But please don't. Don't touch me. Don't come near me. It hurts to be touched, even a hug and, well, you smell. You fucking stink. Everyone smells. Everything stinks. I know you don't really (well, apart from you) but my sense of smell is so ridiculously overdeveloped that the natural, clean smell of a normal human body makes me want to Lecter my own fucking face off. To say I've had a rubbish first trimester would be an understatement.
My body seems to have read some textbook on pregnancy symptoms and decided to have them all. And then, as if to apologise for being so obvious and clichéd, it's added a few weird ones just for good measure.
I can handle being constantly knackered - knackered to the extent where typing this feels like I'm undertaking Iron Man training. I can handle having Norks of Agony which sometimes hurt so much that I have to sit topless because just wearing clothes is a nightmare. I can deal with scary discharge. I can even deal with everything stinking. What I can't handle is having a freak variant of Hyperemesis.
If you don't know what Hyperemesis is, it is most commonly non-stop vomiting, the inability to keep anything down, especially liquids and the possible need for hospitalisation, resulting in rapid weight loss, etc. Now, I've not got that and I'm so glad I don't. But what I do have is the lesser variety, which is 24-7 nausea. Nausea like mind-blowing seasickness every single bastard second of the day and night. And I have another, weirder and v rare side effect from this: because I have digestive problems anyway, the extra strain of the non-stop nausea has strained and bruised my stomach muscles and I am in crippling pain all the time. It is completely harmless to me and the baby, which is a relief, but there's nothing I can take to help it. I can't take the only anti-nausea drugs that would help cos of other medical probs, I can't be given hardcore painkillers of course, and I can't be given muscle relaxants for obvious reasons. So it's just me and my pain, strolling down the avenue, lalala. Well, not strolling, as I only manage to leave the flat once or possibly twice a week. It's that bad. Imagine someone kicking you in the top of the stomach with steel-capped boots. Imagine being stabbed there with a red-hot blade. Imagine the punch that killed Houdini. Then imagine that level of insane pain never letting up for nearly two months so far. I don't get an escape in my sleep - when I do manage to drop off despite the pain, I dream about zombies eating my guts, about being disembowelled by medieval torturers, about being a sailor on a ship in a terrible storm... you get the gist. On Sunday night, I woke M up with my writhing and moaning in agony. I was convulsing with the pain; the poor man thought I was miscarrying... or possible that an Alien was about to burst from my belly. I cry a lot with the pain. Sometimes I don't even realise until I notice that my face is wet. Sometimes I don't realise until I see M staring at me in impotent anguish. Sometimes he tears up himself looking at me shaking and hissing with the pain. I used to have period pains that were so bad that I ended up hospitalised and on a drip at least once a year, as they caused me to vomit black bile non-stop and convulse like I was fitting despite being fully conscious. At times, the pain in my gut is worse than that. At others, about the same. The nausea feels the same though; as though someone is doing a permanent Heimlich Manoeuvre on me and just licking my lips will trigger a spew. So all, in all, it's quite bad.
The real fucker about this freak bad luck is, however, that the only thing the Docs can suggest to help is eating rich, fairly fatty food, as it gives my digestion something to get stuck into. So, I am basically the only preggo in the world with Hyperemesis who puts weight on! How is that even fucking fair? I'm overweight already - if you're going to feel agonisingly sick every second of the day and be actually sick fairly often, you think that you might drop a few pounds. I'm not being a bit eating disordersy about it, but, as a chubber, it wouldn't have hurt to have lost a bit. Most people lose weight in the first trimester - yet here I am, suffering and slowly turning into Shamu.
Eating rich food helps a bit, but I'm still ravenously hungry all the time yet everything makes me sick. I can't touch a drop of water and can't drink anything until about 3pm. I have to follow a very strict and restrictive diet due to allergies, intolerances and digestive probs, which was limiting enough before I got pregnant, but now that virtually everything makes me feel suicidal at the thought of eating, it's a real nightmare. I currently on a nutritious regime of porridge, Sainsbury's Free From chicken nuggets and Appletiser (not all together, I hasten to add). All I crave is food I can't have. I want crusty french bread and Le Roule cheese. I want a thick, ice-cold chocolate shake. I want a Big Mac (I haven't had one since 1994!). I want minced beef Crispy Pancakes. I want Lucozade. I want the rainbow pudding they used to serve in my primary school. I want After Eight Mints. Above all, I want my Grandma D to cook for me; I want her amazing coconut buns, I want her cottage pie (specifically, I want the one she cooked after I came out of hospital when I was 3, following my tongue-tie operation), I want her to give me massively watered-down sherry in a tiny, fancy glass, I want her to cook a M&S chicken breast in dripping and an individual portion of moist, glistening stuffing just for me, and above all, I want her sherry trifle. God, her sherry trifle! Quite literally the most delicious thing in the history of the world. I can taste it now and I am salivating.
Sadly, my Grandma D died in 1990. She won't be cooking for me any time soon. The memory of her skill and her love will have to do (luckily, her cheekiness, eye for a bargain, outrageous fashion sense, refusal to take any shit and the ability to flirt with anyone and everyone live on in me too). Forgive me for this foray into sentimentality, but I'm very hormonal too!
