Category Archives: 2016

The One About Land Rovers

s-l1600I remember back at the beginning, when there was still the excitement.

I looked online at articles with titles like “Cute Ways to Tell Your Husband You’re Pregnant!”.  I’ve never liked those types of public announcements, where posts to social media were supposed to be cute but (IMO) were a little cringey!

I didn’t have the desire to share joy with everyone, but my sentimental husband would have appreciated something meaningful to mark our next big step.

I had a little note pinned to my office wall to remind me of the idea I came up with.  Cut a Land Rover stencil out, create a stenciled image on a onesie.  Wrap, gift.


But as time went on, that joy and excitement wavered.

When it happens, will be be excited or scared?

Do we take for granted that our struggle is over and that we will have a baby to fill that piece of clothing?

When the time came, a cute announcement didn’t even cross my mind.  A faint positive isn’t much to get your hopes up on, and then the worry about organising and waiting for blood test results means our excitement was put on hold.

I hadn’t even thought of this again until today.  That piece of paper has long gone off my office wall, I don’t even remember taking it down.

I feel like we have been robbed of so much.

The naivety, the innocence.  When I hear about someone getting pregnant easily with a planned baby, I just can’t fathom it!  You decide to have a baby and then you get pregnant and have the baby?  That is so far beyond my comprehension that it seems like a movie.  You mean, that *actually* happens in real life?

We didn’t purposely do anything sentimental for that pregnancy, we had a couple of weeks of rollercoaster emotions with no chance to settle in one spot.  But my husband had bought an old Land Rover a few days before we got that light pink line, and so I was a little over 4 weeks pregnant when he travelled a few hours to pick it up.

I’d forgotten about that with the chaos and heartache that followed.

But he remembered, telling me some months ago that it’s special to him because of that time, because it marks a memory, even though it’s ended up being a sad one.

Maybe it’s paralleling our life that he’s still restoring that Land Rover almost 2 years later, as we are still also restoring our hearts and working towards our finish.  That he’s spent years stripping it back, pulling it apart and now slowly putting it back again.  I feel like maybe that’s us too, coming to accept what is, trying to find ways around the rust.

Piecing our future back together with the hand we have been dealt.


The One About Lost Friendships

The other night I was reading some sanctimonious bullshit… *ahem* article, entitled Having Children is a Public Good, which was some utter dribble about why everyone should procreate. And if you don’t want to it’s because your parents didn’t love you enough (yes, it does say something along those lines in there).

I ended up clicking through to related articles, the first from a child-free woman talking about the loss of friendships due to friends becoming mothers, and the second (which sparked it) was mothers talking about the loss of friendships due to their friends NOT being mothers.

It’s all a bit messy really, both sides assigning blame, both sides hurt. I can’t speak for everyone, (in one case at least one woman just sounded like a bad friend) but I can speak from my own experience and what I think may be the miscommunication on both sides.  Most of the articles I read talk of the drifting apart but not what gets them to that place so I’ve been reflecting on how I’ve ended up here.

Changes of life circumstances can be hard on others, whether it’s new relationships, kids, divorces.  It forces a re-shuffle of priorities.  Things naturally have to change over time but that doesn’t mean it comes without the grief of losing what was.  I have certainly lost most of my friendships along the way  and not a day goes by when I don’t think about them.  I am obviously coming from the non-mother-but-want-to-be side, and I have had some poor friends who have coloured my thinking, but I hope I’ve been fair in my assumptions.

Here are some things I think would have helped:

Meet Me Halfway

The thing with meeting up with parents, and I’m sure parents will agree with me here: it’s tricky to find the right place.  You don’t want to come to us due to our house with our things around, cupboards to get into, a lack of child friendly entertainment (a childless house is stressful, I’m told!).  So we come to you, or we meet at a place you want to meet – maybe a child friendly cafe so your kids can be loud and can play on the equipment supplied.  Maybe it’s somewhere we wouldn’t pick ourselves but we go there anyway.  Not to mention we are fitting in between your schedule: naps, snacks and nappy changes take priority.

