When Eggs Go Bad...

Open Letter to Anonymous

I received this post today, and though I 'responded' (as it were) with my own comment, I wanted to make sure the author would see it so I'm posting it here. The comment was:

I've only recently found these blogs and have been reading back posts. Your entry today is so encouraging. I am no where near that stage yet but hearing it exists gives me hope for the future. Take care.

My reply:

Dear 'Anonymous',

Welcome. Come back if you feel you can. There is a HUGE community out here that can help you reach that stage in your own time. I would not be here without the help and support of these women whom I've never met but who are still dear to me. Stay anonymous if you prefer it, but don't be afraid to come here and cry, rant, rail and question. Sometimes there are answers, but always there is compassion, support and a deep, personal understanding of what you are going through.

Love,

Lola

Grief Swell...Griefs Well

Mr Badeggs got a phone call from his best friend friend last night. Whenever said mate calls, I always have to smile. For whenever Mr Badeggs and he get together, whether by phone or in person, they get in touch with their inner females and talk for literally hours. It tickles me to see it, every time.

I packed Mr B into the dining room to talk, while I settled down for an evening of Cold Case and House, two of the most formulaic, yet addictive programmes ever. During a commercial break, I wandered into the kitchen to graze, and something about my husband's voice made me stop. All he had said was "Oh...?" in an expectant sort of manner, and I instantly knew that 'expectant' was going to figure into the conversation at that point. I looked at him, eyebrows raised, as he listened, and then he put his hand over the mouthpiece and confirmed my premonition: "They're going to be parents again."

"YAY!!!!" I cried and actually threw my arms around Mr B as though I could somehow transmit the hug down the phone. Then I grabbed my snack and went back into the living room to watch the Cold Case team save the day.

The sob came out of nowhere, catching me completely off guard. A minute ago I had been fine. I had felt happy for my friends, who themselves experienced infertility and only managed to have their 4-year-old daughter after medical intervention. A second child, for them, is a miracle (more so, as I later discovered that they conceived naturally this time) and seconds ago I had been genuinely delighted. Yet now I was rocking back and forth on the sofa, clutching my stomach against the deep, physical pain that had somehow exploded into my heart and gut again.

And yet, somehow, it was still alright. I sobbed for a good half hour, then stopped, then started again when my husband finished his call and came into the room and knew instantly what had transpired. I soaked his shirt and ruined a suede pillow with snot as I heaved and cried and tried to form sentences with no success. But underneath it all was a strange sort of...not calm, that's not the right word...a strange sort of acceptance. This was a storm and my little boat was being buffeted, but eventually the storm would lose its energy and the seas would settle. As I choked out the half-formed words, "I'll never have another baby" I managed to believe it with all my heart, whilst simultaneously accepting my head's assessment: that my heart was broken just then so the belief might be wrong.

Through it all, there was still a strong sense of cohesion and wholeness to my life. I am complete right now, with so much going for me and so much to look forward to. A baby will only increase that completeness; the completeness does not depend on having a child. I don't know how I got here, but for the first time, the grief swell didn't defeat me, didn't define me and didn't, even for a moment, take away what I am and what I have.

I am alive, I am decent and loving, I am capable and kind, and I am not the sum of my miscarriages. They are simply a part of the core of me.

Stranger(s) Than Fiction

Sometimes, you search and search for answers. You spend days, months, years without them. You begin to believe that your questions will never be answered. You make the assumption that because you have yet to find an answer, it must mean that there is none to be found, or if there is, the answers are complex, unfathomable, meant for someone else.

And then a stranger from a Baptist Church somewhere in America speaks directly to you through another stranger.

And suddenly you have answers. Simple, humble answers that reverberate in that place in your heart you thought was dead forever: You will live with your loss, love with your loss; you need not have the faith that moves mountains, because your brothers and sisters are keeping the faith for you while you hurt.

Flicka and Chuch Lady: thank you from the bottom of my heart.

It's Official

Yup. Lola'd is now part of Urban Slang.

Now all we have to do is use it!

Poor Little Rich Lola

I'm depressed. I've spent the morning working out what I'm going to have to pay my fuckwit ex based on my new salary. In doing so, I've discovered that my take-home pay won't be appreciably more than I'm getting now, even given the payrise the new salary represents for me.

