Mother's Day

It’s been a while yet again! I’ve been in a bit of a fog for the past few months, which I’ll write about in the next entry.

On Sunday, in Australia, it will be Mother’s Day. Along with this day will come all the familiar thoughts and emotions that those of us who can’t have children often encounter. The grief and sorrow, and even bitterness sometimes, and the “why not me?” and “what did I do wrong?”.

Last year I met one of my friends, who also can’t have children, for lunch. She said to me that one of the hardest parts for her is the messages that accompany Mother’s Day that suggest children choose their parents. For example, “thank you for choosing me to be your Mum.” It sounds like a lovely sentiment – but there is a definite sting in there for us.

As my friend said, it implies that there are children who looked at us and went “Nup – not good enough – I’ll head over to the drugged up, abusive couple down the road thank you very much.”

Or, perhaps even more difficult to fathom, the children who did come along, but didn’t stay due to miscarriage, picked us but then changed their minds.

This really hurts. It really, really hurts to think about.

Am I saying that people shouldn’t write this type of message on their Facebook walls? By no means. They should if this is what they want to do. All I’m asking is to be aware that friends and/or family members who can’t have children might find it difficult to read these kinds of sayings, and when they do they may feel their hearts break a little for the millionth time.

Be aware and be sensitive, as it’s a hard enough day for us as it is.

Hayley...

In my entry on the 31stof January I mentioned Hayley, and that I wasn’t quite ready to write about her. In the last week something happened that brought her back into my mind and I want you to know about her now.

What happened last week was in the Adelaide Railway Station. A man was yelling at a woman because she was having difficulty using the ticket machine (which I, myself, have found confusing at times). He called her a “f**king idiot” and “bloody stupid” etc. My rage skyrocketed and I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing and told him not to talk to her like that. He scurried off like the low-life creature he was. Sadly, despite the railway station being reasonably busy, I was the only one that spoke up. What a society we live in!

Well – this incident brought back memories and emotions that I haven’t felt in years.

In 1998 I was in an extremely unhealthy relationship. Many things happened in that relationship that made me feel humiliated and degraded, including being talked to like that man spoke to the woman. It was tough to get my confidence and sense of self back, and it surprised me how easily I slipped back into feeling those old “I’m no good, I really am stupid” thoughts and emotions again. Other things happened in the relationship that I would rather not write about as they are too personal, but I am facing them now and I believe I will become stronger through that.

One of the hardest things in the relationship was when I had a very early miscarriage. I was only about six weeks along and I never had a pregnancy test, but I knew. My period was late (and it never was) and other signs were there. Then she left. I don’t really know if the baby would have been a girl, but I felt like she would have been, and I would have called her Hayley. She would have been nineteen years old next month.

When I told the “man” I was in a relationship with about the miscarriage, his response was along the lines of “well, it’s lucky you lost it.” Even now thinking about those words stings my heart. She would have been his child and he had no love at all for her. Wow!

To cope with this, as I did often then, and still do sometimes now, I wrote a poem for Hayley.

Whisper

A whisper on the whisper of the breeze

Through my body

Changes as ancient as the sea of time

Announced your presence

Within a heartbeat

I knew you

I loved you

I dreamed forward to the day

That my arms would hold you

I did not know

That you could not stay

That you would slip away

Almost unnoticed

Except that I felt you

Dancing with my body

Taking your part

They say it’s for the best

For the best maybe

But I’ll always wonder

Wonder about you

My baby

Counselling and stoicism…

Earlier this year I was considering going for counselling after my operation in January. This was due to the surgeon finding endometriosis, which very likely could have contributed to my infertility but was something the IVF clinic we went to never looked into, let alone mentioned. I was feeling very angry and let down and the grief about not having children reared up violently.

I haven’t gone to counselling.

This time I found, after a bit of time, I didn’t feel that I needed it. I found that I have moved through the grief and pain (although it did rise again after my last operation in June) and have come to a point where the anger is not overwhelming and I no longer feel guilty that I let our children down.

It was only since losing Ari that I realised that the need for counselling had gone. This wasn’t because I thought that I needed counselling after losing Ari, but rather that I realised that I know things about myself that I didn’t even know I knew – how’s that for a mouthful!

I used to be a positivity nut – and when things weren’t going my way or I thought they were unfair I would try to control everything to make the situation good again, or I would look for a very good reason as to why things weren’t going my way. I didn’t recognise back then that what I wanted was for things to go my way – I just thought that because I was thinking positively about certain aspects of life that they would happen the way I envisaged.

Even after we couldn’t have children I had this idea of how life was going to be for Kirby and me and that was the way it was going to be. If we couldn’t have children then surely this new vision of life would become a reality? It would be completely unfair if it didn’t!

It didn’t. Well, not completely – things have happened that we hoped for, and things have happened that we wish hadn’t.

My mother-in-law said to me the other day that there is something different about me this year – that I seem more settled in myself. And that is how I feel.

Life has its ups and its downs – I have very little control over it really. I do what I can do and then the rest happens due to events, people – a combination of things really.

I have learnt to accept that – most of the time! The night before Ari died, when he was in the emergency vet overnight and we knew he was very sick, I said to Kirby that it was quite possible that Ari might not come home. Kirby was surprised, I think, as normally I wouldn’t even want to entertain that idea. But, it was a real possibility, even though I hoped that what was wrong with him would be something like a blockage in his digestive system that an operation could fix.

I don’t believe that my “negativity” contributed to the outcome. How could it? Ari already had lung cancer and was going to die. I didn’t create it overnight and change what was wrong with him from something that could have been fixed to cancer. If I had the kind of power to change situations there is so much I would change in the world and I would be a god! And, Ari would still be here because I would definitely have made it so.