Physically, there isn’t meeting in the middle.  We have to go somewhere that is suitable for both you AND your kids, and you are the one that is going to deem it suitable or unsuitable.

But it would be really great to meet metaphorically half way.

If we are coming to you both where and when suits you, it can feel like we are the entertainment: showing up when you’re bored or need adult company, shooed off when we get in the way of the schedule.

Here are some ideas:

You be the instigator – contact me so we know you want to see ME, not just the first person who shows some interest.

Show that our meet up is important to you too. Have you done some baking?  Invite me to share and I’ll bring the drinks!  Going to the park?  See if I want to come for an impromptu catch up while the kids play. Who would ever say no to a park visit?  Going somewhere for the toddler where they might need your assistance?  We are capable of holding the baby and won’t begrudge being part of your world.

Take Note of Your Audience

With the mum-club entry, your everyday conversations have change.  Brands of nappies and wipes, the next playgroup and toddler milestones are conversations you’re having regularly.

If you start talking about mum-specific conversation topics, you start talking *at me* not with me.  Let’s be honest, you don’t want to hear my opinion on your brand of baby carrier because I haven’t used one.

If we cross over into mum talk, it starts creating a wedge.  It alienates me. You are still your own person, we still have shared past experiences, funny memories and shared interests.  What netflix shows are you watching?  How was the beach? Yes, tell me about your kid chasing seagulls, I won’t bite!  Do you need any relationship support?  Want to vent about a friend?  Here I am!  Ask me how I am! (You would be surprised how often this doesn’t happen).  Yes, talk about your kids, talk about what you’ve been doing and how funny they’ve been, but maybe keep toilet training stories for someone who can commiserate.

I’m Not Judging

If your kid comes up mid-converstation and interrupts me talking, I don’t begrudge them.  I’ll wait, and not in a passive-aggressive way either.  I’ll wait until you have achieved whatever it is you want to, either listening to what they have to say now, or asking them to wait until I have finished.

Is your house full of toys?  Cool!  Hand prints on the glass? I have dog noses instead, what’s the point in cleaning them just to have them get smeared again, right!?

If your place is a proper dirty pig-sty I might judge you on that, but I’m judging your cleanliness, not your parenting 😉

Most of us have been around children plenty, yelling and crying and interruptions do not matter to a good friend.

Don’t Assume Someone Else is Filling a Role

When your titled changed to mother, no doubt your relationships did too.  The person you are in contact with most is probably a mother.  Maybe during the day you commiserate about the baby not being asleep at nap time, you send little messages and snapchats to each other during the day to fill the time and ‘talk’ with adults.

Maybe you think that your childless friend has someone else to talk to now.  Maybe you two drifted apart a bit and you think she’s filled your void with someone else.

But maybe not.

I know in my case this isn’t true, and I can tell you that on top of the hurt of losing friendships, the lasting sting comes from the fact that I’ve lost them because I can’t have the baby I long for.  This is especially true for people with whom I have shared things I’m finding hard.  If it’s not public knowledge, don’t assume that I’m receiving support elsewhere.

Yes, I Do Know Things Have Changed.

In reading these blame filled articles, one of the common themes is, “they don’t understand that my world shifted and my kids are my only priority”.

No, actually I do get it.

In my wildest dreams we have a kid or two, and we spend our weekends doing family things.  My thoughts are of our nuclear family unit and friends don’t factor into it.

But here’s what else I know:

If I don’t ensure that I am an individual person outside of being a mother, I know I would be doing a disservice to myself and my (theoretical) kids.  I would want my children to see me as their mother, who is also a hard worker, a small business owner, a loving wife, an animal lover, a loyal friend.

Is it a lot to bear? Sure, we all have to wear many hats.  But is having friends detrimental to your life or do you actually gain something by sharing your life with trusted friends who are both mothers and non-mothers?