So, I am suffering. and brilliantly, I don't care! I love this baby so much and every time I'm in really bad pain, I tell myself s/he is doing something really important for her/his development. I don't begrudge the baby one single second of pain. Although my dreams of having three kids are being hastily revised and not just because I am now 38. I don't know if I can cope with going through this again. Both me and M want 2 or 3, but I couldn't deal with this if I had a tot (or two) to look after whilst tolerating it. But there might be a solution - everyone keeps suggesting I'm having twins. Sorry, OMG_TWINZZZ!!!1!1!!!!11111!!!!111 From 10 weeks onwards, I have had a proper bump. You're not supposed to get any kid of noticeable tum until at least 14 weeks. Mine is not just a 'is she a bit fat or pregnant?' bump, it is a full-on, old-lady-grabbing-my-belly, strangers asking me when it's due bump. If it was this size and it was pure fat, it'd be hanging down like a flab apron, not sticking straight out. Even my belly button is getting shallow and I have a vivid bloody stretchmark already, FFS! Add to this the extra-bad nausea and fatigue and you have everyone making jokes about multiples. My Dad breezily told me yesterday that twins run in my Gran's family. Every book points out that twins are more likely the older you get. M's cousin has twins. My Mum got a bump earlier than most, but not this impressive. I am 12 weeks gone this Saturday (6th) and have my scan on Monday 15th November. I dunno if I want it to be twins or not - half of me thinks that after feeling this shit, I deserve a BOGOF instant family, but the rest of me thinks 'waaaaargh!' at the thought of how it'll ruin my body and lady parts (or I'd have to have a C-section, which scares the life out of me and my laparoscopy scar on my stomach has gone keloid, which doesn't bode well in terms of getting a cat flap fitted, does it?!) and how expensive, stressful and exhausting it'd be. We shall have to see.
Anyway, thanks for sticking with this rather rambling and very mememe post. I feel so rough that I'm in a bit of a haze and a bit disconnected from everything else. Am having a rare day of feeling only moderately shit, which is why I've managed to update here. I hope normal service resumes soon. Am also hoping that as my body has been textbook so far, then it'll be textbook about the morning sickness switching off at 12 weeks. Keep your fingers crossed for me!
Thursday 4 November 2010
Sunday 3 October 2010
Fuck You, I Won't Do What You Tell Me!
Sorry for not blogging in so long. Two things happened in short succession that knocked me for six for a while. Firstly, near the end of August, my GP refused to refer me for fertility treatment, as she (wrongly, it turns out) said that the age limit in our area had been dropped and I'm too cronely (plus other insulting reasons) and secondly, on the 10th September, I discovered that I AM PREGNANT!
Yes, I am full with child. Well, I am actually full of unrelenting mega-nausea and a fear of soft cheeses, but I am actually up the duff. Knocked up. Magically, fantastically, wonderfully pregnant! Fuck YOU, patronising Doctors and the Daily Heil, because 37 ain't too old after all!
I like to think it happened because I am the stubbornest bastard alive and no fucker tells ME I can't do or have something. I know it's not really, but thinking that makes the memories of TTC slightly more bearable.
Anyway, give us more info, absolutely no-one is asking. So, here goes:
The Bad News: 24th August, I rock up to the GP's surgery. Amazingly, only have to wait 15 mins despite there being no other patients in the waiting room or with the doctors. I take this as a good sign. I was wrong. First thing the LadyDoc - chosen because she is in her late 30s and childless, so I foolishly believed she could sympathise - tells me off for M not being with me. I show her the letter sent to me which asks me if I want to 'discuss a private matter' with a GP and that my 'partner can also attend, if he so wishes'. She somehow makes this obliqueness my fault and continues to berate me. Then she goes through a checklist of questions to see if I deserve fertility treatment, which I suspect were compiled by Richard Littlejohn. I can't remember them all, but they started at the fair-enough range, such as 'do you drink/smoke and if so, how much per day/week?' and quickly evolved into the absurd: 'Do you have existing children and if so, have any of them written a memoir about you that is currently in a BOGOF offer in the WH Smith misery lit section?'. 'Do you, or your partner, run an international child porn ring?' and finally, 'Hast thou bade the Devil to suckle from thy witch's teat and commanded thine maid Tituba to make poppets of the townsfolk whence upon you did pricke them with needles and causeth them to fall sick with the ague?'.
Disclaimer: the above might not correctly represent the actual questions posed.
Then we had the usual WTF Scales Shuffle. EVERY fucking time I am weighed by someone in the medical profession, they make me keep getting on and off several times, muttering 'no, that can't be right'. I always weigh miles more than I would appear to. When I was 17, I was still wearing age 10-12 children's clothes and I weighed over 9 stone. It's preposterous. My Dad and brother have the same issue (not wearing children's clothes, I hasten to add, just the weight Vs size disparity) - we just have incredible bone density. Now, I know I'm overweight, but it was a bit weird to be wearing a size 12 dress and leggings and a size 10 cardi whilst being told by a GP that I am 'technically' obese. Because this wasn't upsetting enough, she sought to console me by saying 'don't worry - you're too old now to be eligible for fertility treatment under our PCT, so your weight doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things'. As I tried to cry in the most dignified way I could muster, she explained to me that they'd changed the guidelines and women in my area have to be 37 at the time of their first appointment at a fertility clinic. As I would have to wait for my first appointment for a few months, I would just have turned 38 (end of Oct.), which fucked everything. She then, weirdly, said she was also refusing to mark down that neither me or M drink or smoke, as we couldn't 'prove' it. Erm, whaaa? As I was near my parents' home, I walked there and had a massive cry. As I said, I've now found out that the upper age limit in this area for FT is still 39 and that Docs have to take people's word for it about their lifestyles, so I dunno what the bitch's problem was, but hey ho.
