Forgive me, puppy, for I have sinned

Your mummy forgot to turn her clock forward.
You should be at school now.
We did your homework this week too, for once!
*Note to self: don't even glance sideways at cap on bench that signals we're going in the car to school and sends Miss Jazzus into obedient alert attentiveness overdrive*

And er, I can't take you next weekend either because I'm doing a workshop.

God, how could I! Look at that face..... ooops....

Look, Miss Mena, what's that over there? *slinks away*

Skyhooks got it wrong

It wasn't "All my friends are getting married". It was "All my fish are getting pregnant"...

Even my fish are getting pregnant. My FISH!? Again! They eat their young! I wouldn't. Promise!! You can trust me, Universe, baby.... whoever's keeping tabs out there.

Last season, 6 little fishies survived and they've been so cute to watch grow. Wonder how many we'll get this year. They live in the pond we erected in memory of our girl.

Hmmmmm..... am pondering whether I can actually utter my daughter's name in here anymore, such is the incessant nature of my "fans" who just can't help themselves and have to seek me out and search the search engines for me, even when they're obviously not invited to. Hey, isn't it ever so roomy over here at the new address!

So without further ado, welcome (again) to my blog, dear readers! I hope you've followed me here and let me just say now, excuse the rigmarole, I do apologise on behalf of.... my trolls. If I have to move again, you'll be the first to know. You do what you have to do to please yourself, you know the drill.

People only do their best

I have to believe this, otherwise I just don't know how I could comprehend some people/situations, including my own.

I would assume that others have this view too. But perhaps not.

Perhaps it's difficult to walk a mile in someone's shoes. Perhaps I am talking from the dysfunctional stance of having had a childhood of emotional and mental abuse, scarred as I am by a mother (or, oops, am I not allowed to mention her either?) who "knew no better and was only doing the very best she knew how." I had to trust, I had to just believe it would be better once I made it on my own, went my way, but constantly the learning was there in me: be forever obliged to do right by people, reserve your judgement of others, to each their own, take people at face value and don't guess where they're "at".

I am still like that. And yet now I struggle. I struggle because so many things seem so fucking futile since losing Ella. I mean, for God's sake, a client on the phone yesterday telling me they're concerned the colours on the last run of brochures doesn't "quite" match the new ones. And I just want to scream "IS IT SO IMPORTANT that your blues aren't identical when I haven't got my baby with me?"

But of course I can't. Not in the real world, oh no. You're not allowed to inflict such displays of selfishness on others when you're the parent of a deceased baby. It's all about making those in your presence comfortable. And it is completely tiring to live like this, knowing that people don't want to know, don't want to talk about, your child. So I turn here, to somewhere I used to deem relatively controlled, sort of private, bar the fleeting visits from browsers who haven't a clue who I am and couldn't give a toss.

And so I have made a few wrong turns, as all good people do, and I've ended up here. In a place where I am equally gagged and adored by people. How utterly bizarre!

You'd be forgiven for thinking I'm bored. I'm not. I am dreadfully taken up by work commitments, especially of late, and yet still nagging at me is the thought that I ought to be bouncing a bouncinette with one foot or warming a bottle - or prepping a boob, ok ok, for any BFA zealots - and quite frankly, WHERE I HAVE BEEN AND WHERE I HAVE COME FROM the vast majority of happeners across this space I have set up here have not and will not EVER be.

I am on a different plane now (or planet, some may argue, and you'd be forgiven for thinking that, sure). I am on a very new, separate road. It has massive opportunities for giving, seeing, healing, more than I ever had before Ella. And yet, it is such a devastatingly lonely place. I see the things people do in a far different light - and I do believe I am judging more harshly than I ever have in my life. The reason is this: I never before saw the butterfly effect of people actions/words/way of living and interacting with each other and Mother Nature. I see it now. In my own personal headspace, I am not letting people off as lightly as I used to. And I think it is shocking and scaring people who have known me for so long. Get to know me again, the new me now, and they will see someone with so much more depth than before. But all they see are these blips on the radar here and there, because they don't really want to look. Are they scared? Scared of how much I have changed, of how I am somewhere they'll never be?

It's a curse and a blessing, this suitcase of gifts my daughter has left me. I liken it to my version of other mothers' attempts to "learn as you go" with your baby/toddler/school child - how often have you thought you were doing it all wrong where your young charges are concerned? Imagine trying to figure it all out with the obvious lack of that child in your life! And then judge me again. There are a very few around me, who can't stand back and see the big picture, who may feel she should've taken her luggage with her and not entrusted it to me. But to be a trailblazer, I guess I have to start trusting that all this shit that's happening now is still going to pass. And good things do come to those who wait. I guess it's the choice of closing the lid and saying "Nah, thanks anyway, but I don't want to grow or change, I'd much rather wallow in my grief and never appear normal again". I've chosen to get in and rummage around and wow, the things I am finding in there are scary and confronting - but godammit, I am trying everything on to see if it fits.