I know if any mothers read this, especially those in the baby toddler stages, they will still argue that I don’t get it.  I’ve read the things, I’ve seen the articles and the rantings and the justifications.  But what I’m telling you is, from the outside it says: you aren’t convenient to me.  You are not worth my time or effort.  I don’t care enough about you. I can only have friendships where people swan after me, for me to pick up and put down whenever I feel.

That is not a real friendship.  It’s really about the love you share with your friends, its about the intimacy of sharing tough things and knowing someone has your back.  It’s about fostering relationships where you can give support, but also receive it back in abundance.  It requires give and take.  I’m not saying your friendships should be to the detriment of your family, I’m saying it can enhance your life, even the ones that take a bit more effort.

I Haven’t Communicated Well

Here are some things I could have said that could have changed the trajectory of my relationships some years ago.  This is a lesson to myself for the future:

“I’d really like to see you soon, let me know when works for you”

“It’s so sunny today, want to meet at the park?  We can feed the ducks?”

“I know you realise your pregnancy/new baby  brings up a lot of feelings for me, ask me over anyway.  I want to be in your life but I’m sorry if I cry”

“I want to make it to your baby shower but it’s a bit much for me. Can we catch up next week instead because it’s not a reflection on how I feel about you and your baby”

“Please don’t try to protect me by excluding me”

But here are the things that have stopped me communicating clearly: I don’t want to be annoying, I feel like you’re too busy and I have been brushed off in the past because of a ‘daily schedule’  clash.

There Are Some Exceptions

A bad friend is a bad friend.  People that tell you they don’t like kids are insulting to you for good reason.

People who don’t give your kids the time of day are bad friends, because if they loved you they would also love those that you love.

Don’t tar all childless or child-free people with the same brush of being anti-parents and anti-children.  Some may be, but many are the total opposite and don’t have kids for their own reasons.

The One About Grief


We’ve all experienced grief in one form or another. Not many get to adulthood without losing a loved one, and the grief of loss is something we go through over and over again throughout our lives.

It’s a bit rubbish really.

I experienced quite a heavy grief after the death of my grandmother. Partly because I was there as she died, which my family described as “peaceful” but which I would describe as panicked on her behalf and traumatic on mine. While I had experienced loss before, I felt closer to her and at 19, it was more of an adult understanding of loss than a childs. I took it hard and then I moved 6 hours away and started over somewhere new which added to the sense of grief. I think I struggled for about a year before the pain started to fade.

I can’t help but to compare the grief of death to the grief of infertility. I don’t mean about better or worse, which is easier, which I would ‘prefer’. I mean how we process grief while on this terrible process.

Because infertility grief doesn’t have a start or sometimes an end.

Most of the time when we talk about grief, we talk about an event that happens that changes our lives. We talk about the moment when our world crashed and the process of rebuilding our new normal. We talk about how something happened and we learn to deal with it, slowly learning and healing, carrying it with us on our uphill trek to feeling like we’re not crumbling anymore.

With infertility there is no one event. There is no start date. You don’t start to grieve because you’ve been trying for the magic 12 months and haven’t been successful, or because a doctor said you might have trouble or need help. You start to grieve whenever it is you start to feel grief, and that grief intensifies over time.

It builds with each passing cycle, with each scan and procedure. It builds with each doctors visit, each milestone, each loss. It continues to grow and grow, until you are one big ball of grief. There is no ‘new normal’ because you are always in limbo, accumulating more grief, hoping something will happen so the building stops and the processing can begin.

I’ve felt lost in unhappiness for some time. My husband and I talk often about enjoying our *now*, making the most of each day, not wishing time to pass by. But I’m a bit stuck, because I don’t know how to be happy with the now whilst grieving for our future.

My mum went through infertility due to endometriosis but after 3 years she had my older brother (and then two other children without intervention). In the past she has used her story to try and give me hope. Maybe for some it helps. But for me this phrase runs through my head more often than I’d like to admit: “not everybody gets a happy ending”.

