When Eggs Go Bad...

What I Did on my Summer Vacation

While the majority of the extended family (four adults, three kids) took off to go boating and picnicking at 9 am, I did the following:

1. Sunbathed without worrying about how big my thighs/bum/arms/stomach look in my bathing suit.
2. Swam some leisurely lengths in a pool blissfully absent of sulky near-teenagers and splashing children.
3. Read several pages of my VERY good book.
4. Made the world's finest sandwich: slices of rare roast beef piled about an inch high, with swiss cheese, lettuce and a Miracle Whip/horseradish combo on honey wheat bread God bless America...) with FOUR Claussen dill spears (the ONLY pickle worth eating...).
5. Greeted my excellent brother-in-law and my smart-as-a-button and cute-as-a-whip niece and spent the next few hours getting her sweet little two-year-old company all to myself.
6. Acted as official taste tester for said brother-in-law's extremely good dirty rice.
7. Thought to myself how nice it was not to have heard any insensitive comments about baby stuff from my wonderful but slightly clueless (in this instance) mother.
8. Opened a bottle of chardonnay from Dad's cellar and started blogging.

Ah....bliss....

Death Takes a Holiday

Yes, even we habitual aborters need a break now and again from ensuring the early demise of their gestational products, so the Church of Perpetual Conception has closed up for a fortnight so that we can spend some time in my American home town sipping Margaritas, stretching out in the sunshine, and (best of all) taking advantage of the very favourable exchange rate to do some shopping!

That's all good, as they say, though it is marred by one small thing...Home town equals home equals Mother.

So far we've had:

Oh look! What a nice top...Oh it's maternity...Don't you find that happens to you all the time?! I see such cute things and then they're maternity (continue in the ven for 5 minutes while I avert my eyes so as not to have to look at the clothes I should be wearing right now if it weren't for my Silver Cervix status.

I'm making you a baby quilt. [Continues after my stunned silence and weak protestations that, erm, actually, I may not be able to HAVE a baby] Well, if you can't, then give it to your daughter when she has a baby. [I should point out that I do have a 12-year-old from a former, and very unhappy, marriage to a fuckwit.]

I saw X today [the mother of a pregnant friend]. [I summon up the courage to say, gently, that I find it hard to talk about said friend as her due date is the same as mine would ave been for my lost twins.] Oh. [Pause] But you're happy for her, obviously.

My mother, bless her, just doesn't get it.

On the upside, my father has stocked the fridge with wine, beer, champagne, and booze of many varieties, and with all my favourite foods (including pickled okra). So, all in all, I think I'll survive.

I'll be updating periodically, when I'm not too drunk or obscenely bloated with food.

We Have You Down as a Bronze Spleen

I am antsy about the whole Silver Cervix thing. Not only did it take 3 weeks for us to even get the offer of an appointment, but the appointment date wasn't for 6 weeks hence. For a 36-year-old breathing down the neck of 37 and wondering just where her ability to carry a baby disappeared to, this is a long wait.

So yesterday, I decided to at least give them a call and find out what to expect at my first appointment. Would I have blood tests and an ultrasound there and then or would I have to wait another 3 or 4 weeks for that? What exactly is the time scale on all of this? Was I likely to be menopausal by the time we had any answers? The conversation went like this:

Me: Hi, my name is Lola Badeggs and I have an appointment at the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic on the 6th of September. Could you tell me a little about what will happen during that appointment?

Silver Cervix: Sure. You'll come in, have a scan and blood drawn, then you'll see an obstetrician...

Me: [Interrupting] An obstetrician? Really?

Siver Cervix: [Pause] Well...it is the Early Pregnancy Clinic.

Me: No, no. I'm supposed to be attending the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic.

Siver Cervix: Oh, sorry. I guess I misheard. Let me grab the diary for that clinic... [long pause]... OK. You said the 6th of September?

Me: Uh huh

Silver Cervix: Hmmm. I don't have your name down here and it looks like Professor Hotshit, who deals with recurrent miscarriage patients, isn't even here that day. Can I call you back this afternoon and let you know what's happening?

Me: Um, sure, I guess. Thanks.

So, yes, even after 4 weeks, it would appear that an appointment isn't necessarily on the cards. And, oh yes, if you're wondering...no one has called me back yet.

