Two's company

The husband and I have a problem.

This problem isn't as a result of lack of intimacy, it isn't a reflection of our relationship, it isn't even infertility.

The problem is a result of a combination of being pretty sociable people and being utterly disorganised.

It means that in the 14 ish years we have been a couple, other than the odd weekend away, we have only had two holidays without other people - one of which was our honeymoon.

This is because we tend to wait for other people to suggest places to go and join them rather than pulling our own fingers out and planning our own break. Fairly typical are the holidays that we have taken since I started this blog:

Case Study A: A rented house in the south of England with 14 adults and 1 three year old, 2 two year olds, 1 one year old, 2 under ones and two in the womb and the dog.

Case Study B: This had potential to be a couple holiday and indeed the first four days in Alba were. Then we carried on down to Rome where some friends lived and spent the remaining time with them.

Case Study C: This trip was taken with two other couples, I think I booked the flights - which for me is pretty impressive - luckily there was someone else on hand to sort the hotel.

When we realised at the end of January we had six months of waiting we decided we'd have a holiday in July, just before the coil came out. You may not recognise the significance of this statement.

WE. DECIDED. IN. JANUARY.

We weren't told by anyone else when we should join them on holiday.

We had a good six months head-start on any normal planning we do.

Initially the plan was to see friends in Brussels and Germany. But then we had a change of heart.

This might be the last time we have the option to go away - just the two of us. The last time we get to travel hand-luggage only without a buggy, and enough nappies to soak up Lake Titicaca.

I'll be celebrating my 33rd birthday out there and birthdays really aren't the same without my twin sister so you have to appreciate it took a Herculian effort not to invite her and her husband along too.

Of course, I know it might not be the last holiday with just the two of us, I don't want to tempt fate. I'm trying to balance being positive with managing expectations.

But regardless, the plan for this holiday - in the north of Spain - is to chill out, and yes, relax, to just enjoy hanging out with the husband. And for once, if this holiday goes quickly it won't be that bad because it will mean the time until the coil is removed is reduced.

So we are off on holiday, for a week, just the two of us.

I'm taking bets on whether we are still talking by the end of the holiday.

The Appointment

INTERIOR. DOCTOR’S SURGERY – DAY*

A windowless putrid-yellow painted basement doctor’s office.

The FRENCH DOCTOR bustles in first. She is followed by a tentative MR and MRS WFI. They hold hands, Mrs WFI drops his as they sit on the chairs offered. Mr WFI subtly wipes the residual clamminess off his hands on to his trousers.

FRENCH DOC "So"

She glances at her notes.

"Now where are we?"

Mrs WFI produces an A4 sheet.

MRS WFI "This is my summary, with dates, of what has happened so far …"

FRENCH DOC "Ah but I have your notes 'ere"

Taps on an huge blue folder stuffed with letters, copies and coloured bits of paper.

MRS WFI (consilatorily) "I know, I know. I just thought it might be easier to digest on one sheet."

FRENCH DOC (reading) "Right so you have the coil to remove ze endimotrosis. You need to get the coil removed as soon as possible."

MRS WFI "Yes, I have an appointment booked with Mr S. on Mon …"

French Doctor leaps up.

FRENCH DOC "Vell we shall speak to him now and see what 'e says."

She leaves the room.

Mr and Mrs WFI exchange glances. Mrs WFI notices pictures on the wall. Baby pictures. She cannot tear her eyes away.

The French Doctor bursts back in

FRENCH DOC " 'e is on ze phone. What are you looking at?"

Her glance follows Mrs WFI’s line of sight.

FRENCH DOC "Ah yes, we have boxes of them, we just put a few out. To make people happy."

She resumes her seat and continues

"So, you need to have the coil removed, you should make an appointment."

MR WFI "Yes, we have that appointment on Monday 27th."

FRENCH DOC "Good, good. So now I see your semen analysis is …"

She tears through the file searching for the relevant letter.

"Izzz … normal. So ve shall try for three months with ovulation stimulation, and zen if that does not work we shall try the belt and braces approach of IUI. I shall speak to Mr S now."

Dashes out of the room, again.

MRS WFI "What the fuck? What the fuck?"

Rifles through her own batch of papers.