On a bad day, this is my message to myself about the lack of hope I feel, about how I feel my unhappiness will last forever.

But on a good day I try to challenge myself on that. I know my options are limited and my chance for my “happy ending” dwindles over time. But if my life is one without biological (or even any) children, I don’t want to doom myself by being smothered by grief and bitterness the rest of my life.

I want to have a happy and fulfilled life, whatever the outcome. I want to stop buying into this pressure that only in becoming a mother can I be fulfilled, feel love and find my worth.

How do I get to this place of acceptance while my direction is unknown? How do I process grief as it continues to build? Can I begin to heal while still in the storm? I don’t have any answers to yet but I hope I’m stumbling along in the right direction.

Finally – a step forward!

I finally braved going back to my GP for a referral.

I’ve seen 3 GP’s at my small doctors surgery in 3 visits.  The first suggested going on the pill (a bit counterproductive, but hey), and that I was “still young” so not to worry.  A few months later, the second referred me to a specialist because my symptoms clearly pointed to a problem, despite only being trying to conceive for less than a year.

I was hoping to see the second doctor, a woman, again.  However being a small town, a woman GP is apparently a rare thing, so while she’s usually there ONCE a fortnight, this time she was on holiday so it would be months if I was to wait.
After my dealings with the specialist I saw, I was anxious.  I made the appointment then cried.  I worried about it but I pushed through because I was continuing to get nowhere fast.

So I went there and saw him, and he was happy to do a referral.  But still subtle digs and arguments about my decisions, and a slight smirk after taking my blood pressure, which was slightly high because I was “a bit upset”.  There is a lot to me said about sexism from doctors surrounding “women’s issues”.
I know my anxiety wasn’t just about that visit, but I had worked it up to be a big thing in my head.  Not only that, but because it ultimately stemmed from how I was treated around my miscarriage, the anxiety was all tied up with grief around the loss and was a huge tangle of emotions.
So a month or so later, I saw the new specialist.  I felt much more calm about this, even though this relationship was likely the most important part of where we went from here.

I needn’t have worried.

He was so great.  He was thorough, he asked questions, he believed my answers.  I had another internal scan (yay!), we talked through options, he was understanding about my situation regarding my husbands involvement.

The good news:
Ovulation!  My last blood test showed good progesterone numbers (44), and the scan showed a 16mm follicle on my left ovary on day 8.  It’s looking like my body is doing ovulation on it’s own so no need to worry about clomiphene again at the moment.  This is such a relief, just knowing that I’m not reliant on anything to get over the first hurdle of having an egg available.

We have a plan!  I’m hesitant to call this good news, but I’m also pleased to have a direction.  He was tossing up between a laparoscopy and dye test, but in the end decided the lap is the way to go, with the dye test while I’m there, and he added in a hysteroscopy and D&C for good measure.

I’m not looking forward to it of course, but it will be such a relief to hopefully have some answers.  I want to know that there is nothing ‘major’ to worry about, and while I think he’s probably right with tentatively guessing endometriosis (despite a lack of typical symptoms), it’s a load of my shoulders to have a thorough investigation to rule out anything nasty.  In almost three years I have been unable to align my symptoms with any typical diagnosis, either gynecological or infertility related.  That has weighed on my mind this whole time.

I have some concerns regarding this, though none related to the actual surgery.  Work-wise, I’m self-employed so taking time off is basically an impossibility, but something I will have to work around for a day or two.  I won’t really be able to take recovery time off, but I can take it a bit easier and can have help.

My husband won’t be able to be with me, and I worry about his stress levels on the day.  He does find this sort of stuff really hard so I’ve not given him much details and have tried to reassure him it’s pretty minor.  This means I either have no support person with me, or I ask my mum which is a challenge all in itself.  In doing that, I know everything she knows and hears is going to be spread around anyone who will listen, and that she will feel her involvement is important going forward.  I don’t really want this to happen and I don’t mind going into this alone really, but I would like someone there who can contact my husband and reassure him as soon as I’m out of theatre.

