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.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Motherhood
I don’t think I would be a bad mother. I mean, I worry about being too self-obsessed, having high standards and about (unsuspectingly and unconsciously) transferring my own neuroses onto a child. But, I wouldn’t hit them, I wouldn’t berate them, I wouldn’t begrudge their existence. I would love them. I expect I would anyway. It is rare to meet someone who regrets having their children. Sure, I realize there are times when parents wish they could lie in on a weekend. Could watch television without interruption, or have a night out occasionally with friends. But, when I look around I mostly only see love. I only see parents who would give everything they have, including their own lives, for their children. I am sure I would be like that.
So why is it that some people don’t want me to be a mother? I don’t think they imagine I would be a bad mother. So, is it fair that I am unable to be a mother because I have no man to love me, to share my dream of parenthood and to impregnate me?
When I imagined my life it wasn’t like this. I wasn’t a single mid-level public servant spending her nights with books and television, paying off a mortgage single-handedly. I was married (or at least partnered, though most likely married in my young fantasies). I had an adoring husband and I had children. I probably also had a fulfilling career – of sorts. Though as a youngster I was never ambitious career-wise, other than teenage dreams of modeling, acting or writing.
But here I am. Forty-one years old and single. Forever single. After a lot of travel (and self-loathing), in my mid-thirties I decided to make a conscious effort to meet someone. A man out there also (even if unconsciously) looking for me. I went out to the pub only to find a few drunken win-ons (well two actually!). I went speed dating. I went to a couple of singles’ functions. I tried online dating. And yet. Here I am. Forty-one years old and single. In my darker moments I despair that I am unloved and unwanted. That I will always be. That I will never experience being in love, and being loved. I will forever yearn for intimacy – not just the physical type, but the more important type. The kind you get from someone who loves you and knows you. The real you. Again I want to ask if that is fair. It isn’t, but I am a contributor to that. I cannot feel rejected, because I have not met someone who I thought I could love, who I wanted to love.
But here I am. I have been waiting for love to find me. I have proactively sought it out. But now I am tired of looking and thinking about it.
But there was more to my dream than that. There was a family. I have never imagined that I would not have children. I have always loved children. I have waited, patiently, for the rest of my dream, so that children may come too. Of course, I realize it isn’t always that easy. For many women and families, children may never come – no matter how much they are desired.
I may sound like a petulant child. But, I don’t think it is fair that I cannot be a mother, that I cannot have a child, just because I have no husband. No partner. I have contemplated this for many years. I didn’t think it would come to this. But I have to make a decision. I am 41-years old. It may already be too late.
I have contemplated the financial implications. A single woman, working to pay off her mortgage. Can I afford to have a child? Can I even afford to get impregnated? What it keeps coming back to for me is…. cannot I afford not to try? Can I afford to reach 50, 60, 70 years of age and live constantly in regret of lost love. Love that was never experienced, but was there to give.
I cry as I write this. But the decision is no longer an emotional one. I have thought about this constantly. I have stressed over taking a 3-month old child to daycare at 7am; working all day. Picking them up at 6pm, tired and exhausted. Only to have the child cry through the night. Perhaps it would not be like this. But I expect the worst. My niece did not sleep through the night until she was 2-years old, so I suffer no delusions about a 2-month old child sleeping through the night. Perhaps I can take 6 months off work. I can downgrade my home. I can budget accordingly. After all, people with far less than I, make it happen.
So, despite everything, I have started the process. I now need to make some final decisions. How far am I prepared to go? Emotionally and financially, to make my dream a reality?
I am saddened by the lack of support from those who are supposed to provide it unconditionally. I have doting parents. My only valentine’s day card is from my mother who writes, “I am sure (and hope) that you know how very special you are to us. May your year be a special one and may you find joy and much satisfaction in all parts of your life.”
But, my mother has been unfailingly negative about this since I first raised it several years ago. I know she will come around. It isn’t ‘how’ I am doing it. But that I am doing it at all that worries her. Last night she told me that she hoped I realized that I would get no support from my brother and sister-in-law, and that my brother in fact asked her at Christmas to talk some sense into me on this issue. I am not sure whether their concerns relate to me being able to manage financially, or is about the burden of being a single parent. I cannot believe they would think that I have not considered these things in making my decision.