I was, of course, devastated. I kept panicking that this meant I'd never have kids. We looked into the cost of private treatment but we couldn't afford it. Annoyingly, the GP's appointment was a Thursday and a few days before I was due to ovulate. M took the next day off work because he wanted to look after me, the treasure. It was perfect timing for shagtastic weekend but neither me or M felt our sexiest best, and we managed a single (tender, cuddly, sweet) sexy time on the Friday. And that was it. I got v angry at M for us not having sex more over that Ovulation Weekend, but, truth be told, I couldn't bear it. I was in a real state for the next week. That following Monday, I was actually scared I was having a breakdown: I kept crying and talking to myself - which I do anyway, but I also started laughing hysterically at nothing, as the grief was so immense and when I popped to the shops, I felt really bizarre and like I was invisible. M came home to find me rocking and talking absolute nonsense on the sofa and I think it was the genuine fear in his eyes that snapped me out of it (not suggesting that mental illness is easy to 'snap out of'). It was a horrific day, which I never want to repeat. That would probably have been the day when the 'magic' happened, so maybe that craziness was some biological reaction to the moment of conception, who knows!
I was very emotional and slightly hysterical after this, although thankfully just about sane. I reacted OTT to something a friend said online, which I deeply regret (so this is a public apology, of sorts). The next weekend, I had a mild asthma attack just doing some tidying up - this was very unusual for me. Although I have mild asthma, I don't even own an inhaler and there was no reason why I should've had such a crazy reaction to a touch of dust. I thought to myself, could this be a weird pregnancy thing, then told myself I was being mental, but breathlessness can be one of the earliest signs of pregnancy, I've since found out. That second week after ovulation, I felt really tired and drained, but I put it down to the fact that as soon as I found out how how my BMI was, I'd embarked on a hardcore diet and exercise programme.
Anyway, now onto the fun stuff! I've never gone longer than 11 days after ovulation without spotting starting, not even when I was young. When I got to the end of that eleventh day with zero gusset-ruin, I was so happy. I told M and we were both so chuffed that the acupuncture must be improving my cycle - that was the most we were hoping for! I was having some cramping and typical pre-menstrual breast pain, so wasn't too hopeful. Day 12 came... and went with no spotting. I allowed myself to get excited, for 2 reasons: 1) I wasn't getting any of the usual very minor signs that my period was imminent and 2) my menstrual cycle is usually only 26 days long and this was day 26 itself! My last cycle had only been 24 days long, so it was encouraging. This was a Thursday - 2 weeks after getting the knockback from Dr BitchWhore - and I started daydreaming of doing the test on Saturday and going to find M, saying, I have a surprise for you, then showing him the positive pregnancy test and him swirling me round in his arms, covering me with tearful kisses, etc., etc. (a long-held fantasy!). Then I woke up the next day, Friday, and there was still no spotting so I just bloody tested! I laid the piss-stick on the bathroom floor on some loo roll and went off for a few mins, turning my latop on, etc. I then walked back to the bathroom, all the time berating myself out loud for being daft. It went something like this: Oh, it's going to be negative, you're being stupid, you mustn't get your hopes up, look, it's clearly going to say... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ON A CUNTING BIKE!'. Ah, what dulcet tones and sublime words of profundity greeted the first moments of realising I was pregnant. I grabbed the stick - there were 2 pink lines; the second, the one that tells you it's a yes wasn't even faint - there was no denying it! Even so, I ran shaking and crying with joy to the kitchen window to check - yep, 2 strong pink lines! I then washed my hands and took some pictures of it! Then, I rang M. He should've just got into work (I hadn't woken up until about 8.45 am), but he was late and on his bike. I said, 'You know how I've been really unhappy because I haven't got a baby?' M: 'yeeeees?'. Me: 'Well, I'm the happiest person in the world right now - can you tell why?' And in the happiest, most terrified yet hopeful voice ever, he squeaked 'wh-wh-why?'. And so I told him. He was - and is - over the moon (rest of chat personal). I also rang him a few hours later to tell him I was still pregnant! Then I went to town and spent an entire afternoon just gazing at baby stuff - prams, tiny shoes, books, eeeeeverything. All the things that have made my heart spasm in agony previously, now bringing me so much joyful anticipation!