Mr WFI "I thought we were going straight to IUI."

MRS WFI "So did I. That is what she said before. And I haven’t bought the fucking letter that says that with me. Fuck. I don’t want to wait another three fucking months only to find my fucking diseased womb-lining has fucking grown back."

MR WFI "Its Ok we’ll just tell her. We .."

The French Doc storms back in

FRENCH DOC "Mr S. agrees with me. Yes, so we shall go with the belt and braces approach and immediately give you IUI straight away."

MR & MRS WFI "!"

FRENCH DOC "So. You shall have ze coil removed. Then three weeks after you shall have a scan to check the endometrium has not grown back. Zen we shall go with the IUI.

Do you know what IUI entails?"

MRS WFI "Well, I've read a … little"

MR WFI "Just run through it will you?"

FRENCH DOC "You shall have clomid, a very small dose to begin with 50mg. Then you shall be scanned until you are about to ovulate. Then you (indicates to MR WFI) will go to the lab where …"

The three occupants of the small doctor’s room pause to contemplate exactly what will happen in the lab.

FRENCH DOC "Zen it will be washed leaving only ze best swimmers. Which will then be inserted into your uterus. Like having a smear test.

Now you must call the nurses to book in your scan three weeks after the coil is removed, unless you have a bleed before three weeks. Have you spoken to any of ze nurses?"

MRS WFI (Blushing slightly) "Well I have spoken to Eunice."

French Doctor leaps up as though she has been stung, she runs out of the room.

Mr WFI "What is the crazy woman doing now?"

Mrs WFI shrugs.

The screen goes into soft focus as the door reopens and in slow motion we see a new woman enter, her dark hair bounces, her eyes glisten, she smiles and wounds are healed.

EUNICE (for it is she) "Elizabeth, good to put a face to the voice. We’ve spoken a few times."

Mrs WFI (Gapes) "er … um … yes. Hello, lovely to meet you at last."

Mr WFI’s pupils dilate at the homoerotic scene unfolding before him.

EUNICE "So just call me as two weeks after the coil comes out and we can set up a scan and arrange your super-ovulation. All you need now is a blood test for HIV and Hep B and we are done. You’ve got my direct line? Just call me if you have any questions, or if you want another appointment to talk through the process."

THE END (OR IS IT THE BEGINNING?)

* And for the pendants, I know I haven't formatted exactly right for screenwriting, but when I did the husband said it was too confusing.

******
And over on Fertility Authority, read my rant about ignorant commentors on news articles about IVF in the UK.

My Fair Lady?

I normally loath shopping for clothes.

A trip usually goes something like this.

I spend half an hour standing on a sweaty bus into town. Because I am not a sophisticated shopper who goes for 'investment pieces' the places I choose to buy from involves having to plough through crowds of disdainful 14 year olds to get to the the clothes. Once there I pluck an item from rack. Of course, thanks to the multi-national corporations that dominate the high street I have no idea whether the size on the label is UK, European or American. I take a punt, and am usually wrong.

Then there is the queue for changing room. The fight with changing room curtain, which I eventually lose and try and change in the shielded part of the room rather than in front of the gape.

As I struggle into clothes I discover. (Delete as applicable, one always happens):

• My head is in the arm hole
• I can't reach the zip
• There is a nasty ripping sound
• The item is a tent
• The item is made for a Barbie doll
• There is a smear of foundation all over the head hole - and it isn't mine
• If it is a dress the top bit is too small and the bottom bit too big
• The trousers are too long
• There are too many straps and I can't workout which bit goes where
• Someone in the next door changing room comes out wearing exactly the same garment and looks 20 times better.

Generally as I am trying to get back into my old clothes I'll catch a glimpse of my underwear clad self in the full length mirror, and spend five minutes pushing my stomach out, slouching and pulling faces. Generally trying to make myself look as vile as possible. I don't know why.

So I pull my old clothes back on. I get grumpy. Too hot and bothered to try anything else on and leave shops grumbling.

That is the normal MO.

However yesterday something unheard of happened.

I went in early to avoid the crowds, I only went to two shops. In the first I tried on and bought pair of trousers reduced in the sale. In the second I found a last dress. It was a dress I had seen before and liked but was too expensive. It was in my size and it fitted perfectly and it had 60% off.