I had already decided not to tell my brother and sister-in-law anything until there is no going back. I am occasionally surprised by their support, but unlike my parents, they are rarely there for me on an emotional level. I never tend to count on them for that type of support. And, my brother is perhaps the one person in my life who I can love and hate with equal passion.
My friends, however, are unfalteringly there for me. They were surprised that I went through with the research and even made appointments. I am typically apathetic. But, this is different. This is important. This is my life.
The next step is the key one. It is the one where I take that leap. I don’t know what will happen after that. Perhaps nothing but disappointment and devastation. There will be no going back. But, at least there will be no regrets.
So why is it that some people don’t want me to be a mother? I don’t think they imagine I would be a bad mother. So, is it fair that I am unable to be a mother because I have no man to love me, to share my dream of parenthood and to impregnate me?
When I imagined my life it wasn’t like this. I wasn’t a single mid-level public servant spending her nights with books and television, paying off a mortgage single-handedly. I was married (or at least partnered, though most likely married in my young fantasies). I had an adoring husband and I had children. I probably also had a fulfilling career – of sorts. Though as a youngster I was never ambitious career-wise, other than teenage dreams of modeling, acting or writing.
But here I am. Forty-one years old and single. Forever single. After a lot of travel (and self-loathing), in my mid-thirties I decided to make a conscious effort to meet someone. A man out there also (even if unconsciously) looking for me. I went out to the pub only to find a few drunken win-ons (well two actually!). I went speed dating. I went to a couple of singles’ functions. I tried online dating. And yet. Here I am. Forty-one years old and single. In my darker moments I despair that I am unloved and unwanted. That I will always be. That I will never experience being in love, and being loved. I will forever yearn for intimacy – not just the physical type, but the more important type. The kind you get from someone who loves you and knows you. The real you. Again I want to ask if that is fair. It isn’t, but I am a contributor to that. I cannot feel rejected, because I have not met someone who I thought I could love, who I wanted to love.
But here I am. I have been waiting for love to find me. I have proactively sought it out. But now I am tired of looking and thinking about it.
But there was more to my dream than that. There was a family. I have never imagined that I would not have children. I have always loved children. I have waited, patiently, for the rest of my dream, so that children may come too. Of course, I realize it isn’t always that easy. For many women and families, children may never come – no matter how much they are desired.
I may sound like a petulant child. But, I don’t think it is fair that I cannot be a mother, that I cannot have a child, just because I have no husband. No partner. I have contemplated this for many years. I didn’t think it would come to this. But I have to make a decision. I am 41-years old. It may already be too late.
I have contemplated the financial implications. A single woman, working to pay off her mortgage. Can I afford to have a child? Can I even afford to get impregnated? What it keeps coming back to for me is…. cannot I afford not to try? Can I afford to reach 50, 60, 70 years of age and live constantly in regret of lost love. Love that was never experienced, but was there to give.
I cry as I write this. But the decision is no longer an emotional one. I have thought about this constantly. I have stressed over taking a 3-month old child to daycare at 7am; working all day. Picking them up at 6pm, tired and exhausted. Only to have the child cry through the night. Perhaps it would not be like this. But I expect the worst. My niece did not sleep through the night until she was 2-years old, so I suffer no delusions about a 2-month old child sleeping through the night. Perhaps I can take 6 months off work. I can downgrade my home. I can budget accordingly. After all, people with far less than I, make it happen.
So, despite everything, I have started the process. I now need to make some final decisions. How far am I prepared to go? Emotionally and financially, to make my dream a reality?
I am saddened by the lack of support from those who are supposed to provide it unconditionally. I have doting parents. My only valentine’s day card is from my mother who writes, “I am sure (and hope) that you know how very special you are to us. May your year be a special one and may you find joy and much satisfaction in all parts of your life.”
But, my mother has been unfailingly negative about this since I first raised it several years ago. I know she will come around. It isn’t ‘how’ I am doing it. But that I am doing it at all that worries her. Last night she told me that she hoped I realized that I would get no support from my brother and sister-in-law, and that my brother in fact asked her at Christmas to talk some sense into me on this issue. I am not sure whether their concerns relate to me being able to manage financially, or is about the burden of being a single parent. I cannot believe they would think that I have not considered these things in making my decision.