So, I’m not sitting here with my thoughts and emotions constantly wondering why it all happened and how unfair it all is and that life is over. Of course, I am grieving – which involves feeling sad, angry, guilty, asking why, etc. but it is a healthy grieving, not an unhealthy grieving. I hope that makes sense.

Stoicism is something I have been reading about lately – once again thanks to Oliver Burkeman! Being stoic – as it is defined today – was not what it originally was. Stoicism is a philosophy and one I am keen to learn more about. One of my favourite quotes from Marcus Aurelius (2^nd century AD) is:

“The cucumber is bitter? Put it down. There are brambles in the path? Step to one side. That is enough without also asking: “How did these things come into the world at all?””

I’ve still got a long way to go in understanding Stoicism, but it seems to be a philosophy that quite possibly will appeal to me the more I delve into it. Or maybe it won’t be. I don’t know and that’s quite okay.

So, with the endometriosis and with Ari and with not having children – I can grieve in a healthy way, and wonder why as part of that grieving, but that is it. I don’t have to keep on asking why and constantly dwell on it and be angry all the time.

The interesting thing about Stoicism is that the recognition of a situation doesn’t mean that you don’t do anything about it – if someone is bullying you, you wouldn’t sit there and say “well this is how it is” and leave it at that. You would say “this is how it is – now I recognise this and I will do something about it.” Perhaps it is in that recognition of the situation that the clarity of whether there is anything that needs to be done occurs, and if so, what that might be? What do you think?

Therefore, I will still be writing to the IVF clinic to ask for an explanation about why they didn’t look into endometriosis – because I believe this will be a healthy thing for me to do and may prevent them from failing someone else in the future as they did us. After that, whether I get a satisfactory answer or not is out of my control, and I will leave it be.

Ari...

Well – this past fortnight has been extremely sad and Kirby and I are still in shock.

Our nine year old German Short-haired Pointer, Ari, was absolutely fine a few weeks’ ago. He played, ate, and was the silly larrikin he always was.

Then about a fortnight ago he refused his dinner, which he had never done before. Breakfast and dinner time were the best times of day for him!

I took him to the vet and it seemed he had a bit of a stomach bug. I offered him chicken and rice (as per the vet’s instructions) when we got back home and he ate that down quite happily. Over the next few days he returned to his normal self.

Then early last week he wouldn’t eat again and I took him back to the vet. The vet took blood and tested it, and everything was fine. He did have a yeast infection in his ears and it seemed he also got something in his eye – so we started treating both of those things.

Ari ate the next day and we planned to take him to the vet for a check-up later in the week.

Then on Thursday night Ari started breathing really heavily (using his entire body to try and breathe), he was having trouble walking, and looked terrible. We rushed him to the emergency vet and they admitted him as he was clearly in pain, and they told us they would do scans on Friday and then call us with the results.

The results were not what we what we ever thought we would hear. Ari had lung cancer.

Kirby and I went to see him. He could barely walk, and just wanted to lie down. He knew we were there, but didn’t wag his tail – he just didn’t have the energy. He couldn’t lift his head, and so I sat down on the floor and lifted his head onto my lap and patted him. Kirby sat down on the other side of Ari and stroked his head.

The vet came in and Kirby went to stand up, but the vet sat down on the floor with us – which was lovely for her to do. She explained it all. He had a large amount of tumours in his lungs, which was why he couldn’t breathe properly, and there was no treatment because of the stage of the cancer. We could have had him go for more scans (more invasive) to make sure it was cancer – but the vet said she was 99% sure it was. The tumours were the shape of cancerous tumours.

We were given time alone with Ari to talk about what we would do, but really there was only one thing we could do. He was in so much pain – it wasn’t fair to keep him going any longer.

The vet came back in and Kirby and I held Ari and patted him as the vet gave him the injection to put him to sleep. He stopped breathing and slipped away from us.

Just as I wrote that last paragraph I felt that tightening in my chest that happens when somebody tells you bad news.

This is just a bad dream…surely? 

My weekend...

Wow! What a weekend of ups and downs and challenges…which all started on Thursday.

On Thursday I had my follow up appointment with my gynaecologist and I mentioned to her that I have been having a pain that feels like something is pressing on the left side of my lower abdomen, and every now and then a sharp pain that sometimes makes me double over and gasp. She explained that sometimes there can be a build-up of fluid on the ovary side of the clip that was put on fallopian tube.

So I’m off for an ultrasound on Friday and then another appointment with my gynaecologist Thursday week.

I learnt some more about my endometriosis as well. It was not just a little bit, but is at stage three. There are four stages from one to four with one being the least amount of endometriosis and four being the most – although the amount of endometriosis does not equate to the symptoms or pain a woman can feel. A woman can have stage one and be in a lot of pain, while a woman can have stage four and not feel anything.

It seems I have stage three with much of the endometriosis in places where it cannot be removed.

I’m not sure what is going to happen from here, but much will depend on the ultrasound findings, but possibilities are further surgery and a possible hysterectomy. Which I do not want. I definitely do not want a hysterectomy if at all possible.

Friday I was one very unhappy chicken. When I went in for the uterine ablation and the clipping of my fallopian tubes I was looking forward to a simple procedure which would leave me with far less monthly bleeding and therefore an increase in energy. I was really excited about feeling good again and being able to get on with life. But, as can happen with all of us, it wasn’t so simple and things still aren’t sorted out.

So – Friday. I went out to the pond to find one of my fish, Sahmi (a golden comet), had died – he lived in the little pond with Uthai (another golden comet), and Jade and Jasper (my catfish). As my regular readers will know I love my fish. They all have names and they are very friendly.

I had to do a water change in both of the fish ponds and so I did that and put the fountain back in the bigger pond. I went inside to do some other things that needing doing. Later I went back outside and my big pond had tipped over and much of the water was gone. The dirt underneath was a quagmire and the pond was floating. I panicked as I couldn’t see my big fish (Rose, Ash, Billy, Jamie, Flint, Gertie, Myrtle, Faith, and Mai). I pictured them having gone through a hole in the bottom of the pond and having disappeared somewhere in the mud.