It was only when I got home I realised why today was so different.

Turns out I was channeling Audrey:

Exhibit A: The Capri Pant

Exhibit B: The Classic Shift

My Fair Lady or Funny Face? I don't care, but I'm happy.

What's in a name?

When I got my first mobile phone my then boyfriend (now husband) was logged under:

Paddy2

Paddy being his name and 2 because chronologically he was the second Paddy I'd been out with and as I remained very good friends with the first they became known amongst all my friends, and to each other, as Paddy 1 and Paddy 2.

And there he malingered until a drunk friend got hold of my phone and changed his identifier to:

P Diddy

(She also changed her name to J Lo - this was back when the two bling-tastic celebrities were a couple, it is only now I ponder the significance of that change ...)

Then, more significant than a ring on my finger or the off-white dress and party, on the occasion of our nuptials his name changed again. This time to:

The Husband

(Yes, this nickname isn't just an affectation for my blog I do actually call him The Husband a lot, and he calls me The Wife - I know if it makes you want to puke think how I feel, I have to deal with it on a daily basis).

However, things turned nasty when he bought an i-phone without due consultation. Having to change his number whilst berating him for wasting money (ok, ok I was jealous and I lashed out) his phone name became:

Flash Twat

Meant in the most affectionate way.

Naturally.

On one occasion I lost my phone the husband rang it and discovered it along with 'Flash Twat' emblazoned on the screen.

Bizarrely enough, shortly after that I discovered the name had morphed into:

The Husband (Awesome)

And that is how it remains to this day.



So what about you? Do you have phone nicknames for your nearest and dearest? What do you use?

*******

Latest post on Fertility Authority dealing with the dreaded phrase: You're still young ....

Things that made me smile this weekend

Friday night

Taking dog for his evening jaunt weaving between the revelers who claim every spare patch of grass in London as soon as the sun come out.

Bloke to his mate "Ahh! Look at that dog. I use to train greyhounds."
Grabs the dog in a frankly over familiar manner considering they had just met.
To me: "But this isn't a full greyhound"
To his mate: "You can tell he's half lurcher"
Me: "No he use to race at Walthamstow, his pedigree is online, he's all greyhound"
As I walk off, he is still trying to persuade his pal that he knows all about greyhounds.

Ha, ha!

Saturday lunchtime

My second and final session with the physically-blessed intellectually-challenged trainer.

Him: "Right I want to show you how to use kettle weights. They're really good for all different types of toning, they've been around for ages, over two hundred years ... (look of concern flashes across his perfect features) ... not, not these actual ones. But these types of weights are really old."

I responded with a nod and a smile rather than a 'No shit Sherlock!'.

Saturday Afternoon

Building a cardboard space rocket with my nephew. Just made me smile, 'cause it did.

Ok. Actually it started to grate a little when he kept insisting that cardboard wasn't the best material and maybe we should be using brick, countering my assertion that bricks would be too heavy with, "Well, maybe then we should use little light bricks."

Can't argue with that.

Sunday morning

The husband is away with the boys (they being his friends, not my pet name for his testicles). At some point during the night he sent me the text that greeted me on Sunday morning:

I hate absinthe, but I love you, you lucky devil.

Do you think, and just a shot in the dark here, he decided he hated absinthe after imbibing quite a lot of it? (And are you impressed he still carefully punctuates his texts?)

Sunday evening

Missing a phone call from my in-laws.

I love my in-laws. They are brilliant. And I know my mother-in-law just called because she knew the husband was out of town. But, as you all know I can't stand phone calls. Particularly calls from my mother in law which sees me pacing round the flat trying to round up the conversation and stem the flow of advice and chatter. Luckily I genuinely missed the phone so didn't have that awful guilt of should I pick up / should I ignore it.

And no, I haven't rung back.

How was your weekend?

The Waiting Game

Look to your left. Can you see my ticker? Depending on when you are looking you'll see I have a month (well 30 days) until the coil is removed.

For the last six months time has been anything but constant.

Whenever I go on a journey I always find the last quarter incredibly tedious. Whether it is a twenty minute trip and the last five minutes are excruciating or a four hour journey the first three hours will fly but but the last hours? c r a w l s.