I had already decided not to tell my brother and sister-in-law anything until there is no going back. I am occasionally surprised by their support, but unlike my parents, they are rarely there for me on an emotional level. I never tend to count on them for that type of support. And, my brother is perhaps the one person in my life who I can love and hate with equal passion.
My friends, however, are unfalteringly there for me. They were surprised that I went through with the research and even made appointments. I am typically apathetic. But, this is different. This is important. This is my life.
The next step is the key one. It is the one where I take that leap. I don’t know what will happen after that. Perhaps nothing but disappointment and devastation. There will be no going back. But, at least there will be no regrets.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Benching the B-team: Eli, Army Wives & Gossip Girl
It happens all of the time in sport. The star players get injured, or have representative duties and it is up to the ‘second string/ to suit up and keep the momentum going. They often do a great job and give some of the stars a run for their money. But, inevitably, the star players come back and the b-team are benched – often with little recognition for having carried the load for a while.
It just isn’t fair. The bench-warmers have kept everything chugging along; have earned their stripes; have given their hearts and souls; but like the bridesmaids – it isn’t about them – they should know their place. They are there to keep the seats warm. Like I said, it isn’t fair.
I am similarly aggrieved at the disdainful treatment of off-season television shows.
Always concerned at what TV Executives might foist upon us unsuspecting viewers during summer (here in Australia), I await the non-ratings viewing offerings with skepticism. Of course, sometimes I am surprised. Last summer, for example, we were treated to the quite watchable Women’s Murder Club. This summer, along with the inevitable re-runs of the tried and true favourites and a myriad of reality shows about police, customs officers, surf lifesavers and doctors, we were offered Eli Stone, Gossip Girl, Army Wives and (very briefly) the Ex-Files –to name but a few.
Like previous years, we were inundated with promotions for these shows and sucked in to their storylines as they appeared, slotted in between cricket, tennis and golf. Like previous years, we came to care about these shows, the characters and then they were unceremoniously ripped from our lives as TV Execs return from their overseas holidays and as critics and pollsters wipe the sleep from their eyes and stretch, awakened from hibernation. Summer has ended. The ratings season has begun.
But what about us? What about Eli and his tumour, the Army Wives and the Gossip Girl? We are left hanging. Sure, we have the old favourites back. And, I do say “Yay!” for new episodes of House, Law & Order SVU etc, but… what about the B-team? What about those the bench-warmers who comforted us through those (stinking hot) summer nights only to disappear when the first string returned?
Those of us who study the TV Guide closely each week (ie. who have no lives) are able to track down some of these shows. Eli Stone (promoted obscenely over summer) now features at 10.30pm on a Tuesday. Women’s Murder Club can be found on a Friday night at 10.30pm. As for Army Wives, it is now on twice a week at the witching hour (favoured only by insomniacs and University students) of 12.30am.
So I say, “What about a duty of care Mr TV Executives (assuming they are – in the majority – all male… after all, how else do they justify the number of motor racing events we are subjected to on weekends)?”
Are they sadists? They dole out the opiate, addict us, and then cut us off cold-turkey without any consideration to the angst it can cause.
I mean, does (the chick whose name I don’t remember) track down the ex-lover who is her true love, as foretold by the clairvoyant in the Ex-Files? Whatever happened to Geena Davis’ Commander and Chief? And, if I couldn’t ‘google’, how would I know if Gossip Girl's Serena and Blair ever become besties again? I mean, does this torture know no bounds?
Sadly I suspect I have no sway with TV Execs or those who decide what we watch on television and when. I am but one voice, in a sea of others (who apparently watch cricket, A Current Affair and morning television). Instead I will remain comforted by the return of House and Dexter, but I refuse to be sucked in again. Next summer I will boycott television completely. No way am I going to be tempted by TV-offerings of some yet-to-be-made show, only to be forced into mourning its demise two months later.
It just isn’t fair. The bench-warmers have kept everything chugging along; have earned their stripes; have given their hearts and souls; but like the bridesmaids – it isn’t about them – they should know their place. They are there to keep the seats warm. Like I said, it isn’t fair.
I am similarly aggrieved at the disdainful treatment of off-season television shows.
Always concerned at what TV Executives might foist upon us unsuspecting viewers during summer (here in Australia), I await the non-ratings viewing offerings with skepticism. Of course, sometimes I am surprised. Last summer, for example, we were treated to the quite watchable Women’s Murder Club. This summer, along with the inevitable re-runs of the tried and true favourites and a myriad of reality shows about police, customs officers, surf lifesavers and doctors, we were offered Eli Stone, Gossip Girl, Army Wives and (very briefly) the Ex-Files –to name but a few.