I ran into the shed and grabbed the first plastic box I could find to put any of the fish I could find in. While doing so I shut the garage door on my thumb – ripping some of the skin off and bruising my nail. It was very, very fortunate that as I emptied the big pond I found each and every one of my babies.

I rang Kirby in tears – I just didn’t know how I was going to cope. Being the amazing man he is, he talked me through my feelings and suggested sitting down with a coffee and doing some deep breathing. I did so and felt much better – although my thumb was really hurting by this stage!

Onto Saturday. Kirby and I found that the area beneath the pond was extremely soggy and far too soggy to put the pond back in, unless we wanted it to float and tip over again. Kirby’s Dad came over and suggested we put two large holes deep into the ground and fill them with gravel so that any water would drain away more easily, now and in the future. Kirby did this, but by Sunday the ground still hadn’t drained enough to put the pond back.

On Sunday we decided that the best option, as the fish couldn’t stay in the containers for much longer, would be to empty the little pond and put Uthai, Jasper, and Jade into the big pond. And then we could put the big pond where the little pond had been (on stable ground) for the time being until the water in the big pond hole drained away.

I began emptying the little pond. Uthai was easy enough to catch, and being the easy going fish that he is he was quite happy in the container I put him in until the big pond was ready. As I emptied the pond further I started getting worried as Jasper and Jade were nowhere to be seen, which was unusual as they are curious and like to know what’s going on – especially Jade.

I eventually found Jasper. He was dead on the bottom of the pond. Then I found Jade, she was very ill and on the bottom of the pond. I burst into tears and it felt like nothing could stop my heart from breaking.

The endo, the possibility of future surgery, the fact that our kids had more of a chance than the IVF clinic had given them, and my fish. It was far, far too much to take on. I actually had a dream on Saturday night (before I found Jade and Jasper) that I was in a room with some other women and there were darts, daggers, and spears sticking out from the walls. The people in control said that every now and then, with no notice, the weapons would be shot out into the room and some of us would be injured and possibly die. The only way out was to pass some tests. One of which was to be able to communicate with a dog, but I don’t remember the rest of the tests. It was really frightening – especially when I had passed a test (the dog communication one) but still had to go back into the room, with the possibility I would die, before I could do any further tests.

I’m still thinking about that dream. It is one of those ones that seemed to have a message from my subconscious.

Pretty yucky weekend all around.

Then, last night, something happened. I didn’t want to go to bed as my mind was racing and I was crying a lot and I didn’t think I would be able to sleep. I decided to go outside, in the cool darkness, and look up at the stars for a while. At first I could only see a few stars, then more became visible, and eventually I could see the white mist of the Milky Way.

I thought to myself – the Milky Way is so vast, and then there is this universe beyond that. One of the stars I could see is 1340 light years away, which means the light I was seeing left that planet around the year 670AD. The time before me and the time after me is fathomless. I’m tiny, I’m a blip (less than a blip really). My life is nothing in the vast scheme of things.

Instead of making me feel unimportant and worthless I felt a weird sense of freedom. If my life is so small and I am a speck of dust, then why do I worry about so many things? Why don’t I feel the sadness, the happiness, the love, the hate, without judgement? Why don’t I just get on with my life as it is? If I don’t really matter in the big picture then maybe I ought to live my life without all this worry and speculation and wondering what other people think of me and how messy the house is and trying to work out how I can control what happens to me. All I need to do is live the best I can doing what I believe is important.

That’s all I need to do. I can still feel the fear and loneliness, but I need to learn to detach from them so I can see them for what they are, and not hold onto them when they are no longer of any use to me. I can still feel sorrow at the loss of my fish and that our children were never born, and I can feel anger at the IVF clinic. But, I need to realise I don’t have control of everything – or anything perhaps. 

There is a freedom about this and all I need to do is embrace that freedom.

That’s all I need to do.

Some of my beauties...

The letter...

I went to see my doctor not long after my last blog entry. And my apologies for the time between entries! I’ve a couple of big projects to do and I haven’t been feeling too brilliant – although much better now.

Back to the doctor. She was amazing. I told her how I was feeling and that I wanted to go and see a counsellor. She agreed it would be a really good idea and we worked out who would be best for me to go and see. My doctor also offered to spend time, right there and then, talking about the endometriosis and how I was feeling about it all.

I won’t go into all of it, but she basically validated what I was feeling – which was very important as I now realise. To have someone who doesn’t have a personal link to me (as family and friends do) say that my thoughts and feelings are rational was so comforting – I’m not crazy! At least not on this issue…

My doctor suggested that I write a letter to the IVF clinic that we went to and let it all go. Write exactly what I feel and say exactly what I want to say – let it rip and use all the angry words I want to use without any holding back. And then, if I wanted to later, I could write it in a more appropriate way and actually send it to the IVF clinic manager.

I wrote the letter about a week after seeing my doctor. It was really therapeutic. I started off with my incredibly angry words, and then through the letter ended up claiming myself and my healing back.

I have decided to share the letter with you as it shows the thought process that I went through while writing it – from unbelievable anger at the clinic to claiming my own self again. I have blacked some of the letter out due to the words not being necessarily appropriate!

I will still be writing to the IVF clinic formally and seeing a counsellor, but writing this letter now has been an important and valuable first step in working through these messy emotions.

It's how I feel...

It’s been just over a week since my day surgery. It went well – except that I ended up staying in hospital overnight as the surgeon had to do a bit more to me than originally anticipated.

It turns out I have endometriosis, so the surgeon cleared that up, my blood pressure dropped, I was in more pain than I certainly anticipated, and I was admitted. Fortunately I only stayed one night and was able to come home. I am so thankful for Ashford Hospital here in South Australia – the best medical care I could have hoped for.

