's often only afterwards in the security of my own company that I even realise the extent to which I have been performing.
Why do I do this? Well, for a start, who wants to admit their vulnerabilities? And as soon as people appear at all worried or concerned, I always back off feeling awkward and embarrassed. It's no-one's fault. Both responses are natural I think. I remember back in "the thick of it", just days after losing my second fallopian tube, being on the phone to my dad and talking so incredibly stoically about everything. He remarked on how strong I was and although at the time, I didn't consciously realise how deeply traumatised I was, I did have a sense that I was putting on a bit of a show. After all, I knew it's what he wanted to hear and I was protecting him.
My mum wasn't fooled though. She let me play out my little show for 8 months until I finally felt ready to break down (after the 1st IVF failure), at which point she reassured me with the words, "Zoe, I was waiting for this." What a relief it was to let myself be true to my feelings and to know that my mother was not surprised, nor worried - but in fact relieved that I finally had the courage to be honest. As the months wore on and on and my husband and I became further embroiled in the devastation of infertility treatment, I felt myself losing connection with everyone - even my own mother!
Just 2 days after our 3rd IVF cycle failed, we were on a very badly mistimed 'holiday' with my parents in Co. Kerry. This was undoubtedly the worst point within our ectopic/IVF journey. I can't even remember greeting our parents at the cottage that we'd rented for the week. Nobody or nothing seemed to matter to me any more. I was so deeply submerged in darkness, I was totally unable to escape the panic that was mounting inside me at an exponential rate. I felt almost certain that this juncture was the end of the road for us as a couple - how could we survive any more agony together? I was shot through and tormented by guilt, anger, shame, fear and most of all, self-hate. I felt that our relationship was under the shadow of a huge tidal wave simply because I feared for our future - a future without children, a future without a family and most importantly, a future in which I denied myself the most basic human right - to be loved.
I continued to obsessively scrutinise our relationship. Every tiff or disagreement, every opportunity I stole to avoid sex or even a kiss, became fodder for my inner demons. I was suffering from some sort of masochistic need to microscopically analyse the depth of devotion I had for my husband, even though I knew I loved him from the bottom of my heart. I was still able to talk to him about the black thoughts that troubled me and I still continued to feel comfort and relief knowing that he simply understood me. But I also felt an increased need to be understood by the world around us too.. Yet everything about our journey through infertility was so painfully private, given that sex, love and sexual identity were at the core of it all. And so, I felt trapped and unable to confide anything to anyone but my husband. Throughout the 'holiday' in Kerry, I felt totally panicked if he left my side for even a second because it felt like he was the only one who knew the depth of my suffering. My parents were doing their very best to be let in, but out of fear, I shunned them and sadly watched as they remained as strangers on the periphery.
I remember saying to my mum, almost apologetically, that it was just too painful to talk about it....but that one day, hopefully, I might be able to open up. Little did I know that despite my inability to confide, my mum was intuitively aware of everything all along. But like we said to each other recently, the words had to come from me....in my own time. I guess what I'm trying to get across in this post is how bloody hard it is to talk about infertility. It's so true what a friend recently said to me, that "few people realise how hard it is to say or write down raw feelings". But that once you speak out about them "they somehow lose their power over you."
Infertility is a bit like a tornado sweeping through your life and your marriage. And it takes a long time to feel safe enough to let go of each other's clenched grasp, having missed the eye of the storm by a hair's breadth. It will also take a long time to pick up the pieces and build our life back together again.. During the course of our ectopic pregnancies and IVF treatments, I became estranged and in fact totally cut off from so many people. I had to give up my job and along with it, a host of other social activities that made up a significant portion of my life. And now I am doing my best to re-connect again. It's very difficult, having been partially or even fully absent from everyone's life (and vice versa) for so long. But although infertility will always exist in our life, I finally feel safe and secure enough to say the words that were once too painful to even think. I'm slowly but surely gaining control again.
So please....try not to feel concerned or uneasy if/when I do 'break down' either in person or through my blog. It's just my way of rekindling lost relationships and therefore allowing myself to feel like I truly belong again.

Wednesday 13 November 2013

Let Me Feel the Way I Do....

Since having written my last few posts, I've been feeling very vulnerable and at times panicked to the point where I have felt physical pain in my chest. I have broken down three times in the last 72 hours into an uncontrollable fit of teary convulsions - the first time with my husband and two very close friends of ours, the second whilst on the phone to my mum the following day and the third while reading through the draft of this post just yesterday afternoon. Why? What could I possibly have unearthed in the past few days to provoke such a violent explosion of emotion?
For the first time since it occurred, I have dissected and analysed my emotional response to all the events leading up to the surgical removal of my second fallopian tube - and a little bit beyond. My mind hones in my unconscious body laid on the operating table, limp and helpless as the surgeon slices into my belly, severs my second and last tube from the womb and hands it passively to her assistant to be 'disposed of'. Her face is calm and collected, poised in a blank expression of indifference whilst she makes a few banale comments to her colleagues - perhaps in relation to the procedure, perhaps not. Did she conclude with 100% certainty that there was no way of rescuing part of the tube? Did she not even query the benefits of a biopsy in order to investigate the exact cause of the ectopic? Did she not think about how that might ultimately help us in our struggle to conceive through IVF which was tragically now our only option?......or did she go through the technical motions of the procedure without thinking and without feeling?

A woman's fertility is sacred. It is the embodiment of creation and a life-giving force inside us. And yet, I can't help feeling that she just didn't care. She didn't even notice that a part of me died on the operating table that day. And for that reason, I feel violated. I've always been hesitant about using that word because it is a word so often used in the context of rape and abuse. But if you look up the dictionary definition, you will find the following - 
Violate: to treat something sacred with irreverence and disrespect.
It's taken a lot of courage for me to write this post (with a view to publishing it). I've always been scared to admit how I felt about the doctors that treated me during that time and especially the surgeon who performed the final operation. I am only too aware that a lot of people will react with rationale and logic at the forefront of their minds and perhaps an urge to defend them with the comment, "They were just doing their job." As I clutched my husband in tears last Saturday night, I could sense that even he was going there in his head, but before he could think about uttering the words, I interjected with an explosion of repetitive cries to "please....please.....just let me hate her!"

I am not normally an angry person and so, for me, admission of such intense rage is very difficult indeed, but I believe my unconscious effort to keep it locked away for so long has been debilitating beyond all measure. And now, I guess I'm imploring you, as my readers, to let me feel this way too, to be compassionate towards me in my need to be angry and to recognise it not as a failure, but as a sign that I am finally grieving what I lost on that day back in October 2008....because only then can I even think about "moving on" and "letting it go".
Upon searching the internet for literature on grief experienced by women following the removal of both tubes, I was quite disheartened to find that there was nothing really out there. I did however find a website called Hystersisters about women who have had to suffer a hysterectomy. And it seems that, amongst these women, the big burning question is, "Does it ever go away?" This has been the most difficult thing I've had to face since becoming infertile - that sense of emotional agoraphobia and a fear of the infinite.