Plus I’m sure some food won’t go unappreciated during the overnight hospital stay!

Anyway, status quo for now until the surgery is scheduled (likely in the next few months), and then I will make a decision.

Have you had a laparoscopy or hysteroscopy? Any tips?

Breaking Free

I’ve spent the last two and a half years being fucking scared of someone asking how I am.

I’ve moved around a bit and have an interesting relationship with my family, so it’s not as hard to avoid that question as you might think.  You hear the phrase often but frequently it is used in a way that means “hi”, and the asker doesn’t actually expect a response.  I don’t have people in my life to ask me that question for real anymore.

Some of that is not my fault, I seem to have friends that see me as a leader, so they don’t seek me out to check on my wellbeing.  But some of it is my fault.

I’ve pulled away from everybody.  I don’t know what to say and so I’d rather not say anything at all.  I’m not a talker, I’m a deep thinker and reflector, but by not sharing I isolate myself.

My situation is difficult in multiple ways.  Some people get part of it, but mix it all together and its a bit overwhelming. Trust me, I know.  I know I’m unlikely to receive understanding so I don’t start.

In our household we deal with infertility and mental illness, both diseases I find to be at the top of the list of “I will have empathy for you as long as it doesn’t become uncomfortable for me”.

But I’m sick of being stuck in this box.

This box where I can’t talk about the things weighing on my mind. Where I can’t tell anyone that today was a hard day and share some of that burden. Where I can’t find support either emotionally or physically. Where being vulnerable is off the cards because it might make someone think that I’m weak.

I’m allowed to be weak. I’m allowed to need picking up once in a while.  I’m allowed to interrupt people’s lives and I’m allowed to expect to have friendships where sometimes I need to be carried and refilled.

I’m allowed to tell the world who I am and what I feel.

I’m so tired of hiding, waiting for the day things get better. Life can’t improve if I dont take risks, life can’t change if I’m stuck in a cycle of wishing someone would ask me how I am, but being too scared to tell the truth.

I owe it to myself, and I owe it to everyone else who is hiding.

I don’t want to be scared anymore.

Subconscious Messages

I’ll admit that I got my hopes up this month.

It doesn’t happen often, the strange, unexplained symptoms I have always show up on day 21, just in time to thwart any potential implantation. This cycle it came and went, and I wondered if something was different this time.

Is my body finally starting to play ball?

Then I had a dream.


In my dream, my husband found three pregnancy tests, all showing positive. But all were negative, I knew it; all were evaporation lines. My husband didn’t believe me and so I tried to convince him.

“I’m not pregnant, I’m not. I promise I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant, I’m not pregnant. Please don’t get your hopes up, I’m not pregnant”.

I had been to the hospital for something else and to make sure, they had done an ultrasound. I showed him the picture, my empty womb confirming my words.

I’m not pregnant.

I’m near the end of this cycle, and I’ve come to realise that I ovulated late this month. My cycle has continued along as “normal”, albeit just a few days later than usual.

I’m not pregnant, I know I’m not. I got my hopes up for once, and my subconsious tried to being me back to earth using my dream. Even when I’m sleeping my brain tries to protect me.

I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, with two friends due in the next month or two. These people got pregnant after my baby was due, and almost grown whole babies, while I’m still in the same place as two and a half years ago. It’s heartbreaking. I can’t be happy for them. I cry when I think about accidently running into one of them.

It’s Mother’s Day this Sunday… it would have been my first Mother’s Day, but instead it’s my second as a mother with no baby.


My dream had a second half too.

My husband and I were walking along; him holding that ultrasound picture. That still empty picture.

But he was grasping it, looking at it in wonder… in awe. I couldn’t understand.

And then he turned to me with tears gleaming in his eyes and said,
“I can’t believe we have a picture of where he lived”.

Mumsplaining: Why you’re not always an expert.