For the first few days I was limited as to what I could do – in other words it was bed or the couch. And the worst was not being able to have my cats on my lap and not being able to pat my dogs or play with them. I’m feeling much better now and slowly being able to do more and more.

At least I’m feeling better physically.

Mentally?

Spiritually?

I’m struggling big time. It changes from day to day – Wednesday was a not so good day, yesterday was a good day, today is a bad day.

It’s not the fact that I’ve had an operation that has forever taken the choice of trying for a baby again away from me (which is something I have accepted). The reason I am struggling is that I have endometriosis and despite going through IVF and seeing a gynaecologist back around that time with symptoms associated with endometriosis (like infertility – duh!) nobody even bothered to investigate it as a possibility.

If they had – if they only had – it might have been addressed and we might have our child here with us right now. I am really struggling to come to terms with this.

I know that there is a possibility that I still wouldn’t have become pregnant, but the fact that further investigation was not done at the time is just beyond my comprehension. Why didn’t they check? I had the fatigue, I had the pain in my abdomen and lower back, I had the painful period cramp, I had had miscarriages, and I damn well couldn’t have a baby. What went wrong? You know I even recall them saying that I didn’t have it as they couldn’t see it on any scans – well guess what – the only way to truly know if someone has it is to do a laparoscopy (like I had last Thursday).

I am so furious. I have tried not to be angry and to “let it go” knowing nothing will change, but that isn’t working so much and I feel like I am being eaten up inside.  Instead I am going to let the anger and grief and whatever other emotions occur have their space, and deal with them instead of trying to bottle them up. I will cry, rage, talk, meditate, just “be” out in nature, play with my dogs, hug my nephew, throw tantrums, consider how blessed I am, tell Kirby I love him, and swear my head off.

But I’m not going to pretend I’m fine.

That would be a lie – because I’m not.

One thing that I know will help me now is to say this to you who are having trouble having a baby – if you even remotely suspect that you have endometriosis, stand up for yourself and demand that it be investigated. And don’t let them put you off by saying your scans don’t show any signs of it – insist on a laparoscopy.

And please, please, please – if you do go through the tests and find you do have endometriosis, and it is treated, and you end up with that miracle in your arms – please let me know. It would help to mend my heart to know that something good might come from sharing my experience with you. And photos too please! Lots of photos!

My love, as always, to all my readers, and thank you for your endless support.

New fish babies…

The sadness continued after my last entry as on the following weekend the last of the four babies I bought in recent months, Clancy, died. This left little Angel alone and quite despondent. I know that fish used to be thought of as quite brainless – but research is showing that they do have emotions and form types of friendships with other fish.

So, poor little Angel (who is normally quite outgoing) was hiding behind the rock in the pond, barely eating, and not coming out to see me when I called to him.

I couldn’t leave him all on his own and so I cleaned the pond thoroughly to make sure there were no remnants of whatever it was that made Clancy, Dickon, Ned, and Loki so sick – this even included wiping over the water snails so that there was as little algae as possible on them. Kirby and I then went to a pet shop (NOT the one I went to before!) to get three new babies.

I couldn’t decide between three different types, so I got one of each – an orange comet, a yellow comet, and a calico fantail.  After the staff member put the three fish into a bag for me to take them home I asked her if the fish all spoke the same language – you know, because they are different types. It took a moment for her to realise I was joking!

The babies have settled into the pond nicely. As soon as I put the bag in the pond Angel was out from hiding, doing crazy swims around the pond, coming up and looking through the plastic bag at the newcomers, doing another crazy swim, then peeking into the bag again, and so forth. Needless to say he is a happy little fish now with his new friends.

I named the yellow fish Uthai (which is Thai for rising sun), the calico fish Dana (which is Irish Gaelic for cheeky – which suits her well), and the orange fish Jupiter – just because it’s a cool name.

I won’t forget the other fish I had – and these new fish don’t replace them in my heart – I still love Clancy, Ned, Dickon, and Loki. But, there isn’t a quota on the love we can feel and so I can easily love my new babies as well as, and not instead of.

Beautiful Clancy

From top to bottom - Dana, Uthai, Angel, and Jupiter

Strange jealousy...

This week I want to talk about something that I experienced in the early months of us realising we would not be able to have children.

It seems a strange thing to have thought now, but then, when we are grieving our thoughts are often different to those we would normally have.

I mentioned a few weeks ago that we only have photos of our children as embryos. Wow – this is hard to write about…as I feel a bit ashamed about it (although I tell myself I shouldn’t.) I used to be jealous of people who had children, of course, but I also was kind of jealous of people who had had a still born child.

I didn’t, and don’t, actually wish a still born child on anyone and certainly not on ourselves. I can’t even begin to know what it would be like to have a child and for them to have died before they took their first breath.

What I was jealous for is that they got to hold their baby and have photos with them and show the baby to their family and perhaps friends too. Their baby, their child, was real. Ours were just a flicker for a few days and nobody but us and the medical staff saw them. Our parents couldn’t hold them – we couldn’t say “look at this beautiful angel that we created.”

Even now my arms are aching to hold them.

It’s a strange kind of jealousy – actually I’m not even sure, now, that jealousy is the right word. Perhaps it’s more that I wished for something more than what we had – even if it was just to get to hold our child. To have those photos and to see their faces. I wanted to take every part of them into my memory.

We didn’t get to do that and sometimes I think that our loss is not even viewed as a loss because of that. But, we did lose something precious.

It’s impossible to compare losses and it’s certainly not a competition. What am I trying to say here? Perhaps that there was nothing for us to hold out and say “see what we have lost – we created this and we had dreams and hopes for this and we loved this…and now it’s gone.”

Our pain about our loss was ours and the pain my friends have felt about their loss was theirs. There’s no scale to measure which was stronger or bigger or worse – but both losses and the grieving for our children were, and remain, real.