What the HELL gives someone the right to think it is ok to invade, invade, invade every last bit of solace and comfort that I have? What? Do you want me to break? Look in my eyes, darling, you will see the mended canvass of a million pieces that have been put back together. You are not going to shatter me. Because nothing ever could again. Not after losing my girl. May you sleep soundly in your sheltered little fantasy.

"namaste"

The tide is high but I'm holding on...

The tide is actually going out I think, I'm most relieved to say.

I can now actually put my arms flat by my side for the first time in three weeks after what's been a most alarming internal king wave of fluid retention. One night, I go to bed with sizeable (like extra side boobs, sizeable) deposits of flesh under my pits.... oh I'm such a lady.... and then, the next morning, I wake and rise from bed feeling positively urchin-like in all my water recededness.

That was on Tuesday. Since then, to today, things that are righting themselves include:

• my decolletage (oh how I've missed your boney protudiness.... useless bit of info: the left point of my collarbone at my windpipe sticks out further than the right and makes all necklaces sit funny around my neck)
• my hip shape - but I do admit, there is still a rubberducky life preserver around my waist that undulates like a waterbed when I make the slightest move, so while my lower body is getting back to normal size, my midriff has got some notable catching up to do.
• my undies therefore fit, so my caboose must be smaller again too. However, the ever so delightful modern term "muffin top" in my case would be more like "souffle top".

And all this by doing nothing more than ensuring my usual umpteen visits to Gloria per week (it is NOT an obsession) and taking the right potency of those little sugary pills prescribed by the homeopath who scared the water out of me. Yes.... *sheepish* I am still under his care. We have an understanding now: we speak on the phone so I can't misread his body language and he can't second guess mine and hey, presto! The arrangement appears to be working well.

WHAT have you done!!?

...and where am I going to find it...

When a good coffee experience goes bad

The other day I was visiting my "friend" Gloria (me and Gloria Jean, we're on first name basis) and my mind started to wander as I waited for my coffee.

It had been a perfectly normal morning, took the pup to "school", came home, did some pottering in the garden, chatted with Steve, all the usual stuff. A typical weekend day. My mood was good, chipper.

I'm setting the scene for you like this to try and convey what it's like, when it strikes, out of the blue. That instant nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I see a thousand prams go past me, a hundred pregnant women. I catch the eye of countless children. And it really IS ok, mostly, for me these days. As was the case waiting in line as my mind wandered.

There was nothing in particular that triggered the thought process I had, standing there. It was as quick as a flash, actually, remembering how I'd been standing there that day in January this year. Ella's birthday, the 13th. Steve had taken the day off work. We had both been going to scatter her ashes at the park where we held her memorial the week after she died, last February. And as I opened the front door that morning, Steve had frozen, the cold hard cliche funeral parlour bag complete with stork taking flight against a misty background, the canister containing our daughter's remains inside. He stood stock still and uttered simply, "I can't do it. She's too little! I can't..." We had agreed in the weeks leading up to her birthday that this is what we'd do. I alternately felt a pang of fear, frustration and agreeance - I was torn again. It had felt like the right decision to me, but now that I heard Steve say it out loud.... yes, how could we let her go?! Forever?

We stood at the front door in mid step, big hot tears rolling slowly down our cheeks. I can still feel them. I can still remember the indecision, the discussion that no parents should have to have with each other. At any rate, I mentioned, I wanted her put to rest by the end of her birthday so we had til midnight that night. I felt very strongly that another year could not pass with my daughter inside a plastic container in my buffet in the dining room. Holy fuck.

So we decided to go to our local shopping centre, to a very favourite shop of mine (Beacon Cove, if you know it) which I love to browse occasionally. It's full of very lovely dark wood furnishings, oriental-themed decor, artificial blossom on sticks, you know the usual... I look around in there but never really look carefully at every item, I think I just like going in there to imagine myself with the money to decorate my home with all their things. I think I've made about 3 purchases there in as many years - their prices are a tad exy.

As soon as we walked in, we gravitated to a shelf. Neither of us really knew what we were looking for, but Steve saw it first. It was a rectangular-shaped cube, with three sides with spaces for a photo and a hinged lid, also with an inset for a photo. Inside, a beautiful set of lift-out photo sleeves, each with their own wooden spine, allowed for 120 photos in total. It was like its very own complete little filing system. And we thought it was breathtaking for our purpose. There was enough clearance beneath the photo sleeves to create a false bottom, into which we planned to spread Ella's ashes.

And it all turned out perfectly. On the day when we should have had our little cherub with us, balloons, streamers, high-fives for each other on surviving the first year of parenthood, a cake... instead we were purchasing the monument in which we were going to entomb our little one. Joy!

Around the corner from Beacon Cove is Gloria Jean's. Steve hates coffee, can't even walk past the place without getting an instant headache. But he insisted on that day that I should "go visit your friend" for a comfort beverage. The girl behind the counter, on seeing my glassy eyes, gave me an extra free stamp on my loyalty card.... a simple gesture that rendered me blubbering at her kindness. "You look like you need a double free one", she said. Funny the things that set me off crying these days. I really am quite hopeless.