Now, admittedly, I'm going from a job where I make no pension contributions to one where I'll contribute a minimum of 6% of my gross salary. So although the net pay isn't skyrocketing, it's not like I'm out of pocket. Far from it: I'm saving for the future and that is definitely a Good Thing. But the final numbers in the take-home pay column, after deducting taxes and the money that my Malignant Jackass of an ex can steal from me by government mandate, are less than I had hoped they'd be.

I know I'm being incredibly selfish here. I know there are something like 13 million people living below the poverty line in Britain alone, who would give their eye teeth to have troubles like mine. "Oh Boo Hoo!" they'd say. "Your salary isn't being inflated quite the way you had hoped," they'd say. "Cry me a river, bitch," they'd say. And they'd be right. I'm not impoverished by any stretch. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I am financially well-off compared to many, and positively rich in terms of relationships and happiness. And anyway, the total amount that will be going to the Malignant Jackass isn't that much when compared to the money Mr Badeggs and I will no doubt end up shelling out for university and weddings and little things like that.

So why the hell am I bitching?

I think it's because lately everything seems to happen squarely outside my control. My body rejects babies like they're poison. My until-recently best friend decided unilaterally that she wouldn't be speaking to me for an unspecified period of time (presumably I was just supposed to wait around until she deigned to get back in touch). The government, in its infinite wisdom, passed legislation making it possible for them to disregard a court order and to refer to me (and treat me) as a Non-Resident Parent. Oh, and, those salary details? The government says Malignant Jackass has the right to be told what I earn. To the penny. Privacy? That's only for Resident Parents.

It all happens and I don't get a say-so. I end up feeling enraged yet powerless to change anything, so impotent that I find myself obsessively calculating income tax and pension payments just so I can have some sort of claim to my life.

To deal with this latest insult, I will keep reminding myself just how lucky I am. Mr Badeggs adores me, and we have a life together characterised by lots of laughter, affection, companionship, and great sex. We have good food, lots of wine, a warm, comfortable house, and the means to consider buying a bigger one. I have nice clothes, a kick-ass car, and too many handbags for the available storage space. I have no right to feel aggrieved. Not given what some people face.

I will look at my life, then consider what (in my opinion) the Malignant Jackass has. Or not. He has no love. He tolerates his parents. He has no significant other to share his life. He clings greedily to my daughter and shamelessly uses emotional manipulation to secure her affection. It won't last. Soon she'll see through it and fight against his suffocating grasp; it's already starting. He chooses to remain unemployed, by and large, and so has no fulfilling and rewarding work to take him outside of himself. He is inside his own head, day in and day out, without the comfort of knowing his life was spent in personal development and contributing to the greater good. He is a lonely, bitter old man with a worthless past and a bleak, empty future.

I give to charities that help alleviate financial poverty. Perhaps I should consider these payments as just another donation. A token to acknowledge his utter poverty of spirit and to express my thankfulness for the wealth of my own.

Could I have a Do-Over?

I had to do it, didn't I. I couldn't just leave well enough alone. I couldn't keep my head down and put my hands over my ears and go LA LA LA, thus completing the ritual required to avoid being Bitten in the Ass by Fate.

No sooner did I post this meditation on the injustices of the English family courts system, than my ex-husband once again oozed out from the slime pit in which he dwells to sic (sick?) his particular brand of bitterness and retribution on me.

Yes, as of yesterday, my ex is once again claiming child support from me through that worm-ridden piece of filth bastion of equitability and fairness, the Child Support Agency. And because the laws in this country are utterly shambolic, I will end up having to pay something in the region of £250 per month--that's £250 that will disappear straight down my husband's throat in liquid form or into his lungs in tobacco or, more than likely, herbal form--despite the fact that my daughter lives with me precisely half of the time and I already foot the vast majority of her expenses such as school uniforms, field trips, extra-curricular activities, etc.

Honestly, it's enough to make a grown woman weep. What, is there some department that makes this stuff up? It makes you wonder....

Scene.

[Universe Inc., Bite Me Division switchboard]

Operator: Good afternoon, Universe Inc. Bite Me Division. How may I direct your call?

Lola: Uh... yeah, hi. Um, I need some information, please, about why my life is a continuing big-pile-of-steaming-dogshit suckfest.

Operator: That would be the Persecutions and Torment Department. Just transferring you.

[Cue hold music: 'What Have I done to Deserve This' by the Pet Shop Boys]

Persecutions and Torment Drone (PAT): Persecutions and Torment. Can I help you?