M rushed home later and wanted to see the piss-stick and its instructions to make sure it was true; after all this time, he couldn't bear either of us getting our hopes up for nothing. But it was true. It is true! Even now, it's only just sinking in. We spent an evening knowing this wonderful truth, just us, and then the next day, we told my parents. Apart from the fact I wanted to and am v close to them, they live nearby and my mother is one of those women who can tell everything about you with one glance (and she knew my period was due, as had been moaning about it to her). It was wonderful - I told them that I wanted to talk to them about contributing to the cost of IVF, which they had talked about with us... and then I told them I wanted nothing from them as I am pregnant. My Dad sat stunned, looking like his smile was going to rip his face off and my Mum burst into tears, went red and clapped her hands over her face, bending double with pure happiness. She had to go off and make unwanted drinks just to compose herself. To say they were overjoyed would be an overstatement. We spent a happy afternoon with them then we went home. Have told my closest online pals, who understand what's what and my brother, who lives in Amsterdam, but no-one else yet. M's parents live a long way away and aren't so mad keen on contact and, as you're not meant to tell people until after 12 weeks, M thought it'd be better to wait till then, 'just in case' and I agree. Doesn't mean my parents are more important, of course.
And here we are. This post is far too long already, so will be updating more on stuff more frequently, very soon. Just because I've got the thing I want most in the world hasn't stopped me being a big old whinger!
Oh, and my due date is @19th May. Put that one in yer diaries!
Yes, I am full with child. Well, I am actually full of unrelenting mega-nausea and a fear of soft cheeses, but I am actually up the duff. Knocked up. Magically, fantastically, wonderfully pregnant! Fuck YOU, patronising Doctors and the Daily Heil, because 37 ain't too old after all!
I like to think it happened because I am the stubbornest bastard alive and no fucker tells ME I can't do or have something. I know it's not really, but thinking that makes the memories of TTC slightly more bearable.
Anyway, give us more info, absolutely no-one is asking. So, here goes:
The Bad News: 24th August, I rock up to the GP's surgery. Amazingly, only have to wait 15 mins despite there being no other patients in the waiting room or with the doctors. I take this as a good sign. I was wrong. First thing the LadyDoc - chosen because she is in her late 30s and childless, so I foolishly believed she could sympathise - tells me off for M not being with me. I show her the letter sent to me which asks me if I want to 'discuss a private matter' with a GP and that my 'partner can also attend, if he so wishes'. She somehow makes this obliqueness my fault and continues to berate me. Then she goes through a checklist of questions to see if I deserve fertility treatment, which I suspect were compiled by Richard Littlejohn. I can't remember them all, but they started at the fair-enough range, such as 'do you drink/smoke and if so, how much per day/week?' and quickly evolved into the absurd: 'Do you have existing children and if so, have any of them written a memoir about you that is currently in a BOGOF offer in the WH Smith misery lit section?'. 'Do you, or your partner, run an international child porn ring?' and finally, 'Hast thou bade the Devil to suckle from thy witch's teat and commanded thine maid Tituba to make poppets of the townsfolk whence upon you did pricke them with needles and causeth them to fall sick with the ague?'.
Disclaimer: the above might not correctly represent the actual questions posed.
Then we had the usual WTF Scales Shuffle. EVERY fucking time I am weighed by someone in the medical profession, they make me keep getting on and off several times, muttering 'no, that can't be right'. I always weigh miles more than I would appear to. When I was 17, I was still wearing age 10-12 children's clothes and I weighed over 9 stone. It's preposterous. My Dad and brother have the same issue (not wearing children's clothes, I hasten to add, just the weight Vs size disparity) - we just have incredible bone density. Now, I know I'm overweight, but it was a bit weird to be wearing a size 12 dress and leggings and a size 10 cardi whilst being told by a GP that I am 'technically' obese. Because this wasn't upsetting enough, she sought to console me by saying 'don't worry - you're too old now to be eligible for fertility treatment under our PCT, so your weight doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things'. As I tried to cry in the most dignified way I could muster, she explained to me that they'd changed the guidelines and women in my area have to be 37 at the time of their first appointment at a fertility clinic. As I would have to wait for my first appointment for a few months, I would just have turned 38 (end of Oct.), which fucked everything. She then, weirdly, said she was also refusing to mark down that neither me or M drink or smoke, as we couldn't 'prove' it. Erm, whaaa? As I was near my parents' home, I walked there and had a massive cry. As I said, I've now found out that the upper age limit in this area for FT is still 39 and that Docs have to take people's word for it about their lifestyles, so I dunno what the bitch's problem was, but hey ho.
I was, of course, devastated. I kept panicking that this meant I'd never have kids. We looked into the cost of private treatment but we couldn't afford it. Annoyingly, the GP's appointment was a Thursday and a few days before I was due to ovulate. M took the next day off work because he wanted to look after me, the treasure. It was perfect timing for shagtastic weekend but neither me or M felt our sexiest best, and we managed a single (tender, cuddly, sweet) sexy time on the Friday. And that was it. I got v angry at M for us not having sex more over that Ovulation Weekend, but, truth be told, I couldn't bear it. I was in a real state for the next week. That following Monday, I was actually scared I was having a breakdown: I kept crying and talking to myself - which I do anyway, but I also started laughing hysterically at nothing, as the grief was so immense and when I popped to the shops, I felt really bizarre and like I was invisible. M came home to find me rocking and talking absolute nonsense on the sofa and I think it was the genuine fear in his eyes that snapped me out of it (not suggesting that mental illness is easy to 'snap out of'). It was a horrific day, which I never want to repeat. That would probably have been the day when the 'magic' happened, so maybe that craziness was some biological reaction to the moment of conception, who knows!