I'm going to conclude this post with the response to this question which I read on the Hystersisters website. It's a lovely message that simultaneously provides hope and acceptance of your right to feel the way you do:

"Almost all negative occurrences in our lives are tolerable, as long as they're temporary. Will you ever feel like the same person you were before? No-one can answer that question with certainty. But for many women, it does transpire that with the passage of time, the "strange and unusual feelings and unsettling emotions do fade.
But what if they don't? Just as the world is constantly evolving, so are our lives. Perhaps if the feelings do not some day truly go away, they will change. And because human beings by nature are adaptable creatures, you will likely adjust to the phases involved in the transition. To put it another way, you will slowly get accustomed to the new and different way that you feel. It's prevalence and steadiness will make it grow ordinary.
You will come to terms with what you have been dealt and adapt accordingly. As one woman put it, "I think the best thing we can all do for ourselves is to ride that wave of change and passage."

Friday 8 November 2013

"Doing It" Again....

We went to Rhyme Time at the library yesterday. I immediately laid eyes on a mother who I'd seen a couple of months ago with a huge bump and a little boy of three scampering at her feet. The bump was gone and in its place was a tiny newborn lying on a blanket by her side while she sang songs with her first born. I stared - I couldn't help myself. It was almost like I felt invisible and as if watching a TV screen, I was entranced by the scene before me. The baby got passed to other mummies who wanted desperately to enjoy a moment re-living those early days. I didn't feel anger nor jealousy as I gazed across, only sadness and a heavy sense of isolation from this fertile 'club' of mothers, most of whom seemed to have a small baby and toddler in tow. I tried to imagine how I'd feel if I'd had to hold the infant - Would I cry? Would I feel bitterness in my heart? Or would I simply pretend to myself that I didn't care? I didn't know. I almost wanted to know so as to address the pain. But I just sat on the periphery and watched.
As soon as we left the library, my mood dipped. I would never feel at ease with mums in that situation, not unless they knew.....not unless I offered to share my story. But sometimes you don't want pity, nor to be the party pooper amongst the group. So you have to keep quiet and remain a stranger or simply opt out altogether.
As my thoughts poured out, I started to feel angry again. And it took me a while to realise that I wasn't feeling angry towards anyone, but rather towards IVF itself! Lots of people have been asking me if/when we will be "doing it" again....IVF, that is! And as I reply with my vague, learnt-off answer, "Oh we're not sure...hopefully within the next year or so", I can't help but feel like I'm putting on a phoney air of ambivalence to cover up an underlying seething resentment towards this God-like 'power-to-be' that is paradoxically our hell and our salvation.
IVF brought us our little girl.... But I hated it. I think people expect us to eulogise about the wonders of modern infertility medicine. But unless they've been there, they've no real idea of the anguish you have to endure as penance for that long-wished-for dream at the end of the road. Yes, it's worth it...of course! Ask any woman who yearns for a child, for she would gladly walk barefoot over hot burning coals to be blessed with the gift of motherhood. But isn't it enough that we've endured the pain than we should have to be thankful for it as well? Shouldn't we be allowed to love and cherish our long-wished-for dream and still deeply loathe the very thing that facilitated her creation?
It's a strange and difficult place to be right now - on the cusp of another venture into that dark underworld. On the one hand, I do feel tremendous love for the workforce...for the amazing doctors, nurses and embryologists who helped us with their expertise and (in a lot of cases) compassionate understanding of the stress we were under. But on the other hand, I hate feeling indebted to them and to everything of which that 'world' comprises. It's this feeling that I should owe gratitude towards something which tore me apart, mind, body and soul, that further compounds my sense of failure and humiliation.
So, in response to the question...."Yes, we will do it again". But I do not know exactly when. And it is finances and a want for quality of life with our little girl that will dictate the amount of times we subject ourselves again to the distress of treatment. When we return to the clinic with arms outstretched imploringly we are certainly not returning into the arms of an old friend. We will go back submissively out of love for our child and for us, as a family....But not without fear, trepidation and regret in our hearts that there is no other way.

Tuesday 5 November 2013

Why am I Still so Angry? (Part 2)

Back on 21st October 2008, as the result of one simple operation, I became sterile. The violent suddenness of this event traumatised me so deeply that, no sooner had I come round from the anaesthetic, I immediately became fixated on the fear of terminal illness, then followed by months and years of relentless angst and horrendous plunges into deep and inescapable heartbreak.
Maybe you think I should be thankful to the doctors for rescuing me from a potentially life-threatening situation?...that I should be reconciled in the fact that their better judgement guided them towards the best decision given the circumstances? And maybe I would feel that way too if they had assumed a manner less flippant and devoid of human empathy. As it happened, their total lack of emotional awareness left me feeling even more empty and defiled. These sentiments have never left me. And in fact they've got increasingly stronger as I've become further engulfed in the silence of my secret pain…..so secret that I have been hiding it from even myself and continuously ‘playing it down’ through guilt towards those “worse off” or the shame of indulging in narcissism.
I do remember one doctor – just one, who clearly recognised the severity of what had happened. He met with us just before Christmas 2008 as part of a follow-up procedure and to discuss the plan ahead. And before launching into any medical spiel, he verbalised with genuine sincerity his deep regrets for our loss……But it was too late. I was hurling myself forward in order to find a way out and so I resented the fact that he was “trying to bring me down by forcing me to think of the past” (my words immediately after the consultation). In retrospect, I can see that he was so lovely. And yet I was just too scared and angry to listen.


I wanted to forget, thinking that the appearance of a baby would erase all memory of that day. But he was right to be concerned! And rather than enabling me to forget what happened, the arrival of our baby girl has helped me recognise what i needed to do all along..... to remember that frightening day and all the events leading up it. 

I can never forgive the doctors for minimising the gravity of their actions, whereby IVF would be my only choice to conceive ever again. Doctors have a duty of care to their patients and that should include emotional as well as physical wellbeing. But on that day and in the days approaching my second salpingectomy, not only were they (for the most part) ignorant of the fear that consumed me, but they were shockingly neglectful in their bedside manner that portrayed a disrespectful mix of apathy and shallow frivolity towards something that would change my life forever.