So. Back to the present. Standing again in the same shop, buying the same old fave (skinny mocha truffle, in case you're shouting me next time *wink*), my thoughts had turned to wondering what Steve and I would do for Ella's "second" birthday. I can't believe it's coming up. Again, now, as I type, I feel the familiar stomach-churning nausea and the pounding heart in my chest at the sheer unfairness of it all, that hopefully, maybe, this year my tummy will be growing with a new bub (as it should have been on her first birthday, had we not had to stop the pregnancy that would have been well into the second trimester as we remembered Ella earlier this year). I thought, amidst the noise of the coffee machines and the loud chatter of the patrons, 'I suppose Steve will make a ritual of taking the day of work on the 13th of January each year, how could he not' and I wondered what we, as a couple and until we welcome new little people into it, would do to commemorate the day together. We've already decided that we will probably no longer involve other family outside of the one we create under this roof, such was the hurt felt by the efforts of a few family members this year. It's just not worth opening up to that kind of self-centredness of others who "don't know what to say" to us. What a cop-out, what a crock. Thankfully, for every person who's hidden behind that, we've had 10 people lining up who DO care enough to find a way to help us through our bad days, which I am certain will continue for as long as Steve and I live.

And then, as I was pondering all this, I surprised myself by feeling the familiar hot sting of tears. They filled my eyes until gravity forced them down my face. I'm very used to crying in public now and think nothing of it. There is no way to control showing the emotion, not when it cuts so deeply into your daily thoughts so suddenly and unexpectedly. Right there, 20+ months on, here I was uncontrollably having a 'moment' close to the memory of my girl. It happens so rarely now, I allow myself to be consumed by it wherever I am. Usually it's at home. But when I'm out, pah, so be it.

And then I heard it. Faintly at first, so faint I thought I was just imagining it up for good effect. But straining my hearing a bit more, I distinctly caught the tune and heard the words. They were playing our song. Ella's and my song. I sang it to her every day when she was still in my womb and it was the only thing that settled her in those times when she was restless in the NICU. It was Dream A Little Dream. How ironic the words seemed to me after I had met her, the tune I'd been happily singing because I loved the song... and now I was comforting her with them and they seemed so goddamn fitting it tore (still tears) my heart out to hear them. But still I sang. I sang and sang and sang it to her because I could see, the nurses and Steve could see too, that it settled her beautifully.

Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me

Say "Night-ie night" and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me

Stars fading but I linger on, dear
Still craving your kiss
I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear
Just saying this

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
But in your dreams whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me

I know it was coincidence, even though this particular Gloria's outlet normally played some sort of modern rubbish (ooh showing my age) that was indiscernible and certainly not familiar; I know it must have been coincidence that the strains of this particular song came filtering through all the loud noise around me right at that very moment when I was thinking of Ellanor and felt so close to her and the time we spent together.

It must have been, mustn't it? Do you believe?

How embarrassment #483

Forgive me, Reader, it's been 5 days since my last confession.....uhhimean post.

I've been coming to write, but every time I do, my sorry self just doesn't want to "go there". Funny that I need to crunch the numbers on what's making me glum first, before I can write it out. And then it's gone. Pfizzle! And then, undoubtedly if it's pregnancy related, it comes back. Boomerang.

SO. Instead. I thought I would pull the dust off an old memory and share, just for old times' sake. I was reminded of this when reading something on another website about whether you would divulge all to your partner and someone replied they kept some things to themselves, especially the "embarrassing stuff". But, if you're like me, your partner is always there when you do or say the stupid thing, or even more tragic, before thinking better of it you tell him what you did/said if he wasn't there.

And such was the case when we got our floor laid a few years back. The carpet layer, I thought, was out at his truck. I, as you do when the front door is wide open and a tradie is coming and going, was in the ensuite toilet with bedroom and bathroom doors agape. I heard footsteps coming down the hall towards our room and, being the delicate wallflower laaady that I am, I yelled out to Steve that "I'm in the toily!" Twice in fact, as his footsteps kept approaching. Yes it was quite frantic-sounding. And yes..... I said toily.

And it wasn't Steve.

Yuh-huh, it was the big, burly, handsome young tradesman making (a somewhat suddenly hasty, no doubt) exit out the front door. Now I didn't know at that time it wasn't Steve. Until Steve came stepping rather more silently into the room, by which time I was washing my hands. He popped his head round the corner and smiled at me, the "I'm just hanging out here, pacing, making my presence known to the man in my house that if he doesn't lay the floor properly he'll be laying it again *smile again*" and that's when it dawned on me that Steve's size 13's, despite their gargantuan scale, hadn't been the makers of the clomping I'd heard earlier.

OHGOD-OHGOD-OHGOD-OHGOD. I still cringe when I wonder if he lives in the area and shudders as he drives past, Sideshow-Bob-stepping-on-a-rake style for all you Simpsons fans, thinking to himself "That's where that FREAK WOMAN who calls a toilet a toily lives."

Dad would be mortified...

...but I actually think this makes far more sense than any equation:

Shake your relations

Why can I only raise my left eyebrow and not the right?

And how come I can raise my lip higher on that same side?

