It wasn’t a binding contract. But it was close. More than an assumption. A promise perhaps? And now that the promise is unfulfilled, is there anyone to sue? Anyone to blame? Myself perhaps in some ways for under-achieving, but that doesn’t do anything about the promise itself. That doesn’t stop generations to come from being sucked in. From living their life with the expectation that one day, they too will live happily ever after.
I can’t remember being a huge sucker for fairytales. I was more into stories of adventure. I think I bypassed the Disney Princesses (of today) and launched straight into Pippi Longstocking and Enid Blyton’s world of naughty girls, and of famous and secret sleuths.
I did, however, imbibe in my fair share of teenage romance novels and I did become a day-dreamer. There were even a few Mills and Boon novels thrown in, devoured while staying with grandparents. Was it the effect of these, or was it the long-standing promise I wonder. Either way, I developed expectations. And hopes and dreams.
The promise remains. We live our lives by it. That one day, we will find love. And that it will find us. We will have a family and live happily ever after. Even in today’s more temperate society it is expected. Gay couples – though not able to walk down the proverbial aisle – can have children and it is more and more usual to see blended families and those of various shapes and sizes in our communities.
What then of we singles? Generally through no choice of our own. There are times when we are discriminated against. Paying more for ‘one’ of things; not reaping some of the tax deductions which we have contributed to; assumptions made of our selfishness – having disregarded love and family to live frivolous and indulgent lives!
But the most painful thing for me is the broken promise. And even more so (I must admit), others perpetuating that promise in front of me. Sometimes it is akin to flaunting accidental pregnancies in front of someone who is infertile; basking in the glow of new love when a friend has had their heart broken; or cooking up a storm in front of a dieter. A slap in the face. Not on purpose, but a strike nonetheless.
Recent occasions stick in my mind. At Christmas my niece was talking about an old toy that she should give away, having grown ‘out’ of it. Her mother said that she needed to keep it so she could give it to her daughter. A dear friend recently wrote that she dreams of her son’s future wife.
Small things. Throwaway comments. These aren’t things said or done with any malice. They are said based on the assumption. That promise again.
I cried (in private) after the former incident. Similar things would have been said to me when I was young. It was always assumed that I too would have a child. Several probably. I definitely thought it would happen. But it hasn’t. For many reasons – some I am conscious of, and others I am not.
As a child, when I imagined my life, I was married to some wonderful man and I had a family. I didn’t think too much about my career. About divorce or infidelity. That wasn’t part of the fairytale. The fairytale ended where they walked off into the sunset.
Nevertheless – even with our changing society, our more flexible definition of families - we still aspire to the fairytale. We still assume the ultimate prize is to grow up (healthy and happy) to be in love (and loved) and to make a family.
It is important to have hopes and dreams for a future; something to look forward to. Would I have even wanted to grow up, had I known that ‘this’ existence would be my life? I am not sure. Perhaps I needed the fairytale, perhaps we all do. But maybe it shouldn’t be a promise; or an assumption. Perhaps the stories we tell our children shouldn’t hint at a utopia. Perhaps we should ensure they know that reality isn’t always as perfect as the fairytale. Whether the reality is influenced by fate, luck, or our own behaviour requires further exploration.
But in the interim, be careful of how you sell the promise; how you perpetuate the fairytale. It doesn’t always happen. And, if you have always believed the promise, the realization can be devastating.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Roadworks
I seem to have run out of steam. Last month I was ready and raring to go. After some discussion and consultation with friends, I had selected the donor and was ready to ‘procure’ the ampoule (ie. vial), take the necessary drugs and see what happened.
By no means was I feeling confident. I wasn’t expecting that ‘anything’ would have the first time. Or maybe even the second or third, or …….
But I was ready. I had stopped drinking alcohol and started my pregnancy multi-vitamins. I was forcing down vegetables and yoghurt, thinking for once, of someone other than myself and my own gratification when it came to food.