Why am I Still so Angry? (Part 1)

When I try to target the source of my anger, I'm instantly taken back to the days leading up to my second salpingectomy (the operation to remove my 2nd fallopian tube). I had already had to have my first fallopian tube removed just 7 months prior. And so, I was thrown into panic when I realised I was pregnant again with another ectopic. Having been there before, I immediately recognised all the symptoms and had already diagnosed myself before any tests or scans were even carried out.
I presented my self-diagnosis to the doctors and nurses at the Early Pregnancy Unit, but of course, as before, I knew that a diagnosis could not be 100% substantiated until bloods were taken over several days in order to establish a pattern. And, as before, a scan could not be accepted as concrete proof of an unviable pregnancy until my hormone levels had reached a certain level, by which time the Methotrexate injection was unlikely to perform successfully. Methotrexate is a powerful drug that is used to try and dissolve the embryo so as to prevent the necessity of surgical intervention. However, if it is not administered in very early stages, it usually fails to work effectively. I felt utterly trapped and exasperated and given the fact that I never had a chance to savour a single moment of this pregnancy, I felt emotionally numb towards the little embryo that was burrowed inside me – somewhere! But who was I kidding? I was of course tormented by the prospect of having to endure another miscarriage.
We had no choice but to lay low and take the ride. Several days ensued of hormonal analysis and internal scans, ultimately leading me back within the confines of the Gynaecology Unit awaiting the results of another Methotrexate injection following the unsurprising discovery of an ectopic pregnancy in my right fallopian tube. The result of this Methotrexate was everything. If it had been successful, my hormone levels would have decreased or at the very least reached a plateau. But if, like last time, it had failed to work, my hormone levels would have increased, signifying that the pregnancy was still on going and the only choice would be surgery.
I remember in the course of this waiting period, one doctor in particular – a young, Australian bloke who went to great lengths drawing us diagrams to explain the surgical procedure he would perform (if required)…whereby only half or part of the tube would be removed. He seemed to take great pleasure in flaunting the skills required to carry out this tricky but entirely do-able piece of surgical craftsmanship. And then, he concluded by saying, that if all else fails, we would be wonderful candidates for IVF once my damaged tubes were out of the way. I was shocked and incensed by his ability to casually talk about assisted reproductive treatment as if we were discussing a handy short-cut through the park as opposed to the destruction of my natural fertility!
I felt sick with fear as we waited for the doctors to come and tell me my fate. Eventually, they arrived to inform us (to our utter surprise) that my hormone levels had indeed plateaued. I was safe. This time I’d thankfully managed to escape the knife and my fertility was preserved. We were immensely relieved. The whole experience had really taken its toll on us so we planned a little trip to Ireland to visit my family. My hormone levels continued to slowly decrease and so the doctors were happy to discharge me and our failing embryo.
While in Ireland, I started to experience quite severe, sharp pains in my right side. The pain was intermittent so I managed to just ignore it, reassuring myself that it was probably just the side-effects of the drug at work. Upon our return home though, we decided to get it checked out at the hospital, more as a precaution than as a genuine concern. Following another internal scan, we were told that in fact a large mass was present in my upper right fallopian tube and that emergency surgery would be the only option now. We were so shocked and confused. The Methotrexate had worked. How could this happen? How could the embryo continue to grow when the blood results reflected otherwise?

I didn't even have a day to compute the facts and the inevitable consequences of the impending operation. Before surgery, we were visited by the surgeon who told us that she would do her best to preserve at least part of the remaining tube. As I drifted into unconsciousness, these words provided me with my one last thread of hope that my fertility might be saved. I awoke alone in recovery, breathing through a mask, parched for water and morphined to the eyeballs. Within minutes, the surgeon appeared and proceeded to inform me in a somewhat robotic manner that my second fallopian tube had been fully removed and that, judging by the photographic images (which she thrust in front of my bleary eyes), my ovaries and uterus were in fine condition. That was it! There was no “I'm so sorry….We did everything we could….”, nor even the compassion of a gentle touch. Her words were brief and her delivery was brutal. For a few hours, I had the blissful fogginess of morphine to subdue the mental torture that was there, lurking and ready to descend upon me at any moment. But as the morphine wore off, the reality of what had just happened threw me into utter turmoil. 

Sunday 3 November 2013

Our 'Trying to Conceive' Story

I know my blog is more about the hidden emotional undercurrents which are all part and parcel of infertility, but I understand people will also be interested to hear the details about how we actually managed to conceive our little girl. Plus, I feel strongly that many women could benefit from the medical diagnosis that resulted in my finally getting pregnant.
If you would like to hear this story, please click HERE. (We are the 19th story down, entitled 'Zoe's Story')
And do get in touch if you have any questions that you feel could help you.

Saturday 2 November 2013

Breaking the Shackles

Last Sunday (27th October) I experienced a tidal wave of emotion that had been brewing since about one week after officially starting my blog and which grew to an almighty climax just hours after publicising it on facebook. I felt utterly raw and exposed Рscared to death of that fearful eye of judgement which might only come in the form of nonchalance, flippant clich̩s or dismissive silence, but would be enough to make me feel even further isolated from the world.

I seized this feeling of panic to do the only thing I could do given the momentum of my journey, already well underway. I decided to go and see my GP, my ever-supportive doctor who was there for us both the whole way through our ectopic and IVF saga. It was for this reason that I wanted to see him specifically and that I was practically sick with nerves, provoked by an overload of shame, before entering his room.  What if he made a casual remark about “still not being happy”? I didn’t think I could take it in my emotionally vulnerable position. But within seconds, I blurted out my “confession”, along with an eruption of tears. And from that point, I was able to chat quite calmly while he listened without emitting any air of criticism.

It might not seem like such a big deal, popping down the local surgery for a chat…but it was so much more than that. It was a sign that I felt ready to put my hand up and say, “I need help” and that I was willing to have this officially documented on my medical records. I very soon realised after that appointment that the help I really needed was simply to be heard and understood. We did discuss Cognitive Behavioural Therapy classes which I will attend with great interest in learning the techniques behind nurturing positive thought. But I know that the real key to this sense of liberation which is growing stronger inside me day by day is that I have finally found my voice.

A close friend of my parents wrote these poignant words to me before she had even read my blog:
“Dear Zoe….I will read with interest and even before doing so am admiring of your honesty and generosity in sharing your massive challenges with others. I am big into coming out as a way of claiming and declaiming our own truths and of ending speculation and assumptions.”
She then sent me an email the following day which I wanted to share with you all because it is far, far too special to keep to myself:
“You describe your struggles….the roller coaster….the joys and the blows…without holding back which is admirable. I think that you and your husband have found ways of making love that are untrammelled by stereotypes and although they may not correspond to the myths we are sold are actually part of an honest conversation. I have always thought of lovemaking as just another extension of loving communication…that doesn’t always or ever follow some prescribed recipe for pleasure. Take pleasure in the real.”

Upon reading these words, I burst into tears….beautiful, happy tears to have found someone able to perfectly articulate such a profound depth of understanding.  As time goes on I’m feeling increasingly nurtured and supported by YOU…..my readers. It means the world to me, knowing you are there and that you understand.

My mum sent me a text after having finished reading through my posts. She said: “I hope the three of you can feel my arms around you and hear a heart beating with love.” My eyes still well up with tears every time I think of her words – my beautiful, perceptive mother who feels my pain as her own.