Lola: I hope so. Are you the department that's responsible for the never-ending round of shittitude that benights my every waking hour?

PAT: That would be us!

Lola: Right...

PAT: Do you have a question, Madam?

Lola: Well, yes, as it happens. I just want to know... why?

PAT: Why? As in "Why the shittitude?" Well... because we can.

Lola: Because you can. You basically think up nasty little shocks and upsets to visit upon me for no other reason than because you can?

PAT: That's correct. We have a divine governmental mandate.

Lola: To wreak havoc in decent people's lives.

PAT: If you'd like to put it that way. We prefer to describe our work as 'virtual violation'. All the fun of a night in the State Penitentiary with none of the mess!

Lola: Let me get this straight...You're the people who are responsible for sending me miscarriages, an ex-husband who is endlessly inventive about ways to suck the will to live (not to mention my cash) out of me, and a daily commute designed to cause maximum frustration and stress? You're the ones who make sure that every good thing that happens in my life is immediately counteracted by one or more beatings?

PAT: Now you're catching on.

Lola: But that's just awful! How on earth can I fight the system?

PAT: Well, have you spoken to your DR?

Lola: DR?

PAT: Your Deity Representative.

Lola: Sorry, you've lost me.

PAT: Ah, well, this could explain a lot. Your Deity Representative is appointed by the Fat Chance Division as a sort of checks and balances to our work. Let me just check your file... Badeggs...Badeggs...Ah! Here we go. Your DR is Jesus Christ. Nice fellow, him.

Lola: Jesus. Right. Well, actually, I did speak to him rather a lot until recently. He didn't help very much.

PAT: Huh! Go figure. Well, you could always try his mother. I hear she takes some consultancy work.

Lola: Well, yes, but, if JC is supposed to be my DR, shouldn't he be trying to help?

PAT: Yeah...he really should...Oh. Hang on a sec.

Lola: What? Have you found something?

PAT: Yes indeed I have, Madam. And I have to say that I'm a little peeved that you didn't come clean about this to start with. I feel like Oprah! I feel like the American public who voted for Dubya! I've been DUPED!

Lola: What on earth are you talking about?!

PAT: It's right here. You're on the blacklist for DR-related intervention.

Lola: What?! But...why?

PAT: As if you didn't know.

Lola: No! I really don't!

PAT: Back when you were 16 and you asked Jesus for a new car? And you promised to go to church every Sunday if he gave you one? Well, Madam, you got that car. And Jesus has noticed a distinct lack of your buns on a pew each Sunday.

Lola: Isn't that a little petty? I mean, for the risen Lord and all?

PAT: Unfortunately not, Madam. He takes these things very seriously. Granted, not as seriously as Allah, but, well, pretty seriously.

Lola: Hmm. So, I guess I'm screwed, huh.

PAT: Oh, you have no idea, Madam. Now, how would you like to take it?

End Scene.

Genetic Origin of Molar Pregnancy?

News snippet about research that has discovered a genetic cause underlying molar pregnancies. I've always thought, personally, that molar pregnancies are just an additional slap in the face by God. It's not enough that you are losing your baby (to say nothing of faith and hope), but then you come to find out that there was never an actual foetus. That has to just take your breath away.

For anyone who has suffered this particular type of loss, know that there is research going on that could help.

http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/medicalnews.php?newsid=37209

Yes, But What Does it MEAN?

So, I've been thinking. All this infertility malarkey has been a real burr in my ass, and personally speaking, I don't want to leave this party empty-handed. I'm not talking about a baby, though obviously that is the ultimate party favour. No, I'm referring to something less tangible, yet still satisfying: I want to be remembered, honoured in some way for my contribution to the cause.

In much the same way that the word 'dooced' has entered urban slang thanks to this lovely lady, I want Lola to be laden with some deep miscarriage-y meaning. I'm thinking we could use it a bit like a golf scores. To wit:

Lola (lo' l) 1. n. three consecutive miscarriages. Ex.: Mrs Badeggs scored a Lola in her first year of marriage. 2. v. (e.g. to be Lola'd) to experience crushing loss despite repeated prayers. Ex.: When Mrs Badeggs saw the doctor's face, she knew she had been Lola'd again.

I think it could work. What do you think?

Is It Me?