I feel that this entry is a bit all over the place, so let me know if any of it doesn’t make sense. xxx

Time heals all...

At least I was thinking maybe this was the case…

I realised a couple of weeks ago that I hadn’t been thinking about babies and IVF and infertility. And it surprised me, because in previous years I had always experienced feelings of sorrow, guilt, and even anger, as April approached.

I was positive that this lack of conscious thought about April meant the wound of not being able to have children had healed. The scar tissue had become so strong that it wouldn’t tear open again this year to leave my heart and arms empty.

It crossed my mind that perhaps the souls of my babies had moved on. Maybe they had let me go and I had let them go too.

I felt strong.  It was over it. Time truly does heal all.

Then I went to the supermarket.

There were prams everywhere. There were babies everywhere from newborns to almost toddlers.

Parents held the hands of older children, corrected their behaviour, laughed with their children, called them back to their sides when their kids had wandered of, and, sadly, there were also “parents” who seemed to take great joy in belittling their children in public.

That old familiar loneliness and emptiness arrived so suddenly that I struggled to keep the tears in my eyes from falling down my cheeks.  

We didn’t even get to the stage of egg collection with our first round of IVF. No embryo was created. Still, I think about the child we could have had – the little boy or girl who would be turning six this month.

Who would that little person have been?

We’ll never know.

I tend to think about the child that could have been from our first IVF round as their due date would have been our wedding anniversary.

When we married we had a picture of what our lives would be like – and that included having children and raising them as best we could. There were no doubts that this dream would become a reality. After all, our friends and family were having children and never had any problems – so why would we? It never even crossed our minds that we would.

Our wedding day...

And I can never forget those dreams or that potential child, and I don’t think a time will ever come when I feel all okay about it. I will never be “over it”, and time doesn’t really heal all.

I also know that missing my child doesn’t mean I’m not strong. Perhaps it actually means I am strong – because I can think about our children, grieve for them, while still being able to love and feel and live.

Happy sixth birthday angel child.

Bathurst with our boys...

Kirby, my husband, could possibly be the biggest motor racing fan in the world. You name the race and he will be there – and if he can’t be there then he will be watching it on the television.

For his fortieth birthday Kirby wanted to go to the Bathurst 12 hour race in New South Wales, and this is precisely what we did in the past fortnight. Some people may think I was dragged along to the race, but I actually enjoy motor sport too – although after three days of it in a row I could quite happily not see any motor sports for a while.

We had a fantastic time watching the cars, meeting some of the drivers, walking around the Bathurst circuit including going to the top of Mount Panorama. I do not know where the drivers get the nerves to drive down that part of the track! It is so steep!

We were sitting in the grandstand on the first day watching the enhanced performance cars in their qualifying race. A man and a woman walked by in front of the grandstand with two little boys in tow. I looked at Kirby and said “we would have been good parents to boys – how much would they have loved this?!” Then started to cry a little and Kirby sat and held my hand for a minute.

Six years since our last IVF round and I still get those moments when the reality of not having children is like a raw wound. I still wonder “what if”, I am sad that we don’t have our own children to share experiences like Bathurst with.

So, the more the years go on, the more I know that not having children is going to come back and sting me from time to time. I will cry and I may feel angry because we don’t have kids or guilt because I am enjoying my life even though we don’t have children.

It’s something I am going to have to accept, and in some ways embrace if I can. After I stopped being upset I thought about how it would have been to have our children with us. I imagined their faces lighting up as the cars roared down the track, how they would have had the energy to run about on the top of Mount Panorama while Kirby and I struggled on behind them, and the photos we would have got of them with their favourite drivers. It made me smile.

I can’t have my children in my real life, but I can have them in my dreams.

Bathurst was brilliant...

Going down Mount Panorama
- and this is not the steep part...

The 12 hour race is about to start...

Cookies...

A tune up...

I’m not sure what people in other countries call a car service, but here in Australia we often refer to it as a tune up. A tune up can apply to people too.

Earlier this year I was down hearted about many aspects of my life, and these feelings carried through over the following months. Minerva had died, my trip to Thailand was over, and new health issues had arisen. In October it was ten years since Kirby and I met and where we are now, with no children, is not what we expected when we first met. My self-talk told me I was not good enough – I don’t have a nine to five job, I couldn’t have children, I have stupid health issues that require numerous appointments with doctors and specialists, I couldn’t even keep our house clean and tidy as I thought it should always be, and Kirby could have done so much better than me.

I was a failure, failure, failure.

In Australia we have a great program where if your mental health is not good you can go to a general practitioner and get a referral to a psychologist or counsellor for six free sessions in a year – with the option of six more if needed.

I didn’t want to go to a psychologist – I just wanted to feel better and I thought that I should already know how to do that. But, I started seeing a psychologist in July, if anything to get Kirby off my back about going.

It seems I had fallen into the trap of thinking that I could reach a place where my life was sorted out once and for all. That I would reach a place where the hurts of the past would fade forever, and where I would accept my limitations or, even better, I would overcome them to live life exactly as I wanted to.

I know that there is no such place. Life is a series of peaks and troughs and it always will be. I know this, but I forgot. And my psychologist helped me to remember what I already knew. She helped me to realise that I had grief to work through still, and that grief is not a set process with a defined end. I may be ninety years old and still grieve for the children we never had and the life I didn’t lead for various reasons. This was my tune up.

After the first session I told Kirby I wasn’t going back as I didn’t like it and I didn’t think the psychologist would be any help. Deep down, though, I knew I didn’t want to go back because my psychologist was challenging me, and I didn’t want to be challenged. I didn’t want to think about certain things and I didn’t want to admit I didn’t have it all together.