For four years, I grieved the absence of a child. I hated myself and doubted myself as a loving wife for my inability to enjoy sexual intimacy. And now….I feel released, for I finally have the strength and courage to let myself grieve the loss of my womanhood and to speak out about what that means to me and to us as a couple. I know I will never fully recover from this loss. But by speaking out, I can live with love and truth in my heart. This dream is ours to keep.

Saturday 26 October 2013

National Infertility Awareness Week 2013

                               28th October - 3rd November
In an effort to support this wonderful campaign, I would like to share this poem written by Lysanne Sizoo from her beautiful book, 'Small Sparks of Life'.
This is for all the women out there who are suffering the bereavement of infertility and miscarriage, who might just need to hear the words, "I understand".

                      The Truth
What would you do if I told you the truth,
If I told you straight, I'm not feeling great.
Hi, how are you? I'm fine, and you?

How would you cope, would you know what to say
If I broke with the custom, would you go away?
Hi, how are you? I'm fine, and you?

My pain is not casual, not an "Oh not so good,"
I'm mourning the loss of my motherhood.
Hi, how are you? I'm fine, and you?

Would it shock you to see me dropping my mask
Behind which I hide my pain and my pride?
Hi, how are you? I'm fine, and you?

If only just someone would reach for my hand,
Just squeeze it and say, "I understand...
I see through your mask, the pain and the pride.
I understand why you needed to hide.
I see that behind that great happy smile
Is confusion and fear, but I am still here."

Just a squeeze in my hand, perhaps not even a word,
Just for someone to see how much I hurt."

For more details about this campaign, please click HERE.

Thursday 24 October 2013

Between the Sheets

I am approaching ovulation - a time of fluctuating degrees of anticipation and stress. I rarely talk to anyone but my husband about my anxieties that revolve around 'the bedroom'. Sex is private after all. Yet, when you are infertile and certainly in the midst of treatment, it is anything but private. Helen Adrienne wrote in her book "On Fertile Ground" that infertility treatment "feels dehumanizing.....your sex life and your menstrual cycle used to be nobody's business but yours. Why do your private parts need to be under the glare of fluorescent lights?" She writes about how "the formality of science [starts] to do something detrimental to the spontaneity and the meaning of sex."
Before egg collection during our second IVF cycle, I felt very emotional and actually burst into tears in front of the doctor just minutes before she was to carry out the procedure, not because I was scared of the anaesthetic or of the operation itself, but because it was just all so unnatural. I felt penned into this world of test tubes and laboratories and more and more ostracised from a world where sex was about casually jumping into bed the moment it took your fancy. I explained the reason for my upset to the doctor and her response was abhorrent. She vehemently denied that infertility treatment was unnatural and in a very brusque manner left me feeling ashamed of myself for not appreciating the marvels of modern medicine. I felt choked with sadness that someone, least of all a woman in her professional position could be so callous and unable to even assume the pretence of someone who cared.
I remember how carefree sex used to be with my husband before I became infertile, even in the days when we were using contraception because back then, we had that freedom to choose and there was no psychological barrier between our desire for each other and our desire to have each other's babies - because they're one and the same, aren't they? If ever I mentioned to friends how sex had taken a bit of a nose dive since becoming sterile, the response was always, "Oh your poor husband" or "Sex is about so much more than procreation. It's about showing your love for each other. It's about just having fun together." These statements tore me apart because I wanted so much to be able to show him my love in a physical way. But how could I when I had been stripped of all the components that had once made me feel like a real woman?
To this day, I still feel robbed of my womanhood. And I still struggle with sexual intimacy. We are working on it, slowly and gently. But it's not easy, especially in a world where sex is flaunted on the TV, in magazines and in real life almost as a means of conveying the merit of a relationship. Is it any wonder that as a society, we feel compelled to exaggerate about how often we 'do it'!
Susan Cooper writes in her article "Sex, Relationships and Infertility": "Couples parenting after infertility can certainly derive great pleasure from their sexual relationship, but it may always be a reminder of their infertility". Maybe it's true. Maybe I'll never be able to fully let go and accept our loss. Maybe I'll never have the self-confidence of my fertile years. But I think I should feel proud of myself for my progress so far in overcoming these personal struggles and equally proud of us both for continuing to survive one of the most difficult challenges a couple can face together.
During our previous IVF cycles I used to often hear people say, "Be kind to yourself. Be gentle and forgiving to yourself." It took a long time to learn how to interpret the vagueness of these words and put them into practice within my life. Right now, I think the kindest and most loving thing I can offer myself is reassurance in the belief that time will heal us both.

Monday 21 October 2013

Triggers

The word 'trigger' is something that I first heard of in the context of psychotherapy when I was reading a very helpful little book called 'Nurturing Yourself Through IVF' by Lynn Daley. I learned that a trigger is something, perhaps a comment, an incident/event or something you see on the TV that provokes an immediate reaction inside you that causes you to plunge into a downward spiral of negative thought which ultimately leads to a feeling of anxiety or depression.
During the IVF, I used to be acutely sensitised to these triggers on a constant basis. There were the obvious birth and pregnancy announcement triggers or seeing-ten-pregnant-ladies-in-the-space-of-five-minutes triggers. But I think it got to the point where almost every social interaction became a trigger. I was incredibly nervous about meeting people - friends and strangers, in case of certain comments or seemingly innocent remarks sparking off a panic attack. I felt alienated from the world, misunderstood and increasingly superstitious that someone 'up there' had it in for me, that I was being punished and I didn't know why. I chose to spend a lot of time on my own because that way, I felt safe and unthreatened and I was able to indulge in positive 'ME' therapy.
Triggers are still a regular part of my life. Sometimes they are very mild and I can deal with them with just a few inward positive words. Sometimes they are quite severe and I have to avail of all my 'tools' in order to get through them - self-therapy, tears (either on my own or on my husband's shoulder) and (time-permitting) my relaxation CD or some diary-writing. Often their level of intensity falls somewhere in between these two extremes. The difficulty is of course, that I am now a busy mother, so there isn't the same opportunity to indulge in looking after myself as before. But I have learned to become very disciplined about prioritising my mental health over housework and phone calls/emails etc. I believe a sane and happy mother/wife is more important than a spotless home and an up-to-date social diary.
Up to now I have given a general overview of  my personal experience of infertility and what it means to me living with this condition as a wife, mother and as a woman. I could talk about this topic "'til the cows come home" without repeating myself once and still have a lot more to say, for it is a vast and hugely complicated subject. From this point in my blog, I want to write with direct reference to the present day, using the occurrence of triggers to further discuss the emotional and psychological issues that I am quite sure, effect not only myself but a very large portion of the global population of infertile women.
Thank you again for listening and please do not hesitate to introduce my blog to anyone you think might be interested to read it and contribute in any way.