Why do birds run to get off the road when a car's coming? Seems like so much more effort.

Do you reckon there really was a Betsy, whose Dad or someone else thought she was a bit slow and said to her one day "Helloooo, earth to Betsy"? Come to think of it, he must've said "Heavens to Betsy" to replace a blaspheme too, poor girl.

And this is just something totally unrelated that I find gloriously real and funny. It happened to a friend who, when on work experience at age 16, went to a school for the mentally impaired. She was introduced to a very friendly, warm, special fellow who was told that C was there to do her work experience. And he said to her excitedly, "Shake-your-relations!" She had no idea what he meant, simply smiled and shook his hand and moved on.

He meant "Congratulations". It's something that's stayed dear to C's heart as a memory and now, anytime there's a call for a complimentary exclamation, shake-your-relations it is.

Happy Birthday Beautiful Boy!

~~ And it's started. The spotting. One wonderful, supportive, always-there friend to whom I am forever bonded now as we trudge this difficult path to parenthood - together we are mothers with empty arms after losing our little girls last year - is quite possibly staring in the face of another early pregnancy loss. If there was someone I would sacrifice my own chance to have a child for it would be her. ~~

Earlier in the day, a new babe was born. Again, to another very dear friend. It's so interesting how quickly you can form a cement-hard friendship with these blokes in dresses (yup Dad's words are still ringin') and it seems like only yesterday that she caught my attention in a buddy group we were both frequenting. After a pissy altercation that began when I got on my indignant high horse (or was that just my bike? hmmm) and took offence at something I thought she was saying - ah the joys of the written medium - we started pm'ing each other back and forth addictively. In those heady early days of getting to know someone at lightning speed, we were horrified yet hugely excited how much we had in common. It was, indeed as she mused once, as if we shared a central nervous system. Of course, thank goodness or I would have killed her if she'd been too much like me, more differences have come to light as we've stretched our friendship and gone through this year, and her miraculous long awaited pregnancy, together. Ever ready with a daggy pick-me-up line and not afraid to slap me out of my voodoo doll room either. God, the shite we've nattered on about. Bliss! (If dumb general tv/movie knowledge was an Olympic sport, I'd be on the team for sure). I feel so blessed to call her my friend.

As her EDD drew nearer, to be perfectly honest I thought I was going to have to run to Dr Pesky (indeed, Medicine Woman) and have a cry-fit. I am not too good this past 18 months with seeing friends and relatives have their precious babies. But I have been nothing but buoyant and excited and I've come over all emotional at how happy and relieved I am that she and her (I'm sure) gorgeous wee boy are safe and over that most trecherous part - his birth. Yes it's true: my innocence is well and truly lost and I still struggle with envisaging myself the cool, calm cucumber I was on Ella's birth day. I look forward to seeing how I perform....

So there it is. One baby born. One to come. One currently in the throes of deciding what its lesson is going to be and whether it will stay to stake claim as a permanent member of a family. The cycle of life. Beautiful and shit all at once, don't you think?

I'm in "that" room

You know the one where I'm allowed to rant and rave and get out my voodoo dolls?

I am working hard at being equally ecstatic and downright miserable for myself. Two of the dearest people to me have told me they're pregnant in the past 5 days.

How 'bout you? You prego too? *sigh* Here comes my paranoid cynicism. Oh how I missed it so.

My life for a pony

"Father! You've made me the happiest gehl who ever lived!" exclaims Lisa Simpson as she canters past Homer in the episode where Homer must take up two jobs just to pay for the pony he buys for his daughter.

With three other siblings and only one income as it was, I shoulda known. I never shoulda got my hopes up that I would ever have a pony of my own. But it didn't ever stop me poring for hours on a Saturday with The Age Classifieds, trusty highlighter in hand, circling suitable steeds in the hopes that one day... one day one of my parents would let up and succumb to my subtle (and more often, not so subtle) nagging. The carefully placed newspaper, folded open to a page with half a dozen or more personally picked horses, would greet Dad every weekend.

I had forgotten all about this chapter (this very long, very stoic chapter) in my young life until I went to dinner the other night for my friend's 30th. Remember? Her older sister was there who I haven't seen since I was about 14, and let me tell you, she used to be my idol. I looked up to her for one reason and one reason alone: she had a HORSE! And a saddle. And a bridle and a hat and went to Pony Club!! Ohhhh, I shook just standing near her and her grooming kit and jodhpurs. She had me at hello. Ok, well not quite, but my God I envied her. Lots.

It was in the grip of this horsey-mania that one very special Christmas, I thought all my pleas had been answered. I graciously received all my presents. But like the fanatic I was, and knowing all the effort I'd put in to writing to Santa and circling the horses and what-not, I just knew this was the year when all my hanging around at pony club gymkhanas was going to pay off. And then those magical words from Mum: "Close your eyes and come outside with me." I could feel a pony comin' on.

I clearly remember shutting my eyes as tightly as I could, just in case there was a deal-breaker clause I didn't know about like "you caught a glimpse of the ground through your slightly parted eye lashes! Cheat! You don't get your last present now!" I did everything right. I obediently went outside, trembling.... and secretly awed at how Dad had been able to keep my pony standing still; I hadn't heard one clip-clop on the driveway yet. Wow! He must be an exceptionally obedient pony waiting out there for me, I was thinking.