I was very emotional and slightly hysterical after this, although thankfully just about sane. I reacted OTT to something a friend said online, which I deeply regret (so this is a public apology, of sorts). The next weekend, I had a mild asthma attack just doing some tidying up - this was very unusual for me. Although I have mild asthma, I don't even own an inhaler and there was no reason why I should've had such a crazy reaction to a touch of dust. I thought to myself, could this be a weird pregnancy thing, then told myself I was being mental, but breathlessness can be one of the earliest signs of pregnancy, I've since found out. That second week after ovulation, I felt really tired and drained, but I put it down to the fact that as soon as I found out how how my BMI was, I'd embarked on a hardcore diet and exercise programme.
Anyway, now onto the fun stuff! I've never gone longer than 11 days after ovulation without spotting starting, not even when I was young. When I got to the end of that eleventh day with zero gusset-ruin, I was so happy. I told M and we were both so chuffed that the acupuncture must be improving my cycle - that was the most we were hoping for! I was having some cramping and typical pre-menstrual breast pain, so wasn't too hopeful. Day 12 came... and went with no spotting. I allowed myself to get excited, for 2 reasons: 1) I wasn't getting any of the usual very minor signs that my period was imminent and 2) my menstrual cycle is usually only 26 days long and this was day 26 itself! My last cycle had only been 24 days long, so it was encouraging. This was a Thursday - 2 weeks after getting the knockback from Dr BitchWhore - and I started daydreaming of doing the test on Saturday and going to find M, saying, I have a surprise for you, then showing him the positive pregnancy test and him swirling me round in his arms, covering me with tearful kisses, etc., etc. (a long-held fantasy!). Then I woke up the next day, Friday, and there was still no spotting so I just bloody tested! I laid the piss-stick on the bathroom floor on some loo roll and went off for a few mins, turning my latop on, etc. I then walked back to the bathroom, all the time berating myself out loud for being daft. It went something like this: Oh, it's going to be negative, you're being stupid, you mustn't get your hopes up, look, it's clearly going to say... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ON A CUNTING BIKE!'. Ah, what dulcet tones and sublime words of profundity greeted the first moments of realising I was pregnant. I grabbed the stick - there were 2 pink lines; the second, the one that tells you it's a yes wasn't even faint - there was no denying it! Even so, I ran shaking and crying with joy to the kitchen window to check - yep, 2 strong pink lines! I then washed my hands and took some pictures of it! Then, I rang M. He should've just got into work (I hadn't woken up until about 8.45 am), but he was late and on his bike. I said, 'You know how I've been really unhappy because I haven't got a baby?' M: 'yeeeees?'. Me: 'Well, I'm the happiest person in the world right now - can you tell why?' And in the happiest, most terrified yet hopeful voice ever, he squeaked 'wh-wh-why?'. And so I told him. He was - and is - over the moon (rest of chat personal). I also rang him a few hours later to tell him I was still pregnant! Then I went to town and spent an entire afternoon just gazing at baby stuff - prams, tiny shoes, books, eeeeeverything. All the things that have made my heart spasm in agony previously, now bringing me so much joyful anticipation!
M rushed home later and wanted to see the piss-stick and its instructions to make sure it was true; after all this time, he couldn't bear either of us getting our hopes up for nothing. But it was true. It is true! Even now, it's only just sinking in. We spent an evening knowing this wonderful truth, just us, and then the next day, we told my parents. Apart from the fact I wanted to and am v close to them, they live nearby and my mother is one of those women who can tell everything about you with one glance (and she knew my period was due, as had been moaning about it to her). It was wonderful - I told them that I wanted to talk to them about contributing to the cost of IVF, which they had talked about with us... and then I told them I wanted nothing from them as I am pregnant. My Dad sat stunned, looking like his smile was going to rip his face off and my Mum burst into tears, went red and clapped her hands over her face, bending double with pure happiness. She had to go off and make unwanted drinks just to compose herself. To say they were overjoyed would be an overstatement. We spent a happy afternoon with them then we went home. Have told my closest online pals, who understand what's what and my brother, who lives in Amsterdam, but no-one else yet. M's parents live a long way away and aren't so mad keen on contact and, as you're not meant to tell people until after 12 weeks, M thought it'd be better to wait till then, 'just in case' and I agree. Doesn't mean my parents are more important, of course.
And here we are. This post is far too long already, so will be updating more on stuff more frequently, very soon. Just because I've got the thing I want most in the world hasn't stopped me being a big old whinger!
Oh, and my due date is @19th May. Put that one in yer diaries!
Thursday 19 August 2010
On The Outside Looking In...
When you want to get pregnant but it ain't 'appening, eeeeeeeverybody in the world seems to be pregnant except for you. And I mean everybody. It isn't my imagination or a form of hysteria; I have been researching the problem and can now conclusively reveal to you a selection of the lucky bastards who are currently pregnant whilst I'm not. The following list is based entirely on fact, logic and rigid research.