Thursday 17 October 2013

Looking Ahead

Since having stopped breast feeding at 11 and a half months, I've been feeling the procreative urges with increased strength every month. In my head though I feel conflicted. Part of me wants to at least begin to think about building our family and yet the other part doesn't feel ready to have another child because we are finally settling into some sort of 'new normality' and I am loathed to jeopardise that by putting us through all the fear and heartache of IVF again? Yet, what choice do we have? Most people want to provide at least one sibling for their first child. You often hear parents talk about how their family now "feels complete" having welcomed their second or even third child to the home. Why should we be any different?
I know several people who have decided to have their children close together. I comment to other friends on their madness to be throwing themselves into the stress of newborn and toddler mayhem. But really these comments are just a way to disguise my true feeling of jealousy - not of their life, nor even of their excitement about welcoming their newborn baby to the family in so many months time. No....my jealousy is quite simply of their freedom of choice, their apparent right to think of a plan, click their fingers and enjoy it magically transpire before their eyes.
I hate feeling jealous, least of all towards my friends. It is an ugly feeling. But I think it's also a natural response to infertility that unfortunately we feel we ought to suppress for fear of what people may think. It naturally leads to anger which, if not released, can cause all sorts of detrimental damage to relationships along the way. Expression of anger is often deemed as something negative for some reason, something we should try to avoid. But God, I think it's unbelievably cathartic. Sometimes all you need is ten minutes to 'blow off steam' about something to then be able to reach that point of feeling calm, rational and more willing to see the world from other people's points of view.
Right now we have no specific plan as to how to move forward in our efforts to make baby number 2. Our five year old nephew recently asked me why we only had one child. And it hurt, probably because it was the first time I'd heard the question directly aimed at us. It was a shocking jolt into our near future when I expect our little girl will start posing the exact same question. Only it will hurt so much more because we won't be able to escape her everyday longing for a little playmate, her very own brother or sister to grow up with.
I know I'm sounding pessimistic but I think I'm just psychologically trying to prepare myself for it not happening again for us. And I guess I'm also making the point that thinking of negative outcomes is the very grim reality of being infertile. It's all very well jollying us along with sure-minded 'prophecies' and hollow promises about our future. But how do you know? No-one does. And we're the ones that have to deal with that day in day out.
If we had time on our hands, I would probably want to wait until our little girl is at school before having another. At the moment because I'm at home with her, my whole life is consumed with her - and I love it. I find it hard to see past that. But I know that the time will come when I will have to let go a little bit. My heart will ache to see her go off to school and I fear for those days. So yes, it's time to at least start thinking.....
And part of that thinking process is to prepare ourselves for disappointment. Not only that, but to prepare ourselves for being bombarded with those well-meaning cliches: "Well, at least you're blessed with one....others aren't so lucky." This statement cuts to my core and wounds me so deeply I don't even know where to begin. I know I'm truly blessed. I know others have not even managed to create one child. Remember, I was there, looking the fear of potential childlessness directly in the face. My desire to make more babies is driven by a deep-rooted, primal instinct and also a longing to provide even more for that one, cherished child of ours. My fear is not of being unable to cope with the prospect of never holding another newborn baby and smelling its sweet downy head as it nuzzles against my breast. I can live without that because I have everything here that I want in my life. But my fear, my very deep fear is of being unable to live with that sense of failure, as a woman, as a mother and as a wife.
Most couples these days (certainly in the western world) choose to have two children and then they choose to use contraception or they choose to "be careful" or they choose to "see what happens". They choose! I never used to imagine wanting more than two children before I was hit with infertility. But I find myself already preparing for the wall of misunderstanding that awaits us if ever we are blessed with a second miracle, for the woman who wants that third or even forth baby is not greedy, nor ungrateful. She is simply the woman who wants the freedom to choose.

Monday 14 October 2013

Motherhood (Part 3)

Most mothers, whether they are fertile or not will be able to relate to some if not all of the difficulties I have mentioned in the previous two posts. As mothers, we all love our children unconditionally regardless of how they came to be here. I will never know what kind of a mother I would have become if infertility had not been a part of my life. But I feel certain that the 4 years of trauma and concentrated stress that precluded our arrival into parenthood (without a break for recovery in between!) had a hugely negative impact on our ability to let go and relax into our new and daunting roles.
In the early weeks and months, I was seized by a fiercely protective type of love...the type of love you can't really enjoy because it is so over-shadowed by fear. And to make matters worse, I relentlessly chastised myself for not being in a permanent state of blissed-out euphoria. Becoming a mother is hard, but I made it much much harder for myself by denying myself the right to think or utter any negative thoughts without feeling heavily laden with guilt.
Things have undoubtedly got easier. I still have my really bad days or my just-feeling-a-bit fed-up days...of course! Any mother does. But as the months have passed, I've gradually learned how to trust myself again. As a couple we have learned how to adapt to being in a 3-person relationship with our baby girl. And as a mother, I have learned how to slowly let go of fear to make room for love. Our tiny bundle, once so frighteningly helpless, is now becoming a beautiful little girl - a sheer miracle of life who has taught us how to laugh and smile again. During the IVF, I never allowed myself to imagine this far ahead. And yet, here we are, finally able to believe that this dream is ours to keep.

Motherhood (Part 2)

Another very challenging aspect of the early months of motherhood was all the unwanted advice! I felt so bombarded by well-meaning friends and family who were clearly compelled to share all their 'pearls of wisdom'. Being as we were, severely exhausted and consumed with self doubt as to whether we were doing things the 'right' way, it took all my energy and confidence to listen......and ignore! Because whether or not you do decide to take on board all or some or none of those 'pearls of wisdom', it is your path to discover. I remember reading from the book, 'What Mothers Do' by Naomi Stadlen that "most of the time, what mothers seem to want from each other is compassion - without any advice." She says that "silence often works better than words." "Rarely is it necessary to tell a mother what to do. It may demoralise her further, and certainly does not help her to learn. A mother needs to feel safe enough to risk feeling uncertain....A mother needs time to grow into motherhood, together with her partner. She needs to learn that some of her ideas work. The most uncertain and under-confidant beginner can gradually turn herself into a unique mother."
I would love to have had the nerve to quote these lines to some of the health visitors we met along the way, who were often so entrenched in their black and white theories of how to raise your child that they were oblivious to the fact that their so-called professional advice caused myself (and several other mothers I know) all manner of unnecessary stress.
I felt undermined and patronised during our 10 month developmental check-up after being told by our health visitor that I was giving our baby too much milk and that I should refrain from offering her milk in the night as it was a bit like "offering her a tasty slice of cake", thus perpetuating a behaviour of refusal to sleep until we had fulfilled her needs. Oh, how dare I fulfill her needs? How unnatural that our baby, not one year old should still crave a drink of milk in the night in the warm and comforting bosom of her mother or father?!
As much as we wanted a full unbroken night of even 5 or 6 hours sleep, we couldn't bring ourselves to let her cry without picking her up, not even for 10 seconds. I know several wonderful and extremely loving mothers who did manage to successfully do the gentle training method. Whether it was for their own sanity or perhaps for the preservation of their marriage, I'm not sure. I wouldn't dream of casting any judgement because we all have to find a way as a family that works best for ourselves. What I did find very discouraging though was the odd tactless comment to suggest that my decision to not sleep train might have been dictated by the fact that I was a full time stay-at-home mum. Our daughter is now almost 2 years old and I am still at home with her. Whilst I am aware that I do not have the same level of time pressure as a working mother, I do feel very strongly that stay-at-home mothers have an enormously challenging job that is both physically and mentally demanding.
Being a mother, regardless of whether you are at home full time or not is undoubtedly a role that deserves more respect within our chaotic modern world that to a large degree has lost touch with the importance of family life. Here is a wonderful quotation from the same book by Naomi Stadlen. I would highly recommend this to any new mother. Since our little one was 5 months old, it became my 'bedside bible' and to this day I still dip into it from time to time when I need a boost of morale:
"Taking trouble over a baby is definitely tiring and sleep depriving. But mothers could cope better if we all acknowledged how difficult and complex it can be. If a mother says she is short of sleep, this could be a sign not of her failure, but of how well she may be mothering. I believe that the real, dreadful quality of maternal tiredness is the mother's sense of struggling against prevailing disrespect. The baby may tire her, but we, if we aren't careful, can exhaust her."