And it turns out it is the same with the last six months. The first four went by in a flash. These last few weeks have been eye-wateringly slow. A down moment at work, and I flick to my calendar counting how many working days until the coil is removed, or number of weeks until I might actually (assuming everything goes to plan) get the IUI.

It doesn't help that I have a weeks holiday coming up so I am waiting for that too.

But do you know what pisses me off most?

Even though I've been sloughing through nine months in total since I last had sex without contraception, even though before that it was another six months since I ovulated, even though prior to that there was a good few years of waiting until the husband would allow me to try and get pregnant. Even with all that waiting. I know that at some point in my future I'll have a mere two week wait that'll probably seem longer than all of that put together.

I just hope it'll be worth the wait.

The World's A Stage

I've just finished a screenwriting course. I have no ambitions to be a screenwriter but I get a chance to do free courses through work and I figured that this would stretch me and teach me to write in new and interesting ways. i.e. give me something to write about other than the normal 'I'm still not pregnant' shit which is starting to bore me to tears. (Well, there are tears, so I'm attributing them to boredom).

The first assignment was to write an 'inciting incident'. That is the bit that comes about twenty minutes in, turning a happy little story into a big event - Ilsa walking into "of all the gin-joints in all the world" in Casablanca; the radiation hit taken by the fantastic four; Bambi's mother being shot (sorry should have added a spoiler alert for that one).

So I write a dramatic, high-action, feverishly exciting scene involving an assassin, an art market in Valencia and a MacGuffin. The reaction from the class was tepid at best. They valiantly searched for complementary comments but it was shit, I knew it was shit, they knew it was shit, and the tutor just looked a bit sad.

The next week we had to write a scene that shows to the audience two character's relationship and how it is affected by the 'inciting incident'. I cut my losses, started from scratch and tried a completely new story.

In this scene a couple in their early thirties are sitting on the sofa watching telly and chatting. For arguement's sake let's put the couple in London; maybe their flat is cheaply but tastefully furnished and they might just have a dog. Through the conversation they reveal to the audience an issue that they are dealing with ... an issue. Think of an issue, any issue...

Oh, OK. What about infertility?

Yes.

So they are revealing through subtle, humourous (obviously) dialogue that they have been trying for over two years to have a baby.

The response was brilliant. The tutor said, and I quote , "Excellent." The dialogue was realistic, and moving.

Arse.

It appears all I can write about now is babies (or specifically lack of:). I tell you what, I need to get pregnant soon if only to salvage any small remnants of my creativity.

World O'Pain

Yesterday I had my free introductory personal training session. Free, like a free lunch when you've spent five hundred quid on flights to New York.

The trainer was gorgeous, a raven-haired David Beckham with the intellect to match. I managed to gaze adoringly without even the hint of a smirk as he explained the complexity of weight loss. Through the use of a diagram of a see-saw he showed that to lose weight, and this'll knock your socks off, ... you need to burn more calories than you take in. After ten minutes of explanation and assurances from me that yes, I did get it, he went on to discuss portion size again through the use of illustration this time of three different sized circles. He indicated that one can decrease portion size from large, to medium to small.

I declined his offer of a photocopy of a sheet, again with pictures (this time professionally drawn), of the foods in all the major food groups. I think he was satisfied with my emphatic assertion that I was sure I could find the information on the net should the need arise.

That done we had the session. Not that kind of session, you forget I operate on a purely look but don't touch policy (much to the husband's dismay when I continue to practice this at home). So he introduces me to what is essentially a washing machine on a spin cycle and wants me to squat on it. I start to wonder exactly where the camera for this low-budget porn film is secreted. But, apparenly Madonna uses this 'power-plate' so I carry on safe in the knowledge that at the worst case senario at least this machine will enable me to adopt a Malawian orphan.

Most of the session was doing toning excercises and I finished a little underwhelmed, barely having broken a sweat and not sure it had been worth my time.

This morning, after a spontaneous inter-continental dash yesterday afternoon, I awoke in Brussels with every single muscle in my body screaming, so it had done something. The friend I stayed with, also in the first flush of gyming, took me to her local club today to work off last night's boozing. In this club I discovered that, as I had always suspected, gravity has a far stronger pull in Belgium as both pairs of scales at her club erred on the side of my sister's scales rather than my clubs. Amazing weight loss? Not so much.