I have a number of friends who are currently pregnant, and it’s really reminded me how infertiles and pregnant women/mothers are looking at things from completely opposite viewpoints. Infertility is so isolating, I don’t feel like I can join in the conversations of my mother friends for fear of getting the old “just you wait….!”, or the few people I have told don’t seem to know how to deal with such an emotive topic and completely ignore what I’m going through.

But while I choose not to participate in parental converstations, I’m a good listener, and I’ve been trying quite hard to keep my eyes from rolling around in my head.

I know mansplaining is a thing, but I think we need to add mumsplaining (or momsplaining) to our dictionaries.  The amount of times mums and mums-to-be think they’re experts and need to explain child bearing to silly little me astounds me.  And I’m talking about women who haven’t even birthed the baby and had to change a nappy yet!

So, my mumsplaining friends, here are some things you aren’t an expert on:

How to get pregnant

Statistics don’t lie, most people will get pregnant in a reasonable time frame providing you’re doing it right.  If you’re one of those people, your advice can get in the sea.

No amount of,

“we did it every second day for a month” or
“I put a pillow under my bum” or
“It took us four months and it was SO HARD, but then I started taking unicorns piss capsules, I totally recommend them!”

is going to make a difference to me.

So you had sex at the right time, hooray for you!  What do you know about the lifecycles of sperm and eggs, or the position of your cervix, or the texture, acidity and use of your cervical mucous?  What do you know about hormones and chemicals and how your brain is connected to egg development? What do you know about having sex at the right time for literally years and what it does to a relationship?

Do you have some advice?  Is it based in science and something my Doctor is unlikely to have told me?  If not, keep it to yourself.

Experience with Medical Professionals

I had a friend try to ‘mumsplain’ a stretch and sweep to me, with added extra emphasis on how AWKWARD it was.   Trust me, I know how it feels to have medical professionals poke around in my business.  Was ‘poke’ an inappropriate word to use?  Good, because that’s how it feels.  It feels like a violation.

Maybe you remember the first time you saw your babies heartbeat?  Maybe you felt excited and nervous when the dildo wand came out and got lubed up.  Last time I had one of those up me it was to confirm a miscarriage, complete with blood.  SUPER AWKWARD HUH? LOL.

Your awkward situations with medical professionals get you one step close to meeting your child, mine get me a big fat bill, some hollow encouraging words and an extra tear in my already broken heart.  It’s not really much of a reward if I’m honest.


Anyone remember the lady that used clomid as a defence in court?  I know pregnant women often use the hormones excuse, but maybe don’t use that on somone who has been on fertility drugs.
Every woman I’ve known who has given birth and taken clomid at some point has said pregnancy hormones were a dream in comparison.  And when I refer to clomid as “grumpy pills” to my husband, he smirks a little and keeps his mouth shut.  Men around the world are terrified of women on this drug, it’s not just crying in the supermarket feeling overwhelmed about deciding between carrots and pumpkin.

Clomid is of the devil, and I’m pretty sure your baby isn’t.

And don’t even get me started on the bonus hot flashes!

Pre-baby Lives

I know you’ve done it, admit it, if you’re a parent you’ve scoffed.  Someone has said something about childrearing while not a parent, and you’re ready to tell them why they’re wrong.

I know non-parents have plans and thoughts which may change with experience.  Maybe we don’t get just how hard it is to go to the shops now, what with all the baby paraphernalia and the actual baby.  And maybe we’re so lucky to have all the time and the money and the freedom.

A friend who is about to become a dad tried to dadsplain money and babies to me.  I wonder how much they spent, with their baby furniture and pram bought by family and hand me down clothes and free maternity appointments?  And yet I know a couple who recently spent $15,000 in one month to lose that wee embryo and come away with nothing.  I know what I’d rather spend my (lesser amount of) money on!

Maybe non-parents dreaming about becoming parents are living in la-la land.  Maybe we have it all wrong and we’ll roll our eyes at ourselves one day.