Motherhood (Part 1)

I wish I could say motherhood has been a breeze and that all my anxieties blew over the second I lay eyes on our baby girl. But any mum or dad will tell you that becoming a parent is a huge shock. From the moment you leave the hospital you are thrown into an unfamiliar world of chaos. No amount of foresight can prepare you for the practical and psychological upheaval when this tiny bundle enters your life, so utterly helpless and reliant on your care and attention for its very survival.
I found breast feeding incredibly difficult as I was always so convinced that I could not supply enough milk. Our baby girl would scream relentlessly, then simply nibble and sleep on my breast. This pattern continued day and night, allowing me little or no time to rest myself. We eventually decided on a programme of feeding whereby she received (on a 3 hourly cycle) a combination of breast, formula milk and then a top-up of expressed breast milk (which I pumped while my husband fed the bottle). It was a challenging and exhausting regime (especially when my husband went back to work), but finally around week 7, our baby returned to her birth weight and at least a suggestion of sanity returned to our household.
I remember at one of the weighing clinics bumping into a lady I had met just twice before during my pregnancy and relaying to her the feeding difficulties that we had finally managed to overcome. In my fragile and emotionally vulnerable state, I was certainly not prepared for her comment which was that our baby was "obviously so much happier now to be on the formula" and that before, I was "just feeding her skimmed milk from my breast." I kept my composure (just!). But upon reaching the privacy of our car, crumpled into inconsolable tears, fired by rage that another woman.....another mother could be so cruelly insensitive, because the truth was, her words confirmed what I already thought of myself - that I was failing at the one thing every mother should be able to do for her own baby. This sense of disappointment in myself never left me and was especially hard as I knew so many mothers who managed to exclusively breast feed so well. But as the months wore on, I began to really love breast feeding our baby girl and although my milk only provided a portion of her daily intake, I was proud of myself to have persevered right the way through her first year.
When she was born, she was so small and delicate and by 3 weeks had gone down to a mere 5lb 9 ounces. In those early weeks I was petrified of accidentally causing her harm, perhaps by pressing my fingers too hard against her neck when pushing her on my breast for the latch, by manipulating her body the wrong way whilst attempting to get her dressed or by jiggling her to sleep too actively so that I may have jostled her head (even though I know I always held her very securely in my arms). I remember being so insanely sleep deprived when I was standing rocking her to sleep that if I dared to imagine dropping her through sheer exhaustion, I then became wracked with anxiety that it actually happened. These nightmarish fantasies reared their ugly head on a regular basis, causing even greater anxiety when I was actually feeling angry or frustrated inside. Even just feeling that negative emotion whilst holding her was enough to make me feel tormented by the idea that I had already caused her harm- albeit inside my head! Luckily the insanity of those early months wore off as I started to get more sleep....or perhaps get used to not getting sleep! I also think it was largely to do with just overcoming the fear of touching her, holding her and consequently allowing myself to slowly fall in love with her.

Friday 11 October 2013

The Nine Month Wait

We took the test at 03.45 on the 17th March 2011 - St. Patrick's Day! Within seconds the blue line appeared to signify that I was indeed pregnant. What a moment that was! I just burst into tears and clutched my husband, relieved and truly elated to have finally escaped the nightmare that had consumed us for so long.
But no sooner had we found out the wonderful news than I was already putting pressure on myself to just forget the past and move on. How could I? We had been through a life-changing trauma that had uprooted our whole world and thrown us into disarray. And so, pregnancy was never going to be easy. Right from day one, I lived in constant terror that our dream would be mercilessly snatched away from us at any moment. I practically cradled my belly like it was made from the finest porcelain. I panicked if I accidentally nudged into a shopping trolley or if our springer spaniel  jumped and pushed his paw even gently into my womb area. I only wore elasticated waistbands or chest high maternity trousers (even in the very early days) for fear that anything tight or low-cut would cause harm to our fetus.
We did actually have a nasty scare on week 11. I had a small bleed one evening - not a huge amount, but it was red and it was enough to throw me into an uncontrollable panic. Upon ringing the out of hours emergency number, my husband was told that we would just have to attend the Early Pregnancy Clinic the following morning as it was "such early days in the pregnancy". For 15 long hours, we feared the worst before we were able to be reassured with an ultrasound scan image of our tiny 11.5 week old baby bouncing around doing acrobatics inside me.
I continued to suffer from tremendous anxiety though, especially in the first 6 months. I remember when I was at 17 weeks, I flew into a raging anxiety attack because my husband had leant on my belly a little while I was lying down. He applied minimal pressure, but it took me several hours to convince myself that he hadn't unwittingly harmed our baby. I also used to spend stupid amounts of time obsessively googling for reassurance if I had happened to accidentally eat even a tiny smidgeon of one of the forbidden 'danger foods', not relaxing until I felt a little bubbly pop of movement inside me.
By the time I reached the third trimester, my levels of stress dissipated greatly because I could feel our baby kicking and moving about on a regular basis. Plus, it was comforting to reach that milestone whereby she could potentially survive if I were to go into premature labour. But despite these reassurances, I was never going to let go of the fear of losing her until she was safely in our arms.
One and a half days before our daughter's arrival, my waters broke in the most undramatic fashion. So undramatic in fact that it took twelve hours of assessments and monitoring with various different doctors and nurses to establish whether it was kick-off time or not! Sure enough, by lunch time the following day, our baby girl decided to begin her descent into the big wide world. I won't lie - within a few hours of back to back labour and with the help of a wonderfully supportive midwife, we opted for the epidural. For some reason I do feel the need to confess my lack of heroics....but then, I think I'd shown enough courage  by that point. Plus, I was just so emotionally (and physically) exhausted that the easier option seemed right for us. I also believe that, coming from the world of IVF, I had lost so much faith in my body and had become so reliant on drugs and close monitoring that I didn't have the confidence to do it any differently at this most crucial stage of our journey.
And so, after twelve hours of blissfully relaxed labour, during which time I slept, chatted, munched on cereal bars and listened to soothing tunes, our darling daughter was ready for the big 'push'. And push I did, like a "true Olympian"......apparently. My husband, the doctor and the midwife were like excited spectators at a 100 metre race, shouting and cheering words of encouragement while I pushed myself beetroot purple. Those minutes before our daughter's birth, whilst unheroically painless, were truly exhilerating and pumped with the adrenalin of impending joy. Before we knew it, she was pulled out from between my legs and placed on my naked breast - our perfectly exquisite baby who, against all odds, had come to be with us at last.