Like previous years, we were inundated with promotions for these shows and sucked in to their storylines as they appeared, slotted in between cricket, tennis and golf. Like previous years, we came to care about these shows, the characters and then they were unceremoniously ripped from our lives as TV Execs return from their overseas holidays and as critics and pollsters wipe the sleep from their eyes and stretch, awakened from hibernation. Summer has ended. The ratings season has begun.
But what about us? What about Eli and his tumour, the Army Wives and the Gossip Girl? We are left hanging. Sure, we have the old favourites back. And, I do say “Yay!” for new episodes of House, Law & Order SVU etc, but… what about the B-team? What about those the bench-warmers who comforted us through those (stinking hot) summer nights only to disappear when the first string returned?
Those of us who study the TV Guide closely each week (ie. who have no lives) are able to track down some of these shows. Eli Stone (promoted obscenely over summer) now features at 10.30pm on a Tuesday. Women’s Murder Club can be found on a Friday night at 10.30pm. As for Army Wives, it is now on twice a week at the witching hour (favoured only by insomniacs and University students) of 12.30am.
So I say, “What about a duty of care Mr TV Executives (assuming they are – in the majority – all male… after all, how else do they justify the number of motor racing events we are subjected to on weekends)?”
Are they sadists? They dole out the opiate, addict us, and then cut us off cold-turkey without any consideration to the angst it can cause.
I mean, does (the chick whose name I don’t remember) track down the ex-lover who is her true love, as foretold by the clairvoyant in the Ex-Files? Whatever happened to Geena Davis’ Commander and Chief? And, if I couldn’t ‘google’, how would I know if Gossip Girl's Serena and Blair ever become besties again? I mean, does this torture know no bounds?
Sadly I suspect I have no sway with TV Execs or those who decide what we watch on television and when. I am but one voice, in a sea of others (who apparently watch cricket, A Current Affair and morning television). Instead I will remain comforted by the return of House and Dexter, but I refuse to be sucked in again. Next summer I will boycott television completely. No way am I going to be tempted by TV-offerings of some yet-to-be-made show, only to be forced into mourning its demise two months later.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Breaking up…
Is hard to do – or so the song goes. But what if you aren’t breaking up with a lover? What if you have to break up with someone else. Someone for whom you feel some sort of commitment or loyalty. Is that any different? Or is it any easier?
These are questions I am pondering, because I need to break up with someone. My hairdresser.
I feel quite a lot of angst about this because my hairdresser, Susan*, has been with me for a while now.
Don’t get me wrong though… I am no stranger to playing the field. I am no lilly-livered innocent. I have strayed before.
Several years ago, Susan and her husband moved away, and I loyally remained at the salon for a while before tiring of the constant turnover of staff. Fortunately for me at the time, her absence meant I didn’t feel traitorous when I moved to a handier trendy inner-city salon. Priced similarly to the old place, it came with a lot of bonuses – fabulous robes, great food, alcohol and a few minor celebrities. However, it was almost impossible to get into – even weeks in advance – and I have to admit, I didn’t feel sufficiently important enough to be remembered from visit to visit and often felt like I was supposed to be grateful to be allowed to even set foot in the door.
So, I decided I would find somewhere closer to my home and less expensive. There were a few hits and misses before I found a great place nearby that cost about half that of the earlier hairdressers.
I went there for almost two years. It was fairly small, but I appreciated the price and proximity. I ended up pretty much sticking to one hairdresser, who was good, though every time I left the salon he styled my hair in some frumpy middle-aged type bob. Despite my pleading each time, he kept doing it. Finally, on what became my last visit, I sat there and realised that he was pretty much just humouring me – feigning interest in my life. I know that for him it was just a job but I realised that he was actually the sort of guy who wasn’t terribly interested in what anyone else wanted or thought.
In the meantime I had received a letter and text message from my original hairdresser that my much-beloved Susan had returned. So, I decided that I would as well.