We did a class, Body Attack. The trainer instructing mainly in French sprinkled in the odd English words as added motivation. Words like 'don't stop', 'harder', 'push it'. I'm uncordinated at the best of times. Without understanding the instructions my spasmodic-jerking in a room full of lithe, skimply-clad stick insects meant that I was constantly jumping when they were river-dancing, side stepping when they were star-jumping and threatening to take them out with my flaling arms at every euro-pop beat.

Suffice to say I won't be welcome back, and I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to walk again.

As Time Goes By

Have you seen Casablanca?

You know the opening scene in Ricks? The camera swoops from table to table we hear "waiting, waiting, waiting. I'll never get out of here" and from elsewhere "The trucks are waiting, the men are waiting ..."

Although I have just a few weeks to go before I get a crack at being impregnated that opportunity feels as elusive as their exit visas. So near and yet so very, very long to wait. Time is crawling.

And there is another parallel. In Casablanca the clientele of Rick's are trying to get to Lisbon because it is only from there that they can travel further afield away from the Nazi's. For me I'm waiting for IUI but the real destination will take many, many months more to reach, actually giving birth.

It can feel a bit self-indulgent to be so focused on one thing. And I know that in the scheme of things the troubles of two people trying to conceive doesn't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. But I am fed up with waiting and I will do all it takes to get pregnant because if I don't I will regret it, today, tomorrow and for the rest of my life.

Here's looking for you kid.

*******
Oh, and I mentioned a while ago that I was reading a book A Child Against All Odds by Robert Winston (remember the one that said you needed to hump like bonobo's to get even the remotest chance of fertilisation because we humans aren't built for reproduction - makes me reconsider the whole meaning of life). Anyway, I've written a review of it for Fertility Authority - if you want to check it out, see how good I am to you even reading books for you so you don't have too.

They're All At It

Apparently everyone at my work is pregnant. I was amazed to hear this from two different people this week.

I know! Do you know what that means? I must be pregnant without realising it.

Not just that, but my male colleagues are going to get a bit of a shock in a couple of months when their beer-bellies morph into vessels carrying their own little miracles.

It means our female head is going to give Britain's oldest mum a run for her money.

I must say it is all tremendously exciting.

I'm envisaging baby showers in the canteen. And surely with our combined buying power we can get huge discounts not just on bulk-buy disposable objects such as nappies and nipple pads but top of the range yummy-mummy prams too.

Of course there is a downside.

I imagine there will be a positive stampede of rotund bellies every time I need to go to the toilet as those pesky featus' decide collectively to tap dance on the workforces bladder. And goodness knows how, in these cash-strapped times, we are going to afford maternity cover for all of our full time staff.

I think shall have to become more creative with our staff benefits. I might suggest lunch time sessions dedicated to strengthening our pelvic floor muscles to prevent every chair swimming in a sea of ...

Oh no wait.

Their mistake.

When they say everyone they actually mean three people, all women, plus two recent births.

But they do have a bit of a point. Is it just me or is there a lot of it about just now?

The other day I had to rejig my blogroll to recategorise several people who blog to the "Those on their way" category. And a friend in real life is cautiously optimistic about seeing her pregnancy that resulted from IVF through to the end.

I feel nothing but joy to see people who have struggled get through the other side. It is brilliant and like a beacon of hope for the rest of us.

But my heart aches for those who were so close to getting on their way but after losses or thousands of pounds spent on treatment remain unfertilised. And for my other friends in real life who are struggling.

I still feel I have got off lightly so far, all I am wasting is time - I've not had a miscarriage, I haven't had any treatment and had to see my hopes dashed. But soon just a month and a half I'll find out whether the six months of coil had done the trick. I'll know whether I can get my long awaited shot of IUI and I'll find out whether I am on my way to join the haves or the have nots.

It is a scary but exciting time.

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Anyway it is a bit late, but I've had my eye of the ball for the last few days. But if you have a moment pop over to Fertility Authority to see why you should never tell someone with blue eyes that they must have perfect vision. (By the way the italics over there aren't mine, but if you read italics like I do they make me sound more sarcastic than usual in this post, so forgive that.)