Thursday 10 October 2013

The Silver Lining of Infertility

I remember ages ago, not long after our first IVF failure, being asked directly by an acquaintance why it was that I felt so fearful and panicked as a result of my infertility. I was gobsmacked that I had to spell it out for her with a surface-level explanation. I think though she's not alone amongst the fertile world or indeed those who haven't yet experienced trauma in their lives. How can you know unless you've really been there? I think though it was the tone of the way in which she asked that galled me at the time.It was a tone of indifference, almost like she was saying in her head, "God, it's not that bad! Get over it!"
I think I used to feel guilty or narcissistic for wallowing in my emotion. After all, all you have to do is turn on the TV and you are immediately bombarded with stories about genocide, civil wars, famine and all sorts of global atrocities. It makes you think, "Here I am moaning about being infertile?! How can I be so selfish in the grand scheme of things and ungrateful for the fact that we are......well, alive!?"
However, contrary to these self-punishing sentiments, you will read at the beginning of most infertility websites something similar to the paragraph below. This particular excerpt is from a fact sheet written by Alice D. Domar for Resolve, the leading infertility association in the USA:
"Research has shown that women with infertility have the same levels of anxiety and depression as do women with cancer, heart disease and HIV+ status. While this may surprise some, it actually makes sense. Procreation is the strongest instinct in the animal kingdom. You are facing genetic and social pressure to have a baby. You are likely surrounded by friends, family, neighbours, co-workers and a society who can conceive easily. Infertility can be very lonely."
Whilst I cannot speak first-hand about the stress of cancer or any other life threatening diseases, I can wholeheartedly vouch for the fact that being infertile is quite simply, terrifying. Infertility is your personal crisis and I have come to realise that by minimising the experience you are unwittingly causing yourself detrimental psychological damage.
From the moment I regained consciousness after the operation to remove my second and last remaining fallopian tube, I was plunged deep into an abyss of severe anxiety. However, I initially ignored my grief and instead was doggedly determined to push forward, to find a solution. During this time, I careered dangerously close to insanity, developing compulsive hypochondria following the discovery of a small lump in my breast. Even after I was given the all-clear at the Breast Care Clinic, I was still wrought with worry, totally unable to see a future beyond death and doom.
But it was only after the failure of our first IVF cycle 8 months later that I allowed myself to fully pour out the heartbreak and fear that had been building inside me for so long. Back in October 2008, I became sterile. But with a glowing prognosis, we walked confidently into the world of IVF, assured in the knowledge that this was our answer. All of a sudden, our faith was crushed and we were totally lost at sea.
It's a long story as to how we finally arrived at our positive pregnancy test result. It took almost three and a half years from the point that I became sterile, during which time we rode the emotional rollercoaster of rising hope and shattered dreams over and over again.
But it's true what they say about a crisis in one's life. I read this in another fact sheet for Resolve, this time written by Susan Cooper on the subject of  'Sex, Relationships and Infertility'. She says:
"The Chinese have two definitions for the word 'crisis': danger and opportunity. Although infertility is not dangerous in the sense of being life threatening, the emotional pain that accompanies it can be threatening to one's marital and sexual relationship. Yet the opportunity for increased intimacy and growth is profound. If we avail ourselves of this opportunity, we will have discovered the silver lining behind the dark cloud of infertility."
I could not agree more. During our IVF era I tortured myself with guilt for the fact that I felt so empty and incomplete..... for the fact that I needed more than just the two of us. I needed to be a mummy and daddy together. Yet, the more desperately I longed for this, the more I hated myself for seemingly rejecting the very person with whom I wanted this dream to happen. I was trapped in an inescapable vicious circle of emotional guilt. But luckily, I felt able to confide in my husband and through complete openess and honesty about even the darkest thoughts that, in my mind placed enormous jeopardy on our marriage, we became closer and more emotionally connected than ever before.
I still felt troubled, scared and deeply heartbroken for us both. But at least I knew my husband would always be there to help me dispel that fear.
Since the moment of conceiving our baby girl, I locked myself into a box of denial and during this time, despite the arrival of our little bundle of joy, I pined for the level of intense intimacy that my husband and I shared during the 'dark days'. But since starting this blog and admitting that the pain of infertility has not left me, since feeling stronger in myself and more connected to the world around, I can feel my husband and I moulding back into place together. We are finding each other again. I knew we would because we have survived so much together. I love him and our little girl so much.