But just give us this.

Infertile or not, give us all the benefit of the doubt.  Infertility changes you, much like someone who has a near death experience might say “I’ll never take another day for granted”.  You don’t tell them that you’ll throw their words back in their face when their car breaks down.  We’re not saying we know the challenges, what we’re saying is, “this has had a profound effect on me, and I’ll never be the same again”.

But, even if you were an infertile (and I may get flamed for this one!), you no longer “get it”.

I know ex infertiles think they get it, but hear me out.

You are Captain Hindsight.  You are looking at infertility as a woman with a happy ending.  You know where your road ends up, you are a mother.  The number of children is irrelevent, and I’m sure it’s pretty awful to not have the family size you imagine if you’re dealing with Secondary Infertility.  But you know you are a mum, you know what it’s like to have a child, you imagine your future and theirs, ending your story being old and grey, your grandchildren or great grandchildren sitting at your feet.

You can’t help it, the journey was worth it for you and you should be happy.  When you got pregnant you moved to the outskirts of the group, and the moment you had your baby your membership was revoked and you joined The Mothers.  Don’t be upset, none of us want to be in this group anyway!

The moment you say “I’m so tired, I wish she would sleep”, you lose me. When you wish for some time to yourself you may as well be from another planet.

And while I said above that you’ll never be the same again, having your baby is also profound.  You might feel different from the other mothers, you might feel more grateful or be more worried; but when your child came into your life, your world shifted again in another permanent way.  In a good way this time.   I’m not saying you can’t offer support, just don’t use your happy ending as hope for anyone but you.



Not worshiping at the good doctor’s feet.

You Just Leave The Place Now.


I’m going to tell you a story. Not all stories are good I’m afraid. You know this, you’re here reading. But I’ve been reading about gender bias in the medical field and I want to share my story.

This involves a Doctor who is an obstetrician and gynaecologist.

A little over a year ago I was chasing my Doctor for blood test results. Specifically, hcg results. I’d had my first blood over a week before which included testing my progestertone as I had been testing low and I knew it could affect early pregnancy. I’d since done a second beta test with no results, the only communication I had was to repeat the beta.

After the second one and feeling frustrated at no results (I knew they’d be in by then), I called to find out what was going on. I did not know if my progesterone was fine and nothing to worry about, nor that status of my pregnancy. He hadn’t looked at it so his receptionist was going to call back the next day.

She didn’t.

I called again the day after, he still hadn’t looked at the piece of paper nearly a week later. He was too busy. But I’d had bleeding and this was my baby we were talking about, so in order to get some news I made an appointment (see $$$$).

When I got in the room, he made a dig about me calling. Twice in two weeks, after I’d had two blood tests. Like I was stupid for wanting an answer. Like I was just a silly little girl, a nagging woman who was hysterical and over the top. Like it wasn’t my right to know what the blood taken from my own body was saying. Like my miracle wasn’t important.

And then he told me I was losing my baby, and how ‘it wasn’t realy what we wanted to happen’, but that he’d suspected as much for TWO WEEKS and didn’t bother telling me.

That was two weeks of fear, of trying to stifle excitement, of coming to some sort of acceptance and even starting to feel brave enough to browse baby gear.  All for no reason.

Every time I saw him last year he made me feel stupid. He ignored my symptoms, he told me “they might not be a problem”, even though that was the whole reason my GP referred me to him in the first place. He’s never told me anything specific, he’s never mentioned a single number to me when looking at results. He’s never asked me specific questions, like the first cycle when I told him I’d ovulated already, and instead of asking how I knew, he disagreed. (FYI, the blood test said yes).

He used words like ‘tummy’ when he spoke to me.

He took hundreds of dollars off me for a prescription I’m not even sure I needed because one cycle when he tested me I didn’t ovulate (which is one of two annovulatory cycles I’ve had since coming off birth control, in the realms of normal). Maybe he’s right, but he wouldn’t listen to anything I said, nor tell me his thought process.