It was wonderful. As I opened the door bright and early that Saturday morning, she greeted me like a long-lost friend. Each time I visit she recalls what I said the previous visit and remembers aspects of my life – as I do hers. Now I am pretty sure she is like that with everyone (and I have in fact seen her in action), but it makes me feel ‘welcomed’ and comfortable with her. With her there, I belong. So what is my dilemma, you may ask?
For more than one year now, my hair has been very short. This means I have to visit the salon every 4-6 weeks and frankly – the hundreds of dollars it costs can sometimes be a bit of a strain and is a bit hard to justify as others tighten their belts. So, despite my feelings of loyalty and devotion to Susan, I need to break up with her. I need to go somewhere else!
I know the options seems obvious. I can: 1) let her know that I am going elsewhere and why (and I am sure she would understand; or 2) just go elsewhere and hope I don’t run into her at some point in the future (and live with the guilt!).
Easy really – cos obviously I would take option 2. But – and herein lies my problem – I don’t actually want to leave her.
The guy I disliked from the nearby (cheaper) place has since gone. I know I someone else there could probably to do as good a job as Susan. But, will I find someone who makes me feel as welcome, as appreciated and as loved.
So, this is what it all boils down to. While there is some loyalty and guilt at stake, I am dazzled by Susan’s effusive greetings and seemingly caring and attentive manner. The big question is – will I choose that sense of belonging, that attention, over my hip-pocket?
* Name changed to protect the innocent
These are questions I am pondering, because I need to break up with someone. My hairdresser.
I feel quite a lot of angst about this because my hairdresser, Susan*, has been with me for a while now.
Don’t get me wrong though… I am no stranger to playing the field. I am no lilly-livered innocent. I have strayed before.
Several years ago, Susan and her husband moved away, and I loyally remained at the salon for a while before tiring of the constant turnover of staff. Fortunately for me at the time, her absence meant I didn’t feel traitorous when I moved to a handier trendy inner-city salon. Priced similarly to the old place, it came with a lot of bonuses – fabulous robes, great food, alcohol and a few minor celebrities. However, it was almost impossible to get into – even weeks in advance – and I have to admit, I didn’t feel sufficiently important enough to be remembered from visit to visit and often felt like I was supposed to be grateful to be allowed to even set foot in the door.
So, I decided I would find somewhere closer to my home and less expensive. There were a few hits and misses before I found a great place nearby that cost about half that of the earlier hairdressers.
I went there for almost two years. It was fairly small, but I appreciated the price and proximity. I ended up pretty much sticking to one hairdresser, who was good, though every time I left the salon he styled my hair in some frumpy middle-aged type bob. Despite my pleading each time, he kept doing it. Finally, on what became my last visit, I sat there and realised that he was pretty much just humouring me – feigning interest in my life. I know that for him it was just a job but I realised that he was actually the sort of guy who wasn’t terribly interested in what anyone else wanted or thought.
In the meantime I had received a letter and text message from my original hairdresser that my much-beloved Susan had returned. So, I decided that I would as well.
It was wonderful. As I opened the door bright and early that Saturday morning, she greeted me like a long-lost friend. Each time I visit she recalls what I said the previous visit and remembers aspects of my life – as I do hers. Now I am pretty sure she is like that with everyone (and I have in fact seen her in action), but it makes me feel ‘welcomed’ and comfortable with her. With her there, I belong. So what is my dilemma, you may ask?
For more than one year now, my hair has been very short. This means I have to visit the salon every 4-6 weeks and frankly – the hundreds of dollars it costs can sometimes be a bit of a strain and is a bit hard to justify as others tighten their belts. So, despite my feelings of loyalty and devotion to Susan, I need to break up with her. I need to go somewhere else!
I know the options seems obvious. I can: 1) let her know that I am going elsewhere and why (and I am sure she would understand; or 2) just go elsewhere and hope I don’t run into her at some point in the future (and live with the guilt!).
Easy really – cos obviously I would take option 2. But – and herein lies my problem – I don’t actually want to leave her.
The guy I disliked from the nearby (cheaper) place has since gone. I know I someone else there could probably to do as good a job as Susan. But, will I find someone who makes me feel as welcome, as appreciated and as loved.
So, this is what it all boils down to. While there is some loyalty and guilt at stake, I am dazzled by Susan’s effusive greetings and seemingly caring and attentive manner. The big question is – will I choose that sense of belonging, that attention, over my hip-pocket?
* Name changed to protect the innocent
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