Ready

I admit it. I was freaking out about the hair thing. You guys are great for coming to my rescue with reassurance and even the odd tale of successful pregnancies that were accompanied by hair loss! I also admit to perhaps being a little over dramatic about the state of my hair loss. It's normal hair loss; I'm not going bald or anything. I just wanted to see it stop completely while pregnant.

Other symptoms are strong: sore boobs, a permanent hungover-like feeling (retching, but no actual spewing). And I make it only a bit over 4 weeks,* so I'm hoping that's a good sign.

In other news, we have sold out house! Not only that, but we made considerably more than we expected to. I have to laugh when I think that I have managed to get knocked up at exactly the same time as entering into the whole property sale and purchase game, a well known stressor. But I'm fairly relaxed about the property stuff. And to be honest, I'm not all that stressed over the pregnancy.

A few people in the comments to my last post asked why I didn't go to my OB for beta tests. And there are a couple of reasons. In the UK, you don't normally get referred to an OB unless you are a high risk pregnancy. Now technically, I am now in that category, so I could request a referral, but it's a hassle. And, frankly I don't want to know. Honestly, I'll find out soon enough whether I've managed to kill off yet another one. Knowing my betas are falling won't stop that and will just add another layer of despair to the whole sad tale. So, no, I am going to wait it out. Given the timing and gestational sac sizes of my past miscarriages, I would expect that by 8 weeks, if I still have a living foetus, I might just have a chance of a live baby. But even then there are no guarantees.

I got to thinking about that last night, that there are no guarantees. And there aren't. My baby could die before it even turns into something resembling a human being. It could survive pregnancy only to die near the due date, during birth, or hours after emerging from my womb: I 'know' women who have gone through each of those. A perfectly health newborn could die mysteriously in its cot. A toddler wanders off and drowns; a child gets leukaemia and dies; a teenager tries drugs and overdoses; an adult child is killed in a car wreck. There are no guarantees of life. In fact, the only guarantee is that we will lose at least some of those we love; the others will lose us.

And although that is a sad, tragic truth, it has actually helped me. I am not the only one to ever have experienced loss. I know that because I have 'met' all you amazing women who are struggling with your losses: babies, siblings, parents, grandparents. Innocence. If this baby dies, then at least I am spared from the possibility of what I feel must be a far greater pain of losing a living child.

I'm still mad at God. But not for being either unwilling or unable to save my babies (and it has to be one or the other); only for not making sure that we all know the truth about him, so that we're not surprised when grief ambushes us. And I guess eventually I'll even get over that. God is becoming part of my life again because I can accept that contrary to what we're taught, he is flawed.

So, heading towards 5 weeks of pregnancy, I am ready for the day I see the blood. It won't shock or surprise me. It will make me cry, but I'll never again be unprepared.

* According to my LMP, I should be 5w2d, but as we know, the OPK wizz stick didn't smile at me until CD18, which means CD19 or even 20 for the big O (no, the other one). So counting from CD19 for ovulation, that would make me 4w4d today.

Highlights and Lowlights

I was having such a good month or so. I really had felt very positive and strong and what not, and during my North African sojourn had managed not to think about miscarriage at all for like 3 days. That's a record for me.

Then yesterday I went to the hairdresser for highlights and a woman came in pushing a very big buggy (stroller) with a very tiny occupant. Yes, that's right, just when I'm feeling OK, God decides to fuck with me and I have to come face to face with a newborn.

Worse than that, Beatific Mommy sits down and promptly starts breastfeeding. Oh yeah. Bring it on. I can take it.

I walked away and spent the next 10 minutes standing awkwardly in the way (the waiting area in the salon I go to is miniscule, so I had to kind of wedge myself in by the door, making customers wonder whether I was some crazed, weeping greeter or something) and finally got seated in the chair just in time to have Beatific Mommy wander over with infant in tow, to talk to the lady sitting next to me. As the assistant brought over my cup of tea, she was confronted by a madwoman with two streams of mascara running down her cheeks, choking out something that may or may not have sounded like "I need to spend 5 minutes in your loo. Wahhhh!!!" [Loo = restroom, yankee doodles...].

Georgia, my hairdresser, knows all about my losses and had two consecutive miscarriages herself before having her first son (she now has three kids, ladies, so there may well be hope for us yet...). When I reappeared in the chair, she patted my shoulder and let me talk a bit. Thank God for women who have been there, done that: they know just what to do and say.