My psychologist recognised that I tried to be strong and positive all of the time – even to the point of excusing the behaviour of people who had hurt me. Even when I talked about issues that bothered me I was set on convincing my psychologist that I was strong and could deal with it. The truth is that I am not always strong – I was putting up a front.

The most important thing I learnt is that the life I thought I wanted, in terms of a nine to five job, a big social life with lots of parties and lots of people, and a perfectly clean house, wasn’t the life I actually wanted.  I like my work at home, I like being with one friend or a small group of friends, and I love my pets so I will never have a spotless house. I’ve been working through my anxiety, particularly around house work.  I consciously left the dishes unwashed overnight and, lo and behold, the world didn’t fall apart!

I can sit with anxiety much more easily now and I can be honest with my family and friends when I’m not okay – I don’t feel the need to put up that front.

What has this all got to do with not having children?

Not having children is a major life crisis. It brings up so many fears, feelings, and uncertainties about what life is going to be like. You’re not going to be a parent. What does that mean for other areas of your life? What are you going to do?

There will be grief.

There will be times, long into the future, where you doubt yourself and whether you are good enough.

There will be times when you think all the pain and grief should be done with already.

There will be times you need to talk to someone and get some direction.

And, everyone needs a tune up every now and then.

It’s okay.

Puppy love...

Time really does pass by quickly! I thought I’d only missed a week of blog entries, but it seems it’s getting close to three weeks…whoops!

The truth is that I haven’t been feeling well lately in terms of mental and physical health. Struggling is a word that comes to mind. I won’t go into all of it as the blog entry “Where I am…” on the 28^th of July says it all. The feelings and thoughts I wrote about in that entry became more intense in early August and I’ve been to see a psychologist who has helped me immensely. I do want to share with you my revelations and the changes in my thinking…but not today…

Today I want to write about a little puppy who has kind of broken my heart this week.

Three good boys...Odi, Ari, and Charlie

We have been looking after my sister-in-law’s puppy, Charlie, for the past ten nights. Charlie is ten months old, extremely wriggly, and very, very cheeky. Our dogs, Ari and Odi, adore him. Our cats, Felix and Frankie, on the other hand, aren’t so impressed with Charlie being in the house. Frankie taught Charlie all about claws when he got too close to her. Luckily Charlie is smart and went out of his way to avoid her from then on.

As the nights passed I realised that I was regularly counting how many more nights Charlie was staying. It was six nights, now five, now only four. It was going way too quickly. I didn’t want to give Charlie back. It wasn’t “Oh, Charlie is so cute – I want to keep him” in a joking way. I couldn’t even think about giving him back. I didn’t want to and I feared my heart would break if we did. I tried to think of ways that we might be able to keep him, while knowing all along that it wasn’t an option.

Even the thought of Charlie not being here with us made me cry.

I couldn’t understand why I felt so passionate about keeping him and so desolate at the thought of Charlie going home. It wasn’t like we would never see him again and we had our four fur-kids to look after and love.

It was in the psychologist’s office, after she had asked me why I was feeling sad, that I had a revelation.  I burst into tears and said that I didn’t want to give Charlie back because it made me think of Minerva and losing her (see blog entry "Sweet Dreams..."). I miss her so much and giving Charlie back, while not the same as Minerva dying, brought up intense feelings of loss.

Charlie in his bed...

Then there was the realisation about how nice it was to have a baby in the house. Okay, I know Charlie is a dog, but he is also a puppy. He needed to be comforted more than Ari and Odi (who are seven and eight respectively) and he wanted to come inside and go to his bed to have naps. Charlie has a bed that has zippered flaps to keep him in, but he’s managed to chew a hole through the front flap. As such we put the front of the bed to the wall and put him in his bed using the flap at the top of the bed. 

When I picked Charlie up and put him in his bed it felt like I was placing a baby in its cradle.

So, Charlie filled some of the missing pieces in my heart from losing Minerva and wanting a baby. It was comforting and I didn’t want it to end. I feared that the feelings of sadness, loss, and even the anger, associated with these two losses would rise again.

It seems we never truly “get over” any loss that we experience and that grief can return, even if only slightly, with every loss that occurs in the future. And this loss might be as simple as having to give a puppy back to his owners after ten nights of caring for him.

Charlie's close up...

Charlie went home last night. I miss him so much, and Ari is very lost without his little minion, but it was heart-warming to see Charlie so excited to see his (human) mummy and (human) brother after so long. It was as it should be to take Charlie home.

And now I know that my grief about Minerva and my grief about not having a baby linger still.

To Thailand…

I wanted to write something profound about all the emotions and thoughts I felt and had this week since Minerva died, but I am just too tired. The grief over losing Minerva is taking its toll, as grief always does.

Instead – I’m just going to let you know that I won’t be writing any blog entries for the next two and half weeks. I will be leaving for my long awaited trip to Thailand on Sunday!

For those who don’t know what I’m talking about – for my fortieth birthday, instead of having a big party, I am going to Thailand to stay at an elephant sanctuary (Boon Lott’s Elephants Sanctuary) for a week and will then be checking out Sukhothai and Chiang Mai the week after that.

It is going to be quite the adventure and I will have so much to write about and many photos to share when I get back.

Sweet dreams...

Over the last week Minerva’s health deteriorated rapidly. Her breathing became more labored, she wasn’t eating much at all, and when I picked her up she would be struggling to breathe and seemed to be in pain. I was lost as to what to do and Kirby was away from Monday to Friday. On Friday afternoon I made an appointment with the vet for yesterday (Saturday) morning. I had a fading hope that something more could be done for her, but I knew that this was unlikely.

On Friday night I lay down on the floor beside Minerva’s little bed (she had taken to sleeping in the wardrobe since she became ill) and I patted her and talked to her. I asked her to let me know when she was ready to go.