This morning, I called on the private medical insurance provided by my employer and have an appointment with a different consultant on the 25th of August. Fingers crossed my policy will cover everything I'll need to have done (and that I don't get sick for another 12 months!).

Part of me is bemused and amused by it all, but part of me is just a little pissed off. I shouldn't have to double and triple check that appointments have been made. I've passed the magic 3-losses mark; I've earned my brass plaque with 'Habitual Aborter' on it; my uterus has been sucked empty so many times it thinks it's a juice box. I don't think it's too much to ask for the NHS to actually have a plan!

Well, the joke's on them. I have a plan and they're not in it. Or maybe that's what they were aiming for the whole time.

Blogtastic

I love it when I log in to look at my comments and there are new people there!

Thanks to those who take the time to do it whether you're my 'regulars' or new friends. You make this all worthwhile. Please keep coming back!

You all keep me sane (well, relatively...)

Anger Comes to Call

I hesitate to write about this, because I know that some of the lovely people who actually come back time and again to read my humble blog are, in fact, pregnant. Some of them are pregnant and worried, and I don't want to add to their burden. But I do need to write about this as it's doing my head in.

There I was, going along okay. The worst of the raw grief had passed more quickly than I thought it might. I started thinking more positively about the future, because now I'm in line for testing and at least I'll be getting some high level care if I do get pregnant again. I had stopped crying every day; now it was only every so often, and it was usually not as overwhelming as the first week's episodes had been All in all, I felt I was doing OK.

Then something very distrubing happened to me. I started feeling angry. Not undirected, amorphous anger, but very intense rage at a very specific target. To my horror, I started feeling angry at pregnant women. All of them, every single one. I was angry that, as I saw it, they could swan about feeling smug and confident about their impeding bundle of joy. I seethed that they would dare to wear their bumps like some badge of honour. I raged that all they might worry about was whether labour would hurt and whether to find out the sex of the baby.

That might all sound understandable and forgivable. After all, bereavement typically involves moving through anger at some point, right? But I haven't confessed the worst part. The thing that has me tied up in knots and feeling deeply ashamed of myself is that I wished these women harm. I found myself with clenched fists and furrowed brow wishing that they would lose their babies. Wishing that they would feel the pain that I do.

The first time it happened, I was overcome with shame, but still it didn't stop the anger. WHY?! I thought. Why should they get to be happy and my husband and I be trapped in this no-man's land of pain and grief and uncertainty and worry? I have felt the anger since, although I find that it is now dissipating back into the stab of pain that I started out with. Is that progress?

If anyone has read this and feels angry with me or threatened or hurt, I truly am sorry. I don't want to feel this way. It's hateful and frightening. I have friends who are expecting, and I would be undone if anything happened to them and their babies. But this blog was always intended as being, in part, a journal. A way to explore what has happened and is happening with me and to give an outlet for the negative emotions that I often feel I must hide from people.

And it's so, so very hard right now. Where else can I turn?

Here a Bomb, There a Bomb...

Oh, but London is getting to be such fun, don't you think? The old exploding rucksack trick. I never get tired of that one...

I happened to be walking by Warren Street station today (one of the ones that was at the centre of the problems yesterday) and was stopped for an interview by a reporter for Japanese TV. (Yes, that's right, I am a star.) What did you think of the bombings yesterday?

What did I think?!

I think it's moronic. I think it's unecessary. I think the bombers are going to be fairly surprised when Allah sends them packing, denied entry into paradise.

What I actually said was what every other Briton has said: we're not afraid; we won't change our way of life. I feel a duty to say this (and to believe it, which I do).

But, Jeez Louise. It's starting to get a little boring (nothwithdatnding the variation of having bombs that didn't actually go off this time...).

Couldn't they just write to their MP instead?

We Can See You When You're 40

FINALLY we heard from the Silver Cervix folks about my appointment to the recurrent miscarriage clinic. It only took 3 weeks. Eagerly we ripped open the envelope to find out how soon we'd be seen. It may have looked something like this.

Congratulations MRS SMITH!!!

You've been selected to attend the Silver Cervix Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic! Only 1% of women of childbearing age get this opportunity. Are you cracking open the CHAMPAGNE yet?