Anyway, it was a sufficiently upsetting experience to have urged me on to write the introduction to my book. I'm still waiting on a lot of contributions, but at least I've had a go at telling my own story and explaining why I'm writing the book. So I guess something good came out of the Day of the Evil Newborn. But I still wish God would go torture someone else...

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.

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.

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.

Snake Oil

I saw this on Thalia's blog: http://bmj.bmjjournals.com/cgi/content/full/329/7477/1283

Speaking as one who has been sorely tempted by the voodoo magic qualities of treatment for elevated Natural Killer (NK) cells, this article came as a real eye-opener. In particular, this quote:

Understanding the function of uterine NK cells is certainly a major challenge in human reproduction. However, until more is known about their role in normal pregnancy, there is no evidence of any benefit in offering NK cell testing to women with recurrent miscarriage or infertility. Of course, women with these distressing conditions will be disappointed... The danger posed by internet sources, the popular press, and radio highlighting idiosyncratic personal practices of a few physicians should not be underestimated. This unfortunate group of women are particularly vulnerable to financial exploitation, and of being exposed to powerful treatments that have, as yet, no rational scientific basis.

We are vulnerable. I am lucky enough to have had a good eduation. I work in an industry wherein I have very easy access to cutting edge scientific research. Mr Badeggs is a scientist by training (I really ought to call him Dr Badeggs), so I have gleaned an understanding of how scientific research works and what sorts of questions one should ask oneself before subscribing wholeheartedly to whatever miracle (or, more likely, scare) story the media is currently stoking to fever pitch. And yet, my desire to have a baby that shares the genetic material of myself and Mr B frequently clouds my judgement when it comes to healthy scepticism of medical treatments on offer. I am by no means the smartest person in any room, but I have a certain edge when it comes to judging the benefits vs the cost of a treatment. And yet many times I have come close to convincing myself to throw caution to the wind. And if that is true,, what of the woman who dropped out of school at 16 to work who is considering handing over her life savings for an unproven treatment?

So the gist of this article? I think it's as follows:

  1. Scientists don't know anything about how uterine Natural Killer Cells work, or what their purpose is in reproduction. They just don't know.
  2. The doctors who say that NK cells are to blame for recurrent miscarriage are guessing. Furthermore, they are often basing their judgement of whether a woman's NK cells are too high on a measurement of NK cells in the bloodstream, not the uterus itself. And the two levels are vastly different.
  3. The treatments on offer for abnormal NK cell levels are known to have some bad potential side-effects for women. Moreover, there is no evidence that the treatment itself directly causes a successful pregnancy. Even when a treated woman has a live birth, it could be due to something else entirely.

If you're about to undergo treatment, ask your doctor about this article. Print it out; its's free. Don't believe it just because you want to, however tempting it is.

Bloggers4Justice

Five or six years ago, I became embroiled in a battle over child support. It's not what you think, though. In this case, I was the one being told to pay it, at a rate that would at best have left me with little to no money each month for luxuries such as, I don't know, food. At worst I could have lost my home. It got so bad, I wept daily and even considered quitting my job and going on welfare just so the powers that be couldn't touch me.

Now, you might reasonably be thinking to yourself: why on earth didn't she just take the hit and pay the damn child support? Kids cost money and we have to make sacrifices for them. That's your responsibility as a parent. And I wouldn't disagree with you. The problem was that I had (as I still have) a court order granting me joint custody of my daughter, which I won after a protracted and bitter battle with my ex through the family courts system (during which I had to read a report from a social worker stating that I wasn't the best parent to raise my daughter because, ahem, I worked out of the home. But that's another story.) According to that order, my daughter spent equal amounts of time each year with each parent. I incurred the same costs as her father; more, even, as I paid for school trips and uniforms, music lessons, etc. (all of that would have gone if I had been forced to pay child support, incidentally). But I was caught up in a rare loophole in British law, and one that threatened to undo much of what I had worked for in my and my daughter's life.

Joint custody orders (formally known as Joint Residence Orders) in Britain are rare; usually one parent has custody while the other has access according to an agreed schedule. The Child Support Agency, which is responsible for enforcing child support payment, uses an outdated system called Child Benefit (essentially this is like a tax deduction), which only one parent can claim. Fine if you're married; not so great if you're fresh from an acrimonious divorce. For various completely legitimate reasons to do with my employment, my ex claimed Child Benefit, not me; as a result I was labeled the Absent Parent. Even so, I might never have been pursued but for the fact that my ex was on unemployment and the law required him to apply for Child Support from the so-called Absent Parent.