I had been on my ‘shake’ diet for over a month – with some results according to colleagues who noticed the difference. I was waning though. My parents had visited (always a chance to run amok), but I had the motivation to get back on track and to continue. I had already decided I try to lose weight over coming months – in the event I did become pregnant.
I have been very conscious that I am 41 years old. And overweight. Perhaps very much so. If I have a child, I will need to be fitter and healthier. Surely this was now enough motivation to continue.
Then I had a follow up appointment with my doctor. I have been on thyroid medication for years, and my last check was 12 months prior. I gather that the thyroid functioning can have some big (and bad) impacts on your pregnancy and a child. So, I went back for the results of my test (as well as my vitamin D and rubella levels).
My GP was interested to hear how things were going and happy and chatty as usual (which is possibly why she is always late and why I am charged for a ‘long’ visit each time I see her). I told her that I was about to start the fertility drugs and would be attempting to get pregnant ‘this’ cycle.
We agreed to change my thyroid medication. Then, the crunch – she wanted to take my blood pressure again. After the dismal reading the previous visit, I knew little would have changed. Again, after 6 reads we still didn’t get it to under 148/100. This was not good she said. So, she gave me a prescription for medication. And, she said she wanted me to see an obstetric physician. This person, she said, would look after me. Something which isn’t really the focus of the actual obstetrician.
I suspect this is all semantics and my GP wants to cover her butt. But, she said that she once had a woman who lost a baby at 36 weeks for no reason other than that the mother’s blood pressure became too high.
She said that, given I am paying so much money (and am not a spring chicken), we need to maximize my chances. I acknowledge this, but …..
So, I left with my prescriptions and referral. I wondered about the referral. What it would achieve. I also made an appointment to go back to get my blood pressure checked.
The next day, I called the obstetrician to advise that I wouldn’t be visiting them this month. The nurse reminded me that next month is Easter and so blood bank closures may mean it isn’t possible then either.
It feels worse than that though. I feels as if everything has lost momentum. I no longer think that this is actually happening (despite the fact I have paid for the donor sperm which is sitting somewhere waiting for me). The diet has gone out of the window, along with any sense of caring about my body.
It shouldn’t be this way. I should continue to be on the verge of the biggest thing that has ever happened in my life. But, instead I am despondent and uncertain. Not of my decision, that is one thing that I am sure about. That I want to have a child. I want to be a mother. That dream, however, just seems further and further out of my reach.
By no means was I feeling confident. I wasn’t expecting that ‘anything’ would have the first time. Or maybe even the second or third, or …….
But I was ready. I had stopped drinking alcohol and started my pregnancy multi-vitamins. I was forcing down vegetables and yoghurt, thinking for once, of someone other than myself and my own gratification when it came to food.
I had been on my ‘shake’ diet for over a month – with some results according to colleagues who noticed the difference. I was waning though. My parents had visited (always a chance to run amok), but I had the motivation to get back on track and to continue. I had already decided I try to lose weight over coming months – in the event I did become pregnant.
I have been very conscious that I am 41 years old. And overweight. Perhaps very much so. If I have a child, I will need to be fitter and healthier. Surely this was now enough motivation to continue.
Then I had a follow up appointment with my doctor. I have been on thyroid medication for years, and my last check was 12 months prior. I gather that the thyroid functioning can have some big (and bad) impacts on your pregnancy and a child. So, I went back for the results of my test (as well as my vitamin D and rubella levels).
My GP was interested to hear how things were going and happy and chatty as usual (which is possibly why she is always late and why I am charged for a ‘long’ visit each time I see her). I told her that I was about to start the fertility drugs and would be attempting to get pregnant ‘this’ cycle.
We agreed to change my thyroid medication. Then, the crunch – she wanted to take my blood pressure again. After the dismal reading the previous visit, I knew little would have changed. Again, after 6 reads we still didn’t get it to under 148/100. This was not good she said. So, she gave me a prescription for medication. And, she said she wanted me to see an obstetric physician. This person, she said, would look after me. Something which isn’t really the focus of the actual obstetrician.