And then, with edge-of-your-seat anticipation, the moment came: "Ok, Kirrily, open your eyes. Ta-da!" I could hard look, I didn't want to peek. Was it tall? Was it tan? Was it the full 14.1 hands high pony I'd been diligently pointing out in the paper every weekend for a year?

No. Actually it was red. Red with sparkles. "A brand new bike seat!" they exclaimed excitedly, with as much enthusiasm as that old granny in The Wedding Singer who gives Adam Sandler the meatballs. I tried not to look crestfallen. After all, this wasn't just SO not my pony. This was my OLD bike, just with a new seat added. Ok, so first, I went to the Melbourne Cup that year (and I may or may not have been wearing my pastel rainbow overalls - dressy yet practical, in case one of the stewards needed anyone to, y'know, ride a racehorse for them) and missed out on riding ANYTHING, and now this.

That Christmas was a great Christmas. Those were the holidays where I perfected the art of the simulated trot, on my bike, with the new seat, and my skipping rope tied around the handlebars for reins.

How's the "baby thing" going?

If I was as good at comebacks as I am at getting pregnant, I'd be the Donald Trump of the comeback world. I'd be savvy. Smooth. Cool, calm, collected. Unphazable (I made that word up. I'm a Trump. I can do what I like). Unlike George "that's what I shoulda said!" Costanza.

Our next door neighbours moved out this week. They'll be sorely missed. They and their two young boys have been the quietest, most respectful people you could hope to live next to. Hell, even their dog barks quietly (no kidding). Last week, knowing their settlement date was drawing to a close, I stopped for a rare chat with Stu as he busied himself with moving things out.

"How's all the baby stuff going?", he asked innocently, pointing to my belly. Wow, what an opener! No "How's this weather", "Are you well", "Did you catch last night's ep of The Alice" (er... and the answer to THAT one would be an emphatic "NOOOOOO! Don't even make me think about the show la la la, I can't hear you I can't hear you, bad show, bad show"). I just started replying politely, going into a fair bit of detail for the increasingly wide-eyed nice man. Well, he asked! I should have thought of a socially acceptable reply that enabled me to get out of divulging anything at all. Something to respectfully and firmly crush him and all others like him who have the balls to come right out and ask so boldly. But I didn't. Why? Because I didn't want to see him crushed, is why.

Why is it that I can be unoffended by my neighbour, whom I barely speak to or see, asking me such personal and forthright questions, and yet I don't let others close to me off the hook when they say misplaced things that are purely meant to comfort?

But I digress. Big-time.

I wanted to explain just how great the baby "thing" is going. I'm all smiles at the moment, I don't know what's wrong with me. What's this, I keep asking myself. Then I realise it's my cheek muscles flexing into a grin. Oh! Nice, different, 's unewesual.

I bought the VIP membership on Fertility Friend yesterday, thanks to the good buddies over at TTCOM. I am a new girl! I'm pissing on sticks (ovulation predictor ones) like they're going out of fashion - oh, holy shit, I hope they don't ever go out of fashion... imagine it. I'm surrounded by my temperature chart, cover lines, cervical mucus, the works. By purchasing this membership, somehow my ovulation date changed from Saturday last to "possibly" today. Hmmmmm. I've heard of stress, illness, miscarriage, etc., affecting ovulation. But never money.

What a difference a Visa makes.

Ok, I was gonna leave it there but in all fairness to my Friend, Mr Fertility.com, I have to explain to all you non-charting bods out there. There are several charting "methods" by which the computerised software plots your course through your daily basal body temp readings. I was using the basic kind of "fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants" cutting edge one, not really founded much in facts and proven method, but more the trailblazing type method. I changed it to the more sedate, tried and true method. And when I did, my coverline (the magical red line that indicates the point at which you've ovulated that all good charting obsessors aspire to during the first half of their cycle each month) disappeared. I was so relieved! It's made the mystery of my Himalayan-horizon of a chart look far more understandable. I thought my progesterone had dropped off the face of the earth, shamed and offended into obscurity by the fact that I dissed its effectiveness when I was taking the IVF clinic-prescribed progesterone support for the last couple of cycles.

But no! Methinks the progesterone lives! All hail my progesterone!

"Infertileworld" - sounds like a weird gym..

This is quite a good article. It covers some of the many very valid points. These in particular really spoke to me:

Don't say, "Isn't it time you got over this and moved on?" It is not as easy as it seems, to just ‘move on’ If you lost a parent, would you be able to move on and forget so easily? I will feel better in time, but I will never forget my baby.

Don't say, "Now you have an angel watching over you." I never wanted an Angel. I wanted to hold my child in my arms, and never let him or her go. Knowing she is an angel doesn’t help me.

Don't tell me horror stories you’ve heard” I really don’t need to hear right now that someone else has had it ‘worse’ than me, even if their story has a happy ending. Hearing about someone else’s pain does not lessen my own pain.