I know my more political posts don't go down as well as some others, so I'll keep this brief. But the report that an Iranian newspaper is sponsoring a comeptition for the best cartoon denouncing the holoc*ust just has me losing the will to live.

I don't get it. Really I don't. It was just a few cartoons, and most of them weren't that funny or even all that comprehensible. I just cannot see what the all fuss is about. Quite apart from the fact that the disproportionate response (which itself proves the point that at least one of the cartoons was making about the apparent predilection towards violence demonstrated by certain factions), you have to wonder how the demand for religious respect while simultaneously reviling two major world religions on a daily basis can be squared.

And now, in addition to setting fire to other people's property, endorsing the murder of infidels, and generally demonstrating an all-emcompassing lack of both perspective and tolerance, some M*slims have decided to lash out at the Danes by, uh, having a go at Isr*el and pissing on the Holoc*ust. Um, yeah, okay then. That makes sense. I really hope the global J*wish community has the sense to just ignore it. It's not even worth the effort of being offended it's so mind-numbingly irrational.

Even if I don't necessarily understand why, I absolutely accept that these cartoons may have been offensive to some. A little like the video I had the misfortune to see the other day depicting J€sus in a loincloth singing I Will Survive, which was, I assure you, not that funny and actually a little sick. The difference is I did not immediately go out and set fire to something. (The WORST reaction to the video was the comment left by a viewer in the form of a prayer asking God to take the lives of those who bl*sphemed the lord: thereby demonstrating possibly the most unreservedly flawed understanding of Chr*stianity, I've ever witnessed, and far worse than a prancing m*ssiah in a nappy. But I digress.)

I have to confess that I am finding my own tolerance sorely tested in the aftermath of these cartoons. The fuckwit who decided a good protest would be to dress up as a s*icide b*mber in central London actually said, when issuing his half-arsed 'apology': "Just because we have the right of free speech and a free media, it does not mean we may say and do as we please and not take into account the effect it will have on others." Um, actually, yes it does, dude. That is the cost of freedom of speech and that is the precise reason that we have to strive to be moderate in our reactions to speech that offends us.

I treasure freedom of speech. Unfortunately, having it means I have to put up with those who wish to protest against these cartoons, or at any rate those who do it peacefully. But I don't have to like it. And I don't have to be quiet about it.

PS. I apologise for the liberal use of asterisks in an effort to avoid being Googled for all the wrong reasons. Normally, I don't bother, but I'm actually a tad worried about being tracked down by some of these lunatics.

May the Fours be with You

Daysgoby had this on her site, and because I remain stubbornly convinced that everyone else is as interested in me as I am, I thought I would consider myself tagged in spirit if not by name...

FOUR THINGS
Four jobs I've had:

1. Sales associate at The Limited at Jax Brewery in New Orleans, while at university
2. Self-employed proofreader
3. Publisher
4. And, as of now, The Big Boss

Four movies I can watch over and over:

1. It's a Wonderful Life (I start crying at the opening credits and I don't stop until Clarence gets his wings)
2. Any of the Star Wars movies from the 70s and 80s
3. Sister Act (go on, judge me)
4. Monty Python and the Holy Grail ("Come back here! I'll bite your legs off!")

Four places I've lived:

1. Southern Illinois
2. Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania
3. New Orleans
4. Oxford, England

Four TV shows I love:

1. Scrubs
2. CSI (all of 'em)
3. My Name is Earl
4. Life on Mars (A British show, and an excellent one at that)

Four places I've vacationed:

1. British Virgin Islands (Yeah. I bet you'd watch Sister Act with me there, wouldn't you.)
2. Positano, Italy
3. Lake of the Ozarks
4. Key West, Florida

Four of my favorite dishes:

1. Coriander chicken
2. Steak
3. Chicken enchiladas
4. Steamed lobster

Four sites I visit daily (apart from the many infertility blogs I frequent):

1. www.engrish.com
2. www.opinionistas.com
3. http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
4. http://www.comics.com/ (Get Fuzzy is my favourite)

Four places I'd rather be right now:

1. Foxy's beach bar on Jost van Dyke in the BVI
2. In bed with Mr Badeggs (the man is sex on legs, I tell you)
3. Positano or Capri
4. Watching Sister Act

And another category of my own... Four of my favourite words:

1. Conflation
2. Zenana
3. Zeugma
4. Pulchritude