I suspect this is all semantics and my GP wants to cover her butt. But, she said that she once had a woman who lost a baby at 36 weeks for no reason other than that the mother’s blood pressure became too high.
She said that, given I am paying so much money (and am not a spring chicken), we need to maximize my chances. I acknowledge this, but …..
So, I left with my prescriptions and referral. I wondered about the referral. What it would achieve. I also made an appointment to go back to get my blood pressure checked.
The next day, I called the obstetrician to advise that I wouldn’t be visiting them this month. The nurse reminded me that next month is Easter and so blood bank closures may mean it isn’t possible then either.
It feels worse than that though. I feels as if everything has lost momentum. I no longer think that this is actually happening (despite the fact I have paid for the donor sperm which is sitting somewhere waiting for me). The diet has gone out of the window, along with any sense of caring about my body.
It shouldn’t be this way. I should continue to be on the verge of the biggest thing that has ever happened in my life. But, instead I am despondent and uncertain. Not of my decision, that is one thing that I am sure about. That I want to have a child. I want to be a mother. That dream, however, just seems further and further out of my reach.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Untouched
It isn’t uncommon for me to feel tired and emotional as I head home from work at the end of the day. The trip home yesterday (however), was worse than usual. I didn’t feel well. I’d had a long day, had a headache and was tired, and… had a pilates class to go to before I could eat, sleep or just loll around feeling sorry for myself.
The bus was busy and I noticed the rather cute young man as he got on, before he came and sat next to me.
Normally I feel self-conscious when it comes to bus seating arrangements. I am not petite by any means, so I worry about whether I leave enough room on the seat for my neighbour as I cram myself against the side of the bus like a demented contortionist.
It was a slow trip. My neighbour pulled out a book. I lamented that I’d left my headphones at home and had nothing to read. But I was so tired, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.
About 15 minutes and barely any distance travelled, I looked down. Despite his ‘slacks’, I could tell he had nice legs.
They were long with his thighs reaching the seat in front. They weren’t narrow and they looked strong. Even encased in dark slacks.
I noticed his hands. That was when I almost lost it.
They weren’t amazing hands. But they were male hands.
I was completely overcome with a sense of loss. A loss for something I do not have and, in many ways, have never experienced. The sense of touch, of affection and of love.
For the next short while, I ached. Not for him specifically, but I yearned to reach out and touch his hand. Or for him to hold mine. The sensation, the desire was almost palpable. That sense of touch, of intimacy.
I wanted to cry. The tears hovered, but remained unshed, instead blurring my vision. In that moment I felt devastated. Completely alone and perhaps always to be so. I had only seen my niece the day before and we had hugged. Two weeks before I had seen my parents and I know we hugged.
But there, on that bus, and in that moment, I felt bereft of human contact, or more importantly, of love and affection. I longed to grab his hand, to feel his touch. To feel that contact.
A massage therapist once told me that it isn’t uncommon for female clients (those who are widowed or divorced in most cases) to cry when she massages them. The feeling of being ‘touched’ is more than a physical one. It also touches their heart and their soul.
In my darker moments I worry that I go through life untouched. An emotional wreck at times, but with a cold, unyielding, untrusting and unforgiving heart, set up to protect itself from others.
The bus was busy and I noticed the rather cute young man as he got on, before he came and sat next to me.
Normally I feel self-conscious when it comes to bus seating arrangements. I am not petite by any means, so I worry about whether I leave enough room on the seat for my neighbour as I cram myself against the side of the bus like a demented contortionist.
It was a slow trip. My neighbour pulled out a book. I lamented that I’d left my headphones at home and had nothing to read. But I was so tired, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.
About 15 minutes and barely any distance travelled, I looked down. Despite his ‘slacks’, I could tell he had nice legs.
They were long with his thighs reaching the seat in front. They weren’t narrow and they looked strong. Even encased in dark slacks.