Tuesday 8 October 2013

My Menstrual Cycle

 Had a bit of an emotional panic attack today about my blog. Just felt a bit overwhelmed by what I am doing. ie) exposing myself and my innermost feelings to anyone and everyone who wants to listen! What if people don't understand? what if even my fellow infertile sufferers are not able to fully relate to what I have gone through and what I continue to go through? Then, I'd feel even more alone and ashamed of myself than ever. I had a bit of a cry when my husband got home from work. And I think that's all I needed really. Since then, I feel reassured that I am doing the right thing. It's that whole learned behaviour of hiding away that I am fighting against. Bugger the what ifs! It's true, there may be folk who just don't 'get it'. But it doesn't matter. It's about me being in control at last and not being afraid to tell it as it is.
Since becoming infertile, I have gradually over time become so familiar with the ups and downs of my menstrual cycle. In fact, I am acutely aware of it. I know that 2 or 3 days before my period I will feel quite bad-tempered...sometimes psychotic! (which is where I am now, hence the emotional attack earlier). I then calm down just before it starts. Day 1 of my period, I normally feel extremely relaxed, loved-up and quite horny. My sex drive increases at this point, but I often feel rather anxious on and off during the week after my period tails off. Then as ovulation gets closer and closer, my mood improves and my sex drive escalates. I feel really good mentally, confident in myself and very amorous with my husband. But immediately after ovulation, I slump! I feel moody and my sex drive plummets to minus figures and I often feel quite depressed. That's definitely my least favourite time of the month. Then as we get closer to my period arriving, my mood perks up a bit, as do my feelings of amorousness (not sure if that's a word...but you know what I mean). And so we're back to the beginning.
Isn't it ironic that a woman who is completely incapable of naturally conceiving actually knows her menstrual cycle better than the back of her hand?! Really it shouldn't matter. It should be irrelevant. But you see, everything is ticking along as normal. Each month my body continues to go through the process of preparing itself for a baby. The womb lining thickens and an egg is released. But of course, each month the egg dematerialises into nothing because it is unable to get through to my womb where there are millions of little sperm swimming ready and waiting in vain. The doors are closed. And so, approximately two weeks later, my uterus sheds its lining and makes preparation for another month of potential reproduction, little knowing that its efforts are futile.
My body goes through the motions every month. And despite everything, I too go through the motions. I don't mourn the loss of a baby when my period arrives - I'm not quite that insane. (Although I have been known to google the words 'pregnant no fallopian tubes'. It's amazing what you can find on the internet!) But I do feel very energised as ovulation approaches. I know all the tell-tale signs that I am ovulating. And even now, regardless of everything that has happened to me, I still feel excited, knowing that I'm ripe and ready, good to go for a bit of rampant baby-making. I know that it's hopeless, that I am psyching myself up for yet another explosion of heartbreak. But I can't help it. My body is dictating and I'm going with the flow.
How heart-wrenching it is every time to have the magic of procreation snatched away from us! Sex is a HUGE topic which I won't get into right now. Let's just say that living with infertility does create all sorts of complicated emotions that can have enormous repercussions on one's ability to fully enjoy physical intimacy. It's about feeling broken, damaged as a woman, lacking in femininity because you can't do that most basic and natural thing - make a baby. It's about feeling angry towards yourself (and others) and guilty that, as a wife, you shouldn't be so obsessively hung up on procreation.

Monday 7 October 2013

It's Good to Talk!

I feel so relieved to have started this blog site. I actually burst into tears on my husband's shoulder after I published the first post. What a huge relief to be finally admitting that I need to talk and that I'm ready! I've been consciously aware of my desperation to communicate the difficulties I still have with being infertile more and more lately. Even just a few words helps alleviate that awkwardness that you feel in company when you feel you're holding things back. That's what it's like being infertile, especially second time around - like you're hiding behind a pretence or like you're wearing a mask with a huge inane grin that says "Yes, honestly, everything is GREAT!"
OMG, what a relief to no longer feel so locked in by fear of what people may think. And the miraculous thing about all this honesty is that it fills you with a surge of good feeling, positivity and greater confidence in yourself. It's time to throw away all the shame, anger, guilt and fear that's all part & parcel of infertility.
During our ectopic pregnancies and our IVF treatments, I was always very open and honest with my husband and I'd talk and cry with him on a very regular basis, sometimes daily! This ability to talk freely with each other has undoubtedly strengthened our relationship along the way. But what I've found is that it's incredibly hard to maintain that level of intimacy when you become a mother.
Since becoming a mother (and probably since becoming pregnant) I have devised a new coping method for getting through my negative thoughts & feelings associated with infertility. I give myself self-therapy every day - sometimes even without my realising it consciously. I've convinced myself that this is a sign of my growing strength, the fact that I can console myself alone without having to 'bother' anyone, even my husband! But the truth is, my unwillingness to share the fact that it still hurts is to do with two factors - a lack of time because of my busy new life as a mother and also because I feel guilty and ashamed that I still feel this way.
Things have undoubtedly got easier since our little one has come along, especially since getting through the first year which we found very stressful indeed. Slowly our life is unfolding and blossoming day by day. She's our little jewel.
But it's still hard. And yes, it's great that I can give myself self-therapy....sometimes very effectively indeed. I've become something of a pro, I think! ;-) But the down side is I do a lot of bottling up. And my husband & I don't get the chance to communicate as much as we did before having our little girl when we had so much time to indulge in looking after each other. Often by the time we get a moment at the end of the day, I've kinda already sorted it in my head, even if that means having a cry on my own. And that's just not the same. I feel reluctant to offload on him these days because I feel I should be past all of that and God love him, he's heard it all 5000 times before!
But also, whilst I know it's important for my husband & I to maintain communication, I've come to realise (hence the blog) that it's about communicating to a wider audience - friends, family and beyond....
I read somewhere that secondary infertility is even more lonely than primary infertility. And in some ways I have to agree. But why does it have to stop there? I think that whether you are infertile with no children, 1 child, 2 children or even 3!!....you are still infertile. That's the thing you have to live with as a woman. It's like being blighted with an early, irreversible menopause - the curse of growing old before your time. How horrible to feel this way about yourself! (and apologies if any infertile men are reading this....I hope you understand that I am not dismissive of male factor infertility. It's just that I can only speak from my own persepective...as a woman.
I do feel strongly though that the way forward (for both men and women) is to talk......
So, I thank you in advance for being my listeners and I look forward to reading your contributions. Whether you know me or not, whether you are infertile or not, I am opening this out to you all.

Saturday 5 October 2013

Still Can't Accept It!

I still cannot accept I'm infertile! Back in 2008 after I had my second and last remaining fallopian tube removed, I remember feeling totally panicked every morning I woke up. It was like losing a loved one and having to re-remember the horror of their absence every day.
Five years down the line, I STILL feel that way. OK, it has got easier. Time subdues those raw emotions. And not to mention the fact that we now have a beautiful little girl who has just lit up our life.
But I am still infertile. I sometimes feel very scared that I am never going to be able to accept it. Like most people, we do want more children - another sibling/siblings for our little girl. Am I being greedy or ungrateful for wanting this privilege?
Infertility "wreaks havoc upon your sense of identity as a woman and as a couple" (as written in my profile). Who am I as a woman if I can't jump into my bed with my man and 'make babies'?
Sex, sex, sex!! It's why we're all here. It's how we all continue to be here. It's what makes mankind live on & on in this vast universe. I know, I'm getting a bit existential here.....but it's true. And being infertile does make me think about these things. It makes me feel like a useless cog within the wheel of life. We have our baby only because others were able to 'do it' for me...for us!
I'm convinced the key to my accepting infertility and being able to live with it is to come forward and to talk to people about what it means to me. Rather than cowering in shame because I feel it should no longer matter to me, I need to tell the world, "No actually....it bloody does matter - and this is why...."
I have spent hours upon hours trawling the net looking for blogs and forums to make me feel connected to other women going through the same thing. God knows, in desperation to alleviate my sense of isolation, I have googled just about every permutation of the emotional aspects of infertility, particularly for women who are point blank infertile (no ifs or maybes) and who also may be suffering in silence as they mother their one and truly cherished miracle baby. It's a tough old job being an infertile mother and I know I am not alone.
This is my way of reaching out. I am determined that through honest and open communication with fertile and infertile people alike, I will beat this insidiously debilitating disease.