Your Silver Cervix Experience will start with an all expenses paid* trip to the beautiful JOHN RADCLIFFE HOSPITAL. With its extensive grounds and restricted parking, the JR is one headache you'll never forget.

Our representative will meet you in the shabby chic waiting room, where you'll be pampered with a stack of germ-ridden, 6-year-old issues of Senior Living while our harried consultant keeps you waiting. Can you STAND the excitement, MRS SMITH?!

Once you're in with the consultant, he will tell you what other fabulous prizes you've won! Will it be a series of painful BLOOD TESTS, or maybe a midweek trip to the ULTRASOUND DEPARTMENT? Or will you be one of the lucky recipients of a HYSTEROSALPINGOGRAM or ENDOMETRIAL BIOPSY?! You won't know until you get there!

You need do nothing right now, MRS SMITH. We've booked you in for our very first open appointment slot, so we'll see YOU in 2056!!

*Transport and parking not included. Silver Cervix is a division of the Golden Ovary Corporation.

Ok, well, maybe it wasn't exactly like that. But they only run the recurrent miscarriage clinic once a month, with the remainder of their time focusing on the high risk pregnancy patients. So I don't have an appointment until the 6th of September, which means that we won't be able to even try to get pregnant until at least November.

I'm so tired...tired of waiting...tired of waiting for yooo--oo--oou...

Contains Mild Violence and Sustained Menace

I was going to blog about serious stuff again today, namely about how every day I have to add another name to the list of people who chap my ass and make the baby Jesus cry. Today it's the radical Muslim cleric, Omar Bakri Mohammed , from leafy Surrey who opined yesterday that Britain brought the 7/7 bombings on itself because we re-elected Tony Blair, the bringer of war against Iraq.

I was going to point out to Omar that according to a recent MORI poll, the single most important election issue for Britons was healthcare at 67%. Iraq made the list in 14th place, with 18% citing it as the most important issue, but it really wasn't the deciding factor.

I was going to say that Britons really have a lot more on their minds than the sensitivities of a bunch of bloodthirsty criminals that subvert a perfectly decent religion to attain their goals.

I was going to comment on the sublime ridiculousness of this man praising and advocating the exploding of British people while he lives on government benefits provided by the taxes of the very people he'd like to see dead.

I was going to show you this quote (from this site):

Asked what constituted a legitimate target, Bakri said: “We don’t make a distinction between civilians and non-civilians, innocents and non-innocents. Only between Muslims and non-believers. And the life of an unbeliever has no value. It has no sanctity.”

and then touch briefly on the prevalence of Muslims killing other Muslims, as a sidebar. (Can you say Baghdad, Algeria and Chechen Rebels? Go and say it to Omar. Did he slap you? Then you said it right!) Clearly the life of believers don't hold much value, either. At least one died in the London bombings, and many more are injured.

But the thought of doing all that made me so tired, so bone weary. When will it end?

So, instead, I will share with you one of my favourite jokes:

Q: Why does Bill Clinton wear underpants?
A: To keep his ankles warm

Now, maybe tomorrow will be better!

...Home of the Golden Ovary Award

In the UK, after a few miscarriages all sorts of doors start to open up to you. There's the very exciting prospect of going from being a normal, run-of-the-mill premenopausal woman to being pegged as a habitual aborter. And all the fun of guessing which firends will suddenly be 'too busy' to call, because they haven't got a clue what to say to you the third time round. (How often can you fall back on, "Well, it must have been meant to be" after all?). But by far the most exciting prospect is that after 3 losses you're finally eligible for testing on the NHS.

The difference between miscarriage no. 2, when the docs insisted it was just 'shit luck', despite my pleas for help, and miscarriage no. 3 was legion. Suddenly I was a woman with a problem, deserving of every consideration and assistance. The sensitivity that, thankfully, I had experienced throughout, became more focused, more supportive and more willing to seek answers.

Within 8 hours of my third visit to the emergency gynaecology clinic, a consultant gynaecologist had written a formal referral letter to the Silver Star team, who deal with high risk pregnancies and recurrent miscarriage. (I immediately took to calling it the Silver Cervix Club.) At that point, however, things slowed down. I was now in that most stagnant of systems, known as the NHS referral procedure.