I noticed his hands. That was when I almost lost it.
They weren’t amazing hands. But they were male hands.
I was completely overcome with a sense of loss. A loss for something I do not have and, in many ways, have never experienced. The sense of touch, of affection and of love.
For the next short while, I ached. Not for him specifically, but I yearned to reach out and touch his hand. Or for him to hold mine. The sensation, the desire was almost palpable. That sense of touch, of intimacy.
I wanted to cry. The tears hovered, but remained unshed, instead blurring my vision. In that moment I felt devastated. Completely alone and perhaps always to be so. I had only seen my niece the day before and we had hugged. Two weeks before I had seen my parents and I know we hugged.
But there, on that bus, and in that moment, I felt bereft of human contact, or more importantly, of love and affection. I longed to grab his hand, to feel his touch. To feel that contact.
A massage therapist once told me that it isn’t uncommon for female clients (those who are widowed or divorced in most cases) to cry when she massages them. The feeling of being ‘touched’ is more than a physical one. It also touches their heart and their soul.
In my darker moments I worry that I go through life untouched. An emotional wreck at times, but with a cold, unyielding, untrusting and unforgiving heart, set up to protect itself from others.
In the meantime, the bus trip continued and I sat there with my eyes glued to the hand next to me - tempting and teasing me at the same time. I tried to imagine the happiness, the pleasure, joy and comfort that a hand (in mine) could hold. But instead I was confronted with the solitude, isolation and lonlieness before me.
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Journey begins....
So, the journey (to quote Australian Idol, So You Think You Can Dance and Biggest Loser contestants) has started.
I won’t go into boring details, but the past two – three weeks have seen a bit of a flurry of activity on the ‘trying-to-have-a-baby’ front. No actual ‘action’ yet, but decisions made. For now, anyway.
It has been daunting. Following my last entry, I spent some time questioning my own motivation. “Is this really selfish?” (To want to have a child.) But, no one asks partnered-women that question. You don’t hear, “Oh my god, you are pregnant – you and your husband are such selfish beings!” So, I decided – for a change – not to worry about what anyone else is thinking. My support has come from surprising places.
I have now sat through appointments with my own GP and obstetrician, before joining the sperm donor register (as a recipient obviously?!). Joining this register involved a hefty fee and appointments with a nurse, psychologist and then – the one we have all been waiting for – the holder of the donor profiles …. the Register Coordinator. The latter happens to be a very lovely young woman who appreciated my sense of humour (and who wouldn’t you may ask) and was supportive and laid-back in her manner, oh, and (it seems) a font of information.
I had wondered about the difference between American and Australian donors, and probably should have asked sometime sooner. Apparently the sperm held on the former are far more…. ummm… virile. Hmph, I wonder if that dispels a number of myths about Aussie men?! But no, the reason is that American men can be paid to donate sperm, so there is more ‘in it’ for them. Obviously the clinics there can also then afford to send “only the best” (hopefully) over here. It is illegal to buy sperm in Australia, so Aussie men aren’t paid for their donations. Most would do it solely out of the goodness of their heart. While I gather things are slowly changing, it means that the donors on-hand aren’t quite as potent as their American counterparts. There are less to choose from and the clinics can’t afford to be fussy. The Coordinator tells me though, that this is changing as society changes.
For recipients it means that the costs vary significantly as you have to meet the costs involved. Obviously bringing the frozen vials from the US racks up a few dollars. Hence the (almost) $1000 cost. Whereas, you are only responsible for storage fees if you are buying the Australian vials. (Note I am saying vials, as there is only so many times I can bring myself to use the word – sperm – in one sitting!)
So, I left my appointments with a wad of donor information – including some photographs. The level of detail included on the American donor forms is amazing – from their stats (height, weight, facial features, high school GPA, SAT scores) to their interests, favourite authors to their motivation for donating. But, of particular interest is their essay to a future / potential child.