People who are pregnant and I’m not: every other woman alive between the ages of 10 and 60 (but especially teenagers; heavily pregnant teenagers smoking and drinking WKD at the bus stop outside my window), men, centenarians, children, babies, foetuses in utero, child pageant contestants, Chelsea Pensioners, that Sikh marathon runner who’s, like, 93 or summink, eunuchs, hermaphrodites, angels, vampires, zombies, werewolfs, mermaids, fairies, pixies, elves, goblins, hobgoblins, sprites, selkies, ghosts, unicorns, trolls, The Loch Ness Moster, Cthulu, Godzooki, Scrappy Doo, The Singing Ringing Tree, Rameses II, Crystal Tips and Alistair, Parsley The Lion, Wilf Lunn, Noseybonk, Metal Mickey, Joe Dolce, Su Pollard, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, all the crows that Kiora is too orangey for, Ricky Tomlinson, Ronald Reagan, Suri Cruise, Noggin The Nog, Champion The Wonder Horse, Winston Churchill, the Smash aliens, Eamonn Holmes, RuPaul, Bouncer from Neighbours, Ralph Fiennes, The Flumps, Karen Carpenter, Bongo, Rory, Twanger but not Boots, Hume Cronyn, the aspidistra from The Adventure Game, Marti Feldman, Louis XIV, Princess Diana, Bryan Cant, Douglas Fairbanks Jr, Zeus, all the PG Tips chimps, the Jolly Green Giant, Gok Wan, Mrs Thatcher, Nono (the robot from Ulysses 31), the New Shmoo, Barbapapa, Babar The Elephant, Barbara Windsor, Barbara Cartland, Barbara Woodhouse, the Tourette’s one out of Battle of The Planets, Andrea Dworkin, Muriel Spark, Nigel Slater, Wee Jimmy Krankee, Jane Austen, the sausage from the old Grange hill credits, Beryl Reid, Barney Rubble, Willy Wonka, Tufty the road safety squirrel, Ron Jeremy, Myra Hindley, Gilgamesh, Dr Legg, Miss Haversham, Jimmy Corkhill, Chaucer, the Girl’s World head, Michael Palin, Simon Weston, Peter Sutcliffe, Bill Hicks, Evelyn Waugh, Richard Dawkins, Dizzee Rascal, the Andrex puppy, Barry Scott (rudimentary IVF via a hollowed-out Cillit Bang bottle), the Shake ‘n’ Vac woman, Lena Zavaroni, Rosa Parks, Penelope Keith, J R Hartley, Hufty from The Word, Trevor Mc Donald, the Staypuft Marshmallow Man, Ducky from Pretty in Pink, Dogtanian, the Terminator (all models), Portland Bill, Mrs Spoon, Heggarty Haggerty, Miffy, Meg and Mog, Grotbags, Vince Vaughn, Elizabeth Bennett, Gandalf, Winston Smith, Percy Bysse Shelley, Pac Man, Jesus, Hitler, Marie Curie, Eleanor of Acquitaine, Fred West, Betty White, Jim Henson, Emmeline Pankhurst, My Neighbour Totoro, My Neighbour Annoying 4am Techno Man, Roland Rat, Herbie, Big Ben, Mr Ben, Ben Nevis, Winnie The Pooh, Joey Deacon and Keith Chegwin.
To name but a few.
Wednesday 18 August 2010
The Facts of Life
Right. Well. Seeing as this is a blog about my quest for to put a baybee in my tumtum, I better get some facts and figures out of the way, thus leaving me free to whine, bitch and moan in all future posts without constantly reiterating info (although I probably still will).
Now then, because I am a contrary and obstreperous bugger (what, I believe, Americans might call ‘ornery’) and my body follows suit, delighting in being deliberately perverse, this is not going to be a blog about how I have loads of medical things wrong with my reproductive system. Ho no; not for me the predictable woes and conditions of the 35+ female desperate to conceive, because I always have to be bloody different. I have abso-sodding-lutely nothing wrong with my reproductive system or fertility. If I had a child for every time a Doctor or specialist has told me how much more fertile I am than other women and how they can’t understand why I’m not getting pregnant then, well, I’d probably be being interviewed right now for multiple tacky tabloid ‘n’ trash mag articles about ‘Britain’s Biggest Families’ (except I wouldn’t). Yes, I might be 37, but all my test results are those of a woman 10 years my junior.
The worst test result I’ve got so far was ‘average’; everything else has been ‘superb’, ‘remarkable’, ‘surprising’ (in a good way) and ‘excellent’. I’ve even had a laparoscopy (keyhole surgery to check out yer wimminz' bits) and was told my womb was ‘flawless’ (absolutely flawless) and my fallopian tubes some of the most patent (ie open and ready for gripping sperm-meets-egg action) they’ve ever seen. Plus, there is no history of any fertility problems on the female side of my family (not so much as a miscarriage), they all started the menopause late or textbook-perfect age and all my female ancestors apart from my mother have all had children in their 40s. My periods are regular and I ovulate every single month and have a good egg supply left. My partner, M, is 28 *does funky Cougar Dance* and his semen analysis test results came higher than average. And yes, we are doing rude things regularly in the right hole at the right time. Neither of us have ever smoked, I am teetotal and M has about 5 small bottles of cider a year, I have IBS and food allergies so eat a very strict and healthy lifestyle (including the fact that I don’t consume any form of sugar or sweetener, not even honey) and he is one of those skinny weirdos who loves vegetables more than anything else and I am allergic to caffeine and hate coffee anyway and he has switched to decaff. We only use eco products around our home and toiletries-wise (if you discount my love of spendy make-up). Christ, we’re boring. So now, after a year of trying, I/we have the rubbish diagnosis of ‘Unexplained Infertility’.