In the early hours of yesterday Minerva woke me up by pulling at the covers to get in under them with me for a cuddle. She hadn’t done that since she became ill. She curled up next to me, purring, and looking at me with those beautiful green-yellow eyes. Somehow I knew she was telling me she was ready.

Kirby woke me up in the morning and Minerva was under the quilt in between us. We gave her cuddles and told her we loved her for near on twenty minutes. Kirby said that Minerva had eaten some tuna (one of her favorite foods) for breakfast.

When I got up yesterday morning I was amazed to see the sun shining. Friday’s weather was stormy and cold and yesterday was supposed to be the same. I had said to Kirby on Friday that it wasn’t fair that Minerva wouldn’t get to sit in the sun again. But, the storms and clouds held off long enough for Minerva to sit in her favorite chair by the window, taking in the garden and the warmth of the sun, one more time, while we got ready to take her to the vet.

We told the vet, at the clinic, that we thought it was Minerva’s time to go because she was getting worse. He was surprised by what we said – until he examined her. Her lung capacity was 10% and her heart was under so much pressure that she was in pain. I asked if anything more could be done even though I already knew the answer. The vet said that we could double one of her medicines, but that this would affect her kidneys, and the best we could expect was for her to live a few more weeks – if the medicine worked at all.

We knew it was time to let her go. We didn’t want her to suffer anymore and I couldn’t bear the thought of her dying during a seizure, or from a heart attack, and I especially didn’t want her to die alone.

Minerva died in our arms at 10.30 yesterday morning – 15 years, 4 months, and 7 days from when I first saw her in the pet shop and knew that she was mine and that I was hers.

My love is with you always my little angel.

My Minerva...

I haven’t written a blog entry for almost two weeks. My heart, soul, and mind have been inundated with sorrow and confusion.

Helping in the garden...

Just a month ago my cat, Minerva, would chase me down the hall, carry her blue mouse toy to me so that I would play with her, had an excellent appetite, followed me everywhere, helped me with the gardening, and loved to play hide and seek.

Just on two weeks ago I noticed a difference in her. She was vomiting up some funny clear foamy liquid. She seemed more tired than usual, and she wasn’t eating much. I took her to the vet who did tests which showed that her kidneys are not working very well at all. I was given tablets to lower her blood pressure so that her kidneys would be able to work better and I have changed her diet to include less protein and more wet food than dry.

About a week ago her breathing seemed to be more of an effort for her. It was labored and when she took in a breath her head actually wobbled. Kirby and I took her back to the vet and he did more tests and found that her heart wasn’t working as well as it should and fluid had built up around her heart and lungs. We were given another lot of medication to remove the fluid from around her lungs and help her to breathe easier.

She can have the new medication mixed with food that she likes which makes it easier, except her appetite is very low. She isn’t even interested in her once favorite food – yoghurt. So, we have to wrap her in a towel and administer it to her using a syringe into mouth. She hates it and cries and scratches. It breaks my heart and I can’t help but cry every time I do it – which is two times a day. We have to keep going though, because she may improve and her appetite may come back – we just don’t know at this stage and all we have is hope.

She had to be in our wedding photos too...

The weirdest part of all of this is that last year I had a premonition that Minerva was going to die while I was on my trip to Thailand. I leave for Thailand in a few weeks. At first, when Minerva became sick and I thought about the premonition, I believed she would definitely die while I was away, but I think about it differently now. Perhaps the premonition put me on alert, more than I might have been, to changes in her health, and now that we have her on medications she might improve and live longer.

I hope so.

Kirby and I have talked about what he will do if Minerva gets very sick while I am away and needs to be euthanized. One of the things we have agreed on is that he will not tell me should Minerva be euthanized until I return home from Thailand. The other thing is that we don’t want her to suffer. I have read of people whose cats have renal conditions and they need to have injections every day to prevent dehydration. I couldn’t do that to Minerva as she would be too stressed every time. If it came to that point then it would be time to let her go. It would also be time to let her go if she became very underweight, couldn’t control her bowels and bladder, couldn’t walk properly, or was in pain. Our vet is wonderful and we would discuss all of this with him and/or his staff as well.

I am so confused – one minute I have so much hope and the next minute I am full of fear and despair. I guess I am in a bit of shock as she has never had any health issues before and she has become sick so quickly.

I feel angry that she is sick now, when I am not going to be with her for a fortnight. I even feel angry at her sometimes. That seems cruel I guess, to be angry at her, but I’ve realized that this is part of grief. I am grieving even though she is still here. I am grieving the loss of her playing, her constant companionship, and her bundles of energy. I have tried to bargain that if she is to die that she doesn’t die while I am away, but when I am back and that she dies in her sleep lying next to me at night.

At nine weeks of age...

She might not die while I am away, but the chances of her dying in her sleep next to me, I know, are not great. Being a cat, she is hiding herself away – which they usually do when they are ill and when they are close to dying.

Minerva is fifteen years old and she has been my companion through the end of a five year relationship fourteen years ago, episodes of depression, meeting Kirby, our wedding, moving house four times, going through IVF, and grieving for our children. For two years it was Minerva and me against the world when I had my apartment before meeting Kirby.

My gorgeous girl...

She is my friend, my gorgeous girl, my Minerva Mouse. She is my fur baby. I am going to miss her more than I can put into words. 

How long have we got?

Wear a Star Day – after thinking for a day…

After yesterday’s blog entry I did a lot of thinking about “Wear a Star” day and how it seems not to include infertility anymore.

Before I wrote the blog entry I put a message on the “Wear a Star” Facebook page asking why changes were made to the day to become more religion based and to no longer include infertility. I received a response from a woman, which was:

“Don't feel excluded... Wear a Star for any little angel baby you want to represent  And its not about "religion" its just about loving people the way Jesus did... unconditionally and whole heartedly  So WEAR a STAR proudly because ALL are WELCOME!!!”