For me, it meant that the next step was to sit down, start sifting and ‘rating’. My criteria was simple. The donor needed to look like me (so a potential child will); and they needed to be someone that (had I been more fortunate) I would have been attracted to and interested in. Finally, because I have the ability to do an objective paper-based cull, I also discounted those who had a history of illness (cancer, heart disease) in their family.
I selected two with two maybes. I talked to some friends about my decision: the fair-haired doctor (what a walking cliché I am?!); a roman-nosed (!!) student with musical tendencies and lovely essay; a very tall outdoors-y type; or a guy who says he looks like Tom Cruise (although in his photo he has a very round head… but that could be a result of a very-tragic bowl haircut).
So, the decision (for attempt no.1) is made. I suspect it will take many attempts and may not ever happen. But, at least I am trying and that’s all I can do.
I won’t go into boring details, but the past two – three weeks have seen a bit of a flurry of activity on the ‘trying-to-have-a-baby’ front. No actual ‘action’ yet, but decisions made. For now, anyway.
It has been daunting. Following my last entry, I spent some time questioning my own motivation. “Is this really selfish?” (To want to have a child.) But, no one asks partnered-women that question. You don’t hear, “Oh my god, you are pregnant – you and your husband are such selfish beings!” So, I decided – for a change – not to worry about what anyone else is thinking. My support has come from surprising places.
I have now sat through appointments with my own GP and obstetrician, before joining the sperm donor register (as a recipient obviously?!). Joining this register involved a hefty fee and appointments with a nurse, psychologist and then – the one we have all been waiting for – the holder of the donor profiles …. the Register Coordinator. The latter happens to be a very lovely young woman who appreciated my sense of humour (and who wouldn’t you may ask) and was supportive and laid-back in her manner, oh, and (it seems) a font of information.
I had wondered about the difference between American and Australian donors, and probably should have asked sometime sooner. Apparently the sperm held on the former are far more…. ummm… virile. Hmph, I wonder if that dispels a number of myths about Aussie men?! But no, the reason is that American men can be paid to donate sperm, so there is more ‘in it’ for them. Obviously the clinics there can also then afford to send “only the best” (hopefully) over here. It is illegal to buy sperm in Australia, so Aussie men aren’t paid for their donations. Most would do it solely out of the goodness of their heart. While I gather things are slowly changing, it means that the donors on-hand aren’t quite as potent as their American counterparts. There are less to choose from and the clinics can’t afford to be fussy. The Coordinator tells me though, that this is changing as society changes.
For recipients it means that the costs vary significantly as you have to meet the costs involved. Obviously bringing the frozen vials from the US racks up a few dollars. Hence the (almost) $1000 cost. Whereas, you are only responsible for storage fees if you are buying the Australian vials. (Note I am saying vials, as there is only so many times I can bring myself to use the word – sperm – in one sitting!)
So, I left my appointments with a wad of donor information – including some photographs. The level of detail included on the American donor forms is amazing – from their stats (height, weight, facial features, high school GPA, SAT scores) to their interests, favourite authors to their motivation for donating. But, of particular interest is their essay to a future / potential child.
For me, it meant that the next step was to sit down, start sifting and ‘rating’. My criteria was simple. The donor needed to look like me (so a potential child will); and they needed to be someone that (had I been more fortunate) I would have been attracted to and interested in. Finally, because I have the ability to do an objective paper-based cull, I also discounted those who had a history of illness (cancer, heart disease) in their family.
I selected two with two maybes. I talked to some friends about my decision: the fair-haired doctor (what a walking cliché I am?!); a roman-nosed (!!) student with musical tendencies and lovely essay; a very tall outdoors-y type; or a guy who says he looks like Tom Cruise (although in his photo he has a very round head… but that could be a result of a very-tragic bowl haircut).
So, the decision (for attempt no.1) is made. I suspect it will take many attempts and may not ever happen. But, at least I am trying and that’s all I can do.
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