This basically means that no-one has a fucking clue as to why I don’t look like a porpoise in maternity dungarees right now. I have been seeing an acupuncturist - Needles, as I call her - for nearly 4 months and here is what we think the problems are:
1) I have really shit health otherwise. An Endocrinal disorder that doesn't threaten my life or anything, but make me low-level bleeeeurgh all the time. And, brilliantly, means it'd be too dangerous for me to ever have IVF drugs. Oh yes, when I say that my body always has to be awkward and different, I ain't messin' around. It takes contrariness to a whole new (desperate) plane. My body is the Cyrano of all cutting-off-nose-to-spite-face-nesses.
2) I’ve just found out that my oestrogen is too high in the luteal phase (the bit after ovulation leading up to your period). This means that the womb is confused as to what it should be doing - ‘am I leading up to ovulation or am I building a lining up so that a fertilised egg can take hold? WTF is going on?’ - as oestrogen should be high leading up to ovulation and then drop away afterwards to let progesterone take over, fact fans. This shouldn’t ruin my chances, but doesn’t help and sorting it out involves all sort of lifestyle things which, as I have detailed above, I already do, so things on this score are a bit confusing at the mo.
And the one I personally worry about all the time:
3) I’m ‘a bit’ overweight. I was slightly overweight before we started trying for a baby (because I was starting to get mental with broodiness then and ate my way through it) and have managed to put on just over a stone. Always helpful. This is a combo of eating when depressed and - and I have the good grace to be ashamed of being this neurotic/self-defeating - I haven’t really tried dieting and have limited the exercise I was doing because you always read in fertility guides that you shouldn’t have a restricted diet (which I already do anyway) and that after you ovulate you shouldn’t do lots of exercise in case you’ve got preggers and... I dunno - it knocks ‘it’ loose or summat? I can’t even remember now. Add to this Chinese Medicine advising you to do absolutely fuck-all when you’re on your period and you have a recipe for making a slightly chubby, slightly lazy neurotic woman into a properly-chubby, properly-lazy neurotic woman. I would like to point out that I’m not huge - I don’t require a disability scooter or ‘reaching stick’ just yet. I can fit into normal sizes (not even the biggest) in normal high street stores like Topshop, etc., but I am 2 dress sizes bigger than I used to be. Thankfully/sadly, that used to be a thin one.
And lastly:
4) Being so fucking neurotic and anxious and wanting a baby so fucking much that I’m stressing myself into infertility. Every cunt - and I mean every cunt - thinks they’re being helpful telling you that to ‘relax and it’ll happen’, not realising that the fury over incredibly unhelpful, insensitive, pointless and patronising comments like that create more stress than just about anything else on earth. As if things were that easy! As if you don’t hate yourself enough already! Let’s add guilt over farkin’ emotions to the deal! Now I can feel anxious about feeling anxious - joy!
Oh, these idiots, who have either all got pregnant/got someone pregnant effortlessly when young or who have never even tried, themselves, to conceive, are so quick to tell you how easy it is to get pregnant if you just chill out a bit, but not a one of them has any advice about what you’re supposed to do instead of worrying, panicking and feeling sad when you’re v old, reproductive-wise, keep on being heartbroken month after month after month, virtually every advert, tv show and film has families and babies in them, everywhere you go there are babies and little kids and the media constantly bombards you with scare stories about female fertility, making you feel like you’re a monster for not being Mrs 1950s Housewife, etc., etc.
And believe me, I’ve asked. I am that arsey git who challenges people when they come out with blithe platitudes that hurt. And guess what? They never have any reply. Their answers are just to make themselves feel better, not you. And it’s irrelevant that the only thing that could actually make you feel better is seeing 2 lines appear on a test stick you’ve just pissed on...
So. There we go. Clear as mud. Boring as fuck. Self-pitying as hell. Now you know all that, I can get on with the fun whinging. Hmmmm, ‘fun whinging’ - isn’t that basically the purpose of all blogs?!
Now then, because I am a contrary and obstreperous bugger (what, I believe, Americans might call ‘ornery’) and my body follows suit, delighting in being deliberately perverse, this is not going to be a blog about how I have loads of medical things wrong with my reproductive system. Ho no; not for me the predictable woes and conditions of the 35+ female desperate to conceive, because I always have to be bloody different. I have abso-sodding-lutely nothing wrong with my reproductive system or fertility. If I had a child for every time a Doctor or specialist has told me how much more fertile I am than other women and how they can’t understand why I’m not getting pregnant then, well, I’d probably be being interviewed right now for multiple tacky tabloid ‘n’ trash mag articles about ‘Britain’s Biggest Families’ (except I wouldn’t). Yes, I might be 37, but all my test results are those of a woman 10 years my junior.