I really appreciate this comment. My fear, as often comes along, is that my loss of my babies is considered unimportant in relation to people who have had miscarriages or lost a child after birth. The loss of my babies is different to losses through miscarriage or the death of a child, but it is my pain. The comment by this woman has brought me back to realizing that other people do understand that I grieve for my children.

And with regard to mentioning Jesus – I do believe that Jesus was one incredible person with a deep heart and soul, and with a true understanding of love. So, to love like Jesus did doesn’t have to be religious – it just means to strive to care for one another and show compassion. I like that.

I’ve also realized that it is up to me and to Kirby how we remember and love our children. They are our stars when the night is dark. They shine for us.

So, tomorrow I will wear the star for my babies with love for them, with compassion for everyone who has lost children, and to honour all the babies and children who were taken too soon.

My fish Ursula...

Sad news – I haven’t seen my beautiful fish Ursula for over a week. I have to accept that she has died – fish either rise to the surface or sink when they die, depending on what was wrong.

She was eight years old and I could pat her and hand feed her, and she was one of the first generation to be born in my pond.

I love my fish very much, as regular readers of my blog know, and I feel absolutely devastated. 

Ursula when she was very small...

Pain and me...

This post follows on from last week’s post about pain. As I realised that we wouldn’t be having children I grieved, and I felt pain like none I had felt before. I was angry. I was hurt. I thought life would never be good again.

Eventually, though, the pain became less and less and then my days started to be filled with hope and an interest in a different life to the one I thought I’d have – the one I thought Kirby and I would share. This took time.

But every now and then the pain returns with great power and depth. I feel like the wound is raw. I feel inconsolable. I am angry.

I used to try and deal with the pain by focussing on it so much that all I could see was despair.  I saw only what I didn’t have and I wanted that and nothing else. I felt so awful that I wanted to tear at my skin until it bled so that I would have something to show people that represented how much I was hurting. That’s the problem pain of the heart and soul over a broken arm or leg – nobody else can see it.

I thought that to get rid of the pain I had to face it head on and exterminate it. But, that didn’t work. Focussing on the pain just seemed to give it some kind of extra power that hurt me even more.

I’ve realised that, instead of focussing on the pain, I am better off giving it space and honouring it in a way. It’s almost seems that in saying to it “okay, you’re here, here’s a spot for you until you are ready to go” takes away its power. It doesn’t have to force its way into my life with me pushing as much as I can to keep it away. It sits, it ponders, and then it leaves.

In the past few years I’ve developed a list of things to do when I feel the pain again. These things may or may not work for you, but I thought I would share them here as some inspiration for you:

Slow down and take time

The first thing I do is slow down. I put aside as much as I can – housework, my job if possible (even if it’s only for ten minutes, and I admit I’m lucky that I work at home), and other responsibilities. I move through my thoughts and feelings and observe them without getting involved. I let them be.

Then I take my time. I go through what I have to do in a more focussed way than usual. I really concentrate on washing the dishes, or playing with my dogs, or changing the cat litter.

I make sure that whatever activity I am doing I am not using it to completely avoid the pain I am feeling. Rather, I do my activities fully aware that my pain is sitting in the corner waiting for me.

Getting out into nature

I love the natural world. I love water and the night time sky in particular, as both seem to give me a sense of peace and that somehow I am going to be okay – regardless of what happens. That being okay for me isn’t limited to this lifetime, but could be after life, in a next life, or whatever happens after I die.

When I feel that pain and anger, if it’s night time, I go and sit outside and look at the stars. I think about what might be out there, how far away some of those stars are, and how some of them  no longer exist and haven’t for a long, long time. I feel very comforted by that.

I may also go to the wetlands near our house and sit and watch the water and the birds all around. I listen to the birds call to each other, I feel the wind on my face, I may realise a few tears are trickling down my face.

My pain is there with me. It is sitting right there with me. It still wants me to give it my undivided attention, but I don’t. I let it be and let nature soothe it.

Remembering…

Sometimes I find it nice to meet my anger with joy over the children I might have had. I guess this sounds strange. What I mean is that I give my imagination an opportunity to think about those little souls and what they might have been like, what they might have been interested in, what types of mischief they would have gotten into. I think about their hair colour, their eyes, and I let myself feel their little hands in mine.

This meets the pain, for me, by saying to the pain “you’re here, sure, but I won’t let you take them from me.” I hold on to the happiness I have when I think about my children, and my anger finds it doesn’t have much room to stay anymore.

I also like to light a candle, or some incense, and focus on it in reflection about what could have been. Often I feel very wistful – a bit sad and a bit happy. Once again, my pain finds it doesn’t have a lot of room to stay.

Company or solitude…

When pain comes to visit I usually prefer some solitude first. I like to let things be for a while. I don’t want anyone to come in and try to fix it all for me. Nobody can do that anyway. People who love me want me to feel better, but I do need to give space to my pain and be with it in my own way for a while.

There are times, though, when I want company. I usually go and find Kirby and get a hug, but sometimes I will have a chat with a friend or family member. I tell them how I’m feeling, and that can really help.

When it gets real bad…

Pain can be persistent, and with my health conditions, such as depression and epilepsy, I need to be aware that sometimes feelings can cross over from being with me to being destructive. When I feel that this could happen I will seek professional help. I might talk to my doctor who treats me for depression, I might seek counselling. It really depends on what I feel I need at the time.

Self-esteem…

Just as a final word, I used to think I was a failure when I felt pain and anger, and even more so if I sought professional help to deal with those feelings. I thought that I was weak. Now I realise that this isn’t so. Feelings such as pain and anger are part of being human. They are part of me being human.

I don’t welcome them with open arms, but when feelings such as pain and anger arrive, I give them some space, I look after myself, and I watch them without engaging with them, and then I watch them go again. Before, when I used to fight these feelings head-on I always lost, but now, most of the time, they gracefully exit on their own and my life is fully my own again.