When your country's healthcare system is socialised, you get used to waiting around a lot. I'm lucky: my General Practitioner is part of a large practice and patients can see whatever doctor is available. That usually means I can get an appointment the same day. But once you get referred to a hospital, it becomes a different story. Waiting list of 18 month, 2 years, for, say, hip operations are not unheard of. And even in the best of circumstances, it can take weeks just to get an appointment allocated to you.

That's where I was on Friday. Two weeks after my last miscarriage, and with my biological clock ticking at high volume in my overwrought mind, there was still no sign of an appointment. So I did what any good Pushy American Broad would do: I rang up.

God, but the woman was nice. Understanding, supportive, sweet. She totally understood my anxiety. She took down all my details again. She let me know that the lady who deals with referrals and setting first appointments was on holiday until the 21st, but would deal with it as soon as she was back. She took a few more details.

It wasn't until about an hour after I hung up that I realised I hadn't really made any concrete progress, in the form of an appointment, say.

I had, however, discovered that the people I'll be dealing with appear, on the surface anyway, to be as sensitive, understanding and dedicated as all those who have dealt with me so far (notwithstanding the gynae ward nurse with vagina issues...). More than one medical person (GPs, nurses, etc.) has mentioned that the Silver Cervix doctors are some of the best in the country. If they can't fix me, I ain't broke.

So at least I have an appointment to get an appointment. I was assured that my file was on the top of the pile to be dealt with, and I decided to believe it. I'm on my way towards comprehensive testing involving endless vials of blood, several pelvic exams, and umpteen ultrasounds pre- and (hopefully) post-conception.

Welcome to the Silver Cervix Club. I bet I'll fit right in.

What is WRONG with People?!

From islamonline.com:

"Despite the fact that Muslims were quick to condemn the atrocity, the Muslim Council of Britain, the main body of British Muslims has received thousands of hate mails and threats in less than 24 hours."

Where do you even start with ignorance and hate on this scale? It's enough to make you despair.

I read an article in the London evening paper yesterday about a young Muslim woman waering a jilbab who happened to be outside of King's Cross Station when one of the bombs went off. She put her first aid training to use helping to stop bleeding, and placing victims in the recovery position. She was shocked and horrified by what she saw.

One her way home, a repectable looking man in a 3-piece suit eyed up her attire with obvious distaste and told her to "go back to your own country". Now, which one do you think is the more respectable? The woman who put her own safety aside to help the wounded, or the besuited businessman who mindlessly equates her religion and mode of dress with a fundamentalist faction which seeks to cause harm?

Fundamentalism by definition takes a narrow, proscribed view of what is right and wrong and seeks to establish it as the one and only truth. Our best--our ONLY--defense against it is tolerance. We must believe in it and live it, and at no other time is it more important that when a fundamentalist group has taken such drastic, shocking steps to spread their message. If we react with fear and closed-mindedness, such as that businessmen did, then we begin to lose.

The darker side of such unthinking reactionsim is that it plays into the hands of al Qaeda and other groups who need a steady supply of new recruits. Again from Islamonline.com:

...there is growing anger and frustration among the Muslim youth that Muslims are being accused by the media and no sensitivity or concern is shown at the fear psychosis being created in the wake of it.

The more we marginalise and accuse, the more we make unfounded assumptions that if one Muslim is evil so must they all be, then the more we create the very climate in which fundamentalism can thrive. Hate begets hate begets hate. Imagine a teenage Muslim boy. He's seething with hormones like every other teenage boy. He's a bit bored, and now he's getting singled out by non-Muslim peers and the wider community as being an outcast, dangerous, "go back to your own country". Now imagine someone tells him they know a way to be a "good Muslim" (and make no mistake, these terrorists believe they are going staight to paradise for ridding the world of the heathen) AND to get back at all those who have marginalised him?

No doubt I am oversimplifying. It's a huge issue, and I don't have anywhere near the subject knowledge or critical thought ability that it takes to really get to grips with the topic. But I find it deeply worrying and upsetting to know that there are people out there for whom the bombings provided an excuse to bare their hatred.

Creating more hatred and fear is not the answer. The world will only be at peace when we realise that hate and fear can have no place.