Don't pretend it didn't happen and don't change the subject when I bring it up. If I say, "Before the baby died..." or "when I was pregnant..." don't get scared. If I'm talking about it, it means I want to. Let me. Pretending it didn't happen will only make me feel utterly alone. It actually helps me to talk about it sometimes.

I thought the "angel" thing was just me... so many people seem to get comfort from it, but perhaps they don't! Maybe they're being gracious in the face of people saying "Oh you have an angel on your shoulder now." Bugger off, I'd rather a baby with Vegemite smeared all over her face, thanks all the same *smile sweetly*.

The only thing that strikes me about this kind of article, though, is... why are they always on websites like infertileworld.co.uk? Aren't they better placed on, er, fertileworld.com?? Because really, it's kinda like preaching to the converted and that's fairly defunct, I'd say. The same thing I found funny about my IVF Newsletters - yeah, sure, it's nice to know there are others in the same boat so you can nod your head along with it... but tucking them away inside Infertility publications is not the way to educate the people who really ought to be reading about this kind of thing.

Get out there and EDUCATE THE MASSES! Stick it on a banner ad on Ebay, off a flag hanging from the Harbour Bridge, on a St Kilda Road billboard, ....... on a parenting website......

Baby or Bust

Okies, I only now feel settled enough to chat about my visit to the homeopath yesterday.

I all honesty, I couldn't get out of there quickly enough, I was so disappointed. I primarily wanted to work on getting my weight back down - and my hormones back in proper rhythm - after the IVF cycles this year. I've put on 6kg since May because of the drugs and been charting since last week, to check ovulation and see what's going on with my progesterone, etc. Just a casual thing, not necessarily to "catch the egg", I just want to see if it's settling down, you know.

So this guy, all he could focus on was Ella! But, I mean, in a really negative way. Saying I was showing signs of suppression about her (BULL fricken shit) but then alternately trying to make me skip past the very significant fact that I have given birth, Hello! it's going to change my physiology a little dontcha think. And he was asking me all those indepth medical history questions about illness (fair enough, it's what I was expecting), but then each time I answered in terms of "since giving birth this or that has been different" he started seeming a bit exasperated that I kept using her birth as the pivotal point in my change in physical fitness!

Ugh, I felt like I didn't know myself and I really resent both him for putting me in that headspace and myself for allowing him to put me there! So disappointed. $90 it cost me. I feel like the process with him would be snail-pace slow, because he's going to waffle through all this mental shit that I'm past already. I refuse to pay good money so that HE can get to a point where he feels both comfortable about the fact that I've lost a child (and so many pregnancies) and also satisfied that I'm "moving on".... fuck that! I want someone who meets me where I'm at NOW, not how I was "the moment she died" (oh, keep reading, he asked me about that!) - because I'm not there in that heightened grief state anymore.

He seemed to think I was there so he could help us "make a baby". But I just want to get healthy. I don't think he quite understood me. Kept making disclaimers that it might not work for us for a while. Oh! And then came the deal breaker: as I was leaving, he says "Well...... at least you have plenty of time." I tell ya, I wanted to scream at him. But he would've gone "I thought so. Repressed." OOOOHH!! I'm supposed to go back in 6 weeks but I'm going to cancel the appointment. I don't need a practitioner who thinks I'm not "coming clean" with him about my mental state. Pfft.

What IS it with these know-alls who are so caught up in their own shock at being delivered the news about a baby that's died? I honestly think if I'd turned into a blubbering mess, he'd have been more comfortable with me. Well he can go to hell! He even asked me, "What did you do the moment Ella died?" Now, ok, I can guess why he asked that (to ascertain my physical/mental reaction to something so as to gauge how I respond to highly stressful situations), but it'd only be a guess on my part - because he didn't explain why he asked me that very very VERY personal question, and left me thinking he was just a ghoul wanting the most foul gossip to feed his own need.

Oh I was so fuming!

*sheepish* .....Can ya tell?.....

Girlies' big day out

Jazzmena: Wasn't today's walk fun! Boy I'm tired though *swans around*

Pepperini: YOU'RE tired! Yeah, well, you weren't the one who had to stick her snout in the mud and SNIFF, you heard me, SNIFF for MY toy. Look at me, I'm caked in it. I was shaking, I couldn't stop looking, I got so worried....

Jazzmena: That's right! I took your toy in the mud so you couldn't get it while I had a drink.

Pepperini: You could've helped. I was slopping around in there for ages and you just trotted around me thinking I was playing with you.

Jazzmena: But I'm so cute. I can get away with anything.

Pepperini: That's the last time I let you have my toy. You nearly lost it for good.

Jazzmena: Lost what toy?

Pepperini: *thinks* It's like living with a 6 month old.

Somebody please... make it STOP

I feel violated. I feel like I need a shower. Why can't I look away? It.Is.So.Disturbing.

I speak of course, dear reader, of Daryl Somers. Singing on Dancing With The Stars.

And if singing wasn't bad enough..... eugh, he has to shimmy (presumably because he's compere on a ballroom dance show and thinks it's fitting) and bite his lip like a badboy.