The worst test result I’ve got so far was ‘average’; everything else has been ‘superb’, ‘remarkable’, ‘surprising’ (in a good way) and ‘excellent’. I’ve even had a laparoscopy (keyhole surgery to check out yer wimminz' bits) and was told my womb was ‘flawless’ (absolutely flawless) and my fallopian tubes some of the most patent (ie open and ready for gripping sperm-meets-egg action) they’ve ever seen. Plus, there is no history of any fertility problems on the female side of my family (not so much as a miscarriage), they all started the menopause late or textbook-perfect age and all my female ancestors apart from my mother have all had children in their 40s. My periods are regular and I ovulate every single month and have a good egg supply left. My partner, M, is 28 *does funky Cougar Dance* and his semen analysis test results came higher than average. And yes, we are doing rude things regularly in the right hole at the right time. Neither of us have ever smoked, I am teetotal and M has about 5 small bottles of cider a year, I have IBS and food allergies so eat a very strict and healthy lifestyle (including the fact that I don’t consume any form of sugar or sweetener, not even honey) and he is one of those skinny weirdos who loves vegetables more than anything else and I am allergic to caffeine and hate coffee anyway and he has switched to decaff. We only use eco products around our home and toiletries-wise (if you discount my love of spendy make-up). Christ, we’re boring. So now, after a year of trying, I/we have the rubbish diagnosis of ‘Unexplained Infertility’.
This basically means that no-one has a fucking clue as to why I don’t look like a porpoise in maternity dungarees right now. I have been seeing an acupuncturist - Needles, as I call her - for nearly 4 months and here is what we think the problems are:
1) I have really shit health otherwise. An Endocrinal disorder that doesn't threaten my life or anything, but make me low-level bleeeeurgh all the time. And, brilliantly, means it'd be too dangerous for me to ever have IVF drugs. Oh yes, when I say that my body always has to be awkward and different, I ain't messin' around. It takes contrariness to a whole new (desperate) plane. My body is the Cyrano of all cutting-off-nose-to-spite-face-nesses.
2) I’ve just found out that my oestrogen is too high in the luteal phase (the bit after ovulation leading up to your period). This means that the womb is confused as to what it should be doing - ‘am I leading up to ovulation or am I building a lining up so that a fertilised egg can take hold? WTF is going on?’ - as oestrogen should be high leading up to ovulation and then drop away afterwards to let progesterone take over, fact fans. This shouldn’t ruin my chances, but doesn’t help and sorting it out involves all sort of lifestyle things which, as I have detailed above, I already do, so things on this score are a bit confusing at the mo.
And the one I personally worry about all the time:
3) I’m ‘a bit’ overweight. I was slightly overweight before we started trying for a baby (because I was starting to get mental with broodiness then and ate my way through it) and have managed to put on just over a stone. Always helpful. This is a combo of eating when depressed and - and I have the good grace to be ashamed of being this neurotic/self-defeating - I haven’t really tried dieting and have limited the exercise I was doing because you always read in fertility guides that you shouldn’t have a restricted diet (which I already do anyway) and that after you ovulate you shouldn’t do lots of exercise in case you’ve got preggers and... I dunno - it knocks ‘it’ loose or summat? I can’t even remember now. Add to this Chinese Medicine advising you to do absolutely fuck-all when you’re on your period and you have a recipe for making a slightly chubby, slightly lazy neurotic woman into a properly-chubby, properly-lazy neurotic woman. I would like to point out that I’m not huge - I don’t require a disability scooter or ‘reaching stick’ just yet. I can fit into normal sizes (not even the biggest) in normal high street stores like Topshop, etc., but I am 2 dress sizes bigger than I used to be. Thankfully/sadly, that used to be a thin one.
And lastly:
4) Being so fucking neurotic and anxious and wanting a baby so fucking much that I’m stressing myself into infertility. Every cunt - and I mean every cunt - thinks they’re being helpful telling you that to ‘relax and it’ll happen’, not realising that the fury over incredibly unhelpful, insensitive, pointless and patronising comments like that create more stress than just about anything else on earth. As if things were that easy! As if you don’t hate yourself enough already! Let’s add guilt over farkin’ emotions to the deal! Now I can feel anxious about feeling anxious - joy!
Oh, these idiots, who have either all got pregnant/got someone pregnant effortlessly when young or who have never even tried, themselves, to conceive, are so quick to tell you how easy it is to get pregnant if you just chill out a bit, but not a one of them has any advice about what you’re supposed to do instead of worrying, panicking and feeling sad when you’re v old, reproductive-wise, keep on being heartbroken month after month after month, virtually every advert, tv show and film has families and babies in them, everywhere you go there are babies and little kids and the media constantly bombards you with scare stories about female fertility, making you feel like you’re a monster for not being Mrs 1950s Housewife, etc., etc.
And believe me, I’ve asked. I am that arsey git who challenges people when they come out with blithe platitudes that hurt. And guess what? They never have any reply. Their answers are just to make themselves feel better, not you. And it’s irrelevant that the only thing that could actually make you feel better is seeing 2 lines appear on a test stick you’ve just pissed on...
So. There we go. Clear as mud. Boring as fuck. Self-pitying as hell. Now you know all that, I can get on with the fun whinging. Hmmmm, ‘fun whinging’ - isn’t that basically the purpose of all blogs?!
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