He touched me every time I walked into his office. I mean, of course he has to sometimes and it feels like an intrusion, but I mean as I walked past him into his office, every time. Maybe he thought it was friendly and comforting, but the fact that it sits in my brain means I feel differently.

In other inappropriate behaviour, he records his notes out loud with the door to his waiting room open. He chats to his receptionist about patients, and she asks inappropriate questions (“will we see you back!?”, just after I’d been told I was going to lose my baby… what do you say to that?). He finds it humerous that my husband has a severe anxiety disorder, with a big trigger being anything medical, and that I will not push him to give a sperm sample. Because that’s what I really want, to link anxiety, medical procedures and sexual activity.*

I have not taken the last four rounds of clomid prescribed to me because I don’t think it’s really making much of a difference, and whatever issue I have is unrelated to ovulation. It’s frustrating talking like this after so long, in general broad terms.  I’m not unexplained but I have no explanation. I have a group of symptoms that he basically didn’t even ask me any questions about.

I am wounded by this. It took me a full year after the miscarriage episode to realise how angry I am about how I was treated, and to understand why I would come home and cry after every appointment with him. Every time I saw him, he took my confidence, he took my sense of knowing myself by undermining what I told him. I know what I know about myself, I am an expert on my body and it’s happenings, and every time I tried to bring up my concerns he made me feel like I was some pathetic creature who should just worship at his all knowing feet.

When I got home after the last time I saw him, I got mad at the stupidist thing. I was stomping around and huffing and sighing when my husband pulled me into his arms. The tears came out of nowhere, and I told him that with every appointment it seemed like having a family was slipping further and further away. There was never a plan or a direction, the last two visits were basically him printing out a prescription and telling me he wasn’t interested.

This is why I can’t go back there, and when I have the money to start from scratch again, I’ll be looking for a female doctor. I need to feel safe, I need to feel listened to. I need someone to understand that I may not fit into a box and to work with me on that.

I need to feel like I am not a pay cheque, and that I am valuable and have knowledge. I need to not be talked down to and I need to be informed.

I need to feel like I have control of my body and my choices.

I need to feel like I have a chance.


*I know this is an important step, but I obviously have something wrong with me. If I was good as gold and we still weren’t getting anywhere, perhaps I’d get into this more. But at this stage, we know I need some fixing. Even if my husband had a low count (and bear in mind his sperm has done their job once, kind of), I would not be open to IUI or IVF with my current symptoms as I believe it would just be a waste. Aside from that, my husbands anxiety would definitely make it impossible for him to give a sample AT a clinic which basically rules us out of going down this route.


A new year – 2016

Wow, 2015 sped by.

I feel like I’m being fairly accurate in saying that 2015 kicked my butt.  A pregnancy in January (“wow, this might be our year!”), following by a crushing miscarriage meant the year started with a great emotional roller coaster and continued that way.

It was a year of hope with starting clomid, grief, anger and sadness.  It ended with the last week of 2015 finding out that two of my childhood friends (sisters) were pregnant.

With the first, I figured it out and coped well.  The second told me nicely privately via Facebook and I cried.  My heart has never pounded so hard.  We have been trying as long as her first child has been on this earth, and now she’s on her second. 

I thought I got through last year reasonably well mentally, but with the new year starting and some time to reflect, I realise I’m really struggling underneath.

I thought I was otherwise happy, but I’m not sure if I remember how to be.  I can’t remember what life was like without this constant infertility highlights reel playing in my mind.  It’s only one of the pretty big challenges I’m facing and none of them look to have any resolution.

I feel hopeless.  I really feel like I will fall apart if another year passes like this.

But I am so scared.  I need to find another doctor but it also feels like this is our last chance. My last doctor made the whole process so much worse (yes, good old 2015 strikes again!), but what if I find a new one and I still don’t get any answers?  Where will I find the money for this?  What if 2016 brings finality, but not in a good way?  

What if things don’t get better?