Dear God. Why did I have to see that? Suppose it could have been worse.

He could've been drumming as well.

He's a homee-whatto?

I have an appointment this arvo with a new homeopath. I mean, new for me, he's been one for many....years. Oh, forget it. Anyway, it marks a new direction for me. Or rather, one I'd lost my way with. I actually look for the most passive alternatives in most things - especially my health and how to overcome pain and illnesses. But I haven't been to see anyone specifically about getting my physical wellbeing back on track since I gave birth last January. I'm really really looking forward to it. I want to be told what to do to lose this weight. Today, I weighed myself. I am now officially only 1 kilo under what I weighed when I was 30 weeks pregnant. Let me decipher, people: that's not good!

I trust that this is the key, rather, one of the keys to the many doors on this journey.

Behind door #1: We did IVF so we could come out the other side satisfied that we don't need it. And 6 kilos heavier. But who's counting?

Behind door #2: The belief that we are moving ever forward, towards a family that is biding its time. It's not in OUR time that our family will come to us, it will happen at the right time for our babies and what they will contribute to the earth and society when they get here. They're simply not quite needed yet. I LOVE this thinking. And thoroughly trust it. As impatient as I am with the little sods for not getting here sooner. So it's not quite perfect, but Jeeeez.... me 'n Steve, we're good enough for anyone, surely. *doing my best bargaining stance like a shonky car salesman*

Behind door #3: Our bond with Ella didn't happen by chance. She really DID choose us because she knew, come hell or high water, I'd shove her message in everyone's face! Funny thing is, there really isn't "a" message. But I am lovin' her work: the realisations and 'taking stock' that people have been sharing after reading her story... well, I have no words. It simply blows me away and I am so humbled by it all.

Behind door #4: This is my dirty little secret room. This is where I keep my cynicism and impatience at this whole journey to becoming a parent (of a live child). I can be as holistically-viewed, accepting, "all in good time"-ish as they come. And mostly, I am. But sometimes I don't feel nearly quite as gracious as I am perceived to be. I therefore reserve the right, when behind this closed door, to make voodoo dolls, scream the paint off the walls, shout vile vitriol at happy people on the telly (especially that freakin' Britney Spears, ugh and whatserface, you know.. the one who married C'mohhhhn! Leyton) as long as I leave it all behind this door.

Dammit. I just KNOW this guy is going to make me cut out alcohol and coffee today. *sulks* I knew I should've downed one last bottle of champers last night... And just for Axel-f and Mizz Pesky: "See? I'veshtill gottit". But dammit to hell anyway.

The web effect of the web

I often get emails like this from strangers:

(My cousin's) life may not have been a long one but it was for a greater purpose,he taught people real and pure love.As is what your darling angel has done,her life had a greater purpose and by the way you have told your story,and the impact it leaves i think she is serving it still.
i hope i haven't rambled too much,you and Ella have made an impact on me and even though i love my children more than life itself i will think of Ella every day and cherish my kids more and never take them for granted,as you just never know what life has instore for us.
Thank you so very much and i wish you nothing but the best in your life.

I was actually just updating my website when the email came in. And what better time to shamelessly plug our home business than now...

I have no idea who this person is or how she came to read Ella's Pages. But I thank her from the depths of my heart because she's given me a feeling that happens so infrequently - she's written to me as one mum to another. The internet is really, a lot of the time, the only place I truly feel like a mum. When I see people in person, they're either too afraid to say anything or feel that "whatever" has already been said, so it's rarely if ever brought up or mentioned again. It's like they think, well there's nothing else to say - and I suppose there isn't. Except that kind of silent barrier goes up again, and I feel unable to simply say "I'm having an off day" or not even that... just "I miss Ella". I can miss her and not be about to jump off a cliff, but I think people can't comprehend that that's possible. And because the walls go up, I don't get to simply say I miss her to people. They rush to try and fix things, or alternately they rush to suggest a solution. Sometimes I just wanna say it! That's all, full stop.

It's so different to be a mum (or dad) yet not have your child here. The acknowledgement that I am a parent just simply isn't there, not even from people with whom I interact regularly. But I mean, who would think to say anything? What's to say?! There is no "parenting" going on in our house, it's not around us. We are parents by technicality only. I wouldn't say to my friends or relatives, who have small children, "You're a parent!" blah blah blah, because it's obvious by the children you can see, hear, talk to, that they are parents.

But the friends who let me talk about Ella at the drop of a hat, without breaking the silence after I've spoken with some drivel.... they're the ones worth their salt. I wonder what my old Dad would say (about these women who might be blokes) if I told them they are, without exception, the friends I've met online. Hmmm.

I myself don't even know how to be properly acknowledged for the life Steve and I created together. And this is the part that makes me feel so hollow inside: it's the waiting at a shop counter, thinking "If only she'd see the photo of my little girl in my wallet, then maybe she'll ask if I have any kids and I can tell her I have a daughter but that she's just not with me anymore". More often than not, they don't ask. But when they do, it's almost worse. They get so upset that they might have upset me! My only chance to tell someone new that I am a mum, and they wreck it by changing the subject.... *sigh*....