By now you may think that this post is a protest against the fact that British law covering Child Support does not make allowances for joint custody. But, really, even though I'm still mad about that, what I'm working up to talking about is a now-suspended body called Fathers4Justice.

F4J was founded by Matt O'Connor after a difficult divorce and subsequent proceedings in Britain's outmoded and confrontational family courts system. O'Connor found himself facing such limited contact with his two children, that he feared he would be unable to maintain relationships with them. And he found he wasn't alone. On the F4J website, O'Connor says: "For years many fathers have been struggling to overcome the debt, poverty and childlessness forced upon them - what we call a bereavement - to fight the system. They have effectively been exiled to a Siberia of the broken. Fathers have struggled to adapt to a brave new world where they have effectively been replaced by the state as the protector and provider to their children." He created F4J to build awareness about the problems of fatherlessness.

Now, although F4J's aims may be noble, I have never liked them very much (and not just because Bob Geldof and Pierce Brosnan fell over themselves trying to lend the organisation celebrity-endorsed credence). Partly it's because their protests include actions that they call "unique and provocative" and "with a dash of humour thrown in", and which I call irresponsible, disrespectful and downright stupid. For example, in May 2003 Plymouth County Court was closed for an hour as two F4J members climbed onto the roof wearing Tony Blair masks and carrying a giant banner declaring Plymouth as the UK's Worst Family Court. In 2004 members of F4J pelted Tony Blair with flour-filled condoms. Later that same year, two members dressed as Batman and Robin broke into Buckingham Palace grounds, scaled a balcony and spent five hours protesting with signs and banners. Now frankly, I think that's just bad manners and doesn't do anything to convince me that (a) you're serious and (b) you have a cause with which I want to align myself.

But my main objection to F4J was, simply, the 'F' part of it. It seemed to me breathtakingly arrogant to start a campaign whose objective was to "deliver justice, hope, help and maybe even healing to broken families" by essentially dismissing 50% of the parental population. If they'd called it Parents4Justice or better yet Families4Justice, I think I might have been prepared to overlook the unorthodox approach to nonviolent protesting. But I had been through the hell of family courts myself, had endured sleepless nights and anxious days while the Child Support Agency attempted to take every spare cent I earned. Yet, on the face of it, I apparently stood for injustice: if the 'Fathers' in F4J were the solution, then it stood to reason, or so it seemed to me, that mothers must be the problem.

Over time, F4J became associated with a brand of protest that many found disconcerting at best and outright dangerous at worst. By and large we still come over all protective towards the Queen, and breaking into her London residence didn't earn them any sympathy. Then, earlier this week, a story was leaked that claimed that several members of F4J, dressed as Santa Claus for a protest march, had discussed in some detail (but by no means a great deal of it) kidnapping Tony Blair's 5-year-old son. Yesterday, the group's founder announced that he was suspending the organisation, claiming that it had been hijacked by militant extremists.

To his credit, O'Connor has roundly condemned the very notion of kidnapping, and seems distraught that his campaign would be used to justify such action, though he cautions that we shouldn't necessarily believe everything we read in the paper (especially when that paper is The Sun, say I. Brits will know what I mean...)

Nevertheless, the future of F4J is in doubt today, and I for one think it represents an opportunity not to be missed. From the ashes of a campaign that fostered division, derision and, quite possibly, outright criminality, could be created a new body that seeks to serve whole families...not just fathers or mothers, but brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents. Although F4J paid some lip service to this being in their remit, it demonstrably was never really so. Now comes a chance to change that.

After a year of near-constant stress, worry and argument, the Child Support case against me was closed. My ex had found a job and came off unemployment. All of a sudden, the Child Support Agency had other fish to fry, and I was left shaken, relieved, but terribly angry about my ordeal. I still live with the threat of a new case over my head. I don't receive Child Benefit and if my feckless ex goes back on unemployment, the whole thing will start up again. The law changed two years ago, so that the amount of time my daughter spends with me will be taken into account and my child support burden will be more reasonable. But I will still be required to pay, despite sharing equal custody of my child, and it will affect the joint finances I now share with Mr Badeggs.

There is no doubt that fathers are usually at the receiving end of the Child Support Agency, and tragic stories still surface in the press every now and then about some unfortunate father who took his life to escape the worry and stress of an unfeasibly large judgement against him for Child Support. But women suffer, too. I may suffer again, and my parents and husband will suffer with me even as they lend their support. How wonderful it would be if I could be part of a movement that aims to eradicate such an injustice for all of us, too, and not just fathers.