So I write. I write about my girl all the time - if she was still here, pushing dolls in a pram, or watching Sesame Street or helping me make cookies, I'd be writing cute anecdotes about it on here. I'd be sharing the events of her growing with everyone who'd listen. To continually honour the memory of a 4 week old baby is proving less difficult than I thought - given emails such as that one *above* I'd say we're doing a pretty bloody good job of getting the message of her purpose out.

I just made a batch of muffins and I looked out into our beautiful but empty living room... there was no one there to call over to lick the bowl. So lucky Miss Jazz got to lick a spoon (ewww, which I will wash thoroughly!). But I just had to share the moment with "Someone". And if it can't be my daughter in these times, until another child comes to bless our lives, it'll end up being one lucky dog or the other.

They'll get fat if this next baby takes too freakin' long.

Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog.

Lesson 1 - Getting your dog to pose for the perfect sit photo:

Take Dog 1's favourite bouncy Kong toy. Hold it near the camera. Dog 2 will want to sieze first available opportunity to snatch Dog 1's chance for retrieval of said toy, so will also be at attention. Point and shoot.

I love tormenting my dogs in the name of art.

See, this is what I mean

I have been looking forward to tonight ever since we received the invitation. One of my oldest, dearest friends is having her 30th celebrations tonight. We lost touch for a few years and reconnected last year, it was just days after Ella died and she called me out of the blue. I have tears now just remembering how lovely she was.

She told me she had been having trouble conceiving too. Two m/c's to date. And she was pregnant again and hesitant that the baby would live. Well, live he did, and boy what a gorgeous little munchkin he is. I finally got up the nerve to meet up with them when he was about 13 weeks old. And I cried. With joy for her and a tugging at my heart that I'll probably always, always have now when I see any new baby of a good friend for the first time. And she was so lovely. I had a quiet weep and she was just quietly with me as I held him. It felt so good.

Why did I get all the way to tonight and now feel so ratshit about going then? The weather doesn't help, it's soggy here (pfft what's new!). And I am low. I have to go and put on makeup. A nice outfit. Steve's not home yet and we leave in half an hour. It will be rush, rush, rush to get there on time and that, paired with how I'm feeling, is leaving me feeling a bit flustered.

It's something I am still learning: to brace myself just to step out in public and go meet people who are so wonderful..... but have babies! Why?! It only happens every so often now, and NOTHING I can see triggers it. I'm just relieved it doesn't happen often. The worst part is, she'd be bloody wonderful to me if I 'fessed up and told her my insides felt torn. I've been firm friends with this gorgeous girl since we were 7. I love her to death. I love her son! And then there's forever that little partition that comes up, that reads "You have a baby now, I don't know what it feels like to bring my baby home and watch it grow and nurture it. I can support you through your pregnancy because I know what that's like. I can cope while you're pregnant. I hate myself for being like this, but somedays I may not be able to cope when I see you even if your baby is not there.... simply because you have one."

Eurgh. I don't care what Van Morrison reckons, my mama never told me there'd be days like this. Nope, I'm with John Lennon on this one, Nobody told me there'd be days like these...

About moi

This is so tragic, my profile is too huge to look "noice" in the sidebar, so I am just going to slot it in here as a post. And this way, I can highlight all our m/c's! It'll be fun!

I live with my husband Steve, our two dogs, 12 yr-old rescued-from-a-shelter kelpie, Pepper and young Tasmanian-devil-petshop-bought-terror-pup Lab, Jazz. No really, that's what it said on the tag of her cage. And we bought her anyway (are we nuts??).

And here's a 'brief' history of our lengthy efforts for a family:
Jan, 2000: Pg first try, m/c @ 13wks
Took a break until 2002 - or, since I'm being caring and sharing, I'll be honest: we had 6 months of marriage counselling in 2001, following a breakdown in communication largely to do with the unresolved blow of having our first m/c. Best thing we ever did (er, the counselling, not the d&c....).
Jan, 2002: Pg first try, m/c @ 5wks
March, 2002: Pg next cycle, m/c @ 4.5wks
April, 2002: Did tests for multiple m/c, discovered Steve has a balanced translocation (chromosomes 11p:22t) which results in 1 out of 3 pregnancies ending in m/c due to trisomy/monosomy or mixture of both involving those chromosomes.
Sept, 2002: m/c @ 5.5wks
Took 9 month break. Went to a homoeopath to treat candida brought on by all the pregnancies, and lost 10kg's.
June, 2003: Our lives changed forever when I fell pg first try again with our miracle baby Ellanor, born 10 wks early in Jan 2004, without any effect of the translocation but with an unrelated congenital heart defect - she died at 4 weeks of age due to complications of a gastric virus in the NICU.
Since July 2004, we've had three more m/c's, done 2 cycles of IVF with PGD over the past 5 months, and we're still waiting patiently for that one elusive baby to call our own and share our lives with.

Despite all this, and all uncertain protests that we can't possibly be "ok" from the PIL aside, we're loving life (you can do it you know). And that new show, House.....