This summer I plan to…
The other day my sister TOTALLY caught me out with a joke from a kids channel that Niece and Neff watch.
HER – “Pretend you’re in the jungle and you’re walking along past lovely tropical trees, flowers, butterflies everywhere, listening to the monkeys hooting up above your head, then all of a sudden you come to a swamp. In the middle of the swamp there’s a suspicious looking log. You stand and stare, then move a little closer and you realise the ‘log’ is looking back at you – it’s a crocodile, and suddenly, jaws agape (lined with hundreds of savage teeth) the croc jumps at you – what do you do?”
ME – “I dunno, grab a stick and jam it in between its teeth then run.”
HER – “You sure?”
ME – “Yeah well I’m sure that’d work – the croc would be distracted and would need to get rid of the stick before it could eat me. Why, what should I do?”
HER – “Stop pretending…”
I hope that my actual summer will be filled with work (full time, preferably one of the jobs I’ve already found to apply for, if I get to the next stage) but that’s dull and I don’t want to tell you about that. I’ll be earning, but nothing exciting will be going on.
So lets pretend that this summer, I have a million pounds to spend.
I’m going to buy our flat outright, for starters. I don’t want to move house again because it’s ridiculously stressful and I’ve had enough of that. I want to pay back what’s owed, I don’t want to pay rent each month and I want to know that my family are financially set up ok.
I’m going to go on holiday to Cornwall, which is one of the most beautiful places I know, and I’m going to learn to surf, buy original art pieces in their beautiful galleries and I’m going to learn how to BBQ.
I’m going to tithe some and save some and give some away, because it’s prudent, right and socially responsible to do so – Reece’s Rainbows would definitely get a decent hit, straight into the funds for my two darling girls, Violetta and Gretchen
I’m going to get driving lessons for Husby and pay the ‘through the nose’ rates for him to hold a licence and re-apply every three years, and be insured – just because he’s diabetic, why should he have to pay SO much more? It’s a little ridiculous!
I’d employ a personal trainer to get me fit and ready for fertility treatment (when that happens) and just to plain well feel amazing.
I’m going to go to San Francisco to visit my friends and drive mustangs and eat American Food a la Adam Richmond.
I’d buy these boots by Irregular Choice which I love, but cannot afford (and which are currently unavilable)
Sadly by the time autumn came around, I’d have to stop pretending, but at least I would’ve spent the summer in amazing footwear…
This week has been one hell of a ride.
A week ago we found out that we were infertile, 3 months ahead of Husby’s medical schedule.
I thought that was rock bottom (actually, I didn’t – it felt like rock bottom but I was sure it could get worse if it tried hard enough) and spent a lot of time hidden away moping and crying and trying to avoid life. As the week wore on, things settled into a little bit more perspective and I felt marginally less terrible, to the point where I even felt able to talk about it. And that was good, don’t get me wrong – talking about it and having people around me to sympathise and offer encouragements and advice has been so, SO helpful. And just knowing that people are there. That’s been great.
But no-one could do anything.
Or so I thought.
Husby called his endocrinologist yesterday (his next appointment was only next month, but I suggested that if anything could be done, surely it’d better be sooner than later) and she rang back today.
She has a treatment plan.
The plan should not only give him more energy and build on the medication which has already had some effect in that area, but she’s going to give him new, different meds which will specifically restore his fertility.
And if that doesn’t work, they’re going to stick a tube in him and aspirate the stuff out (hoping it doesn’t come to that – it sounds horrendous).
And we will get at LEAST three months.
So we’re at least back to where we were last Wednesday.
And although (once again) we’ve had the rug totally and utterly pulled out from under our feet and replaced, I am so glad to be back in the game for now!
No, I’m gonna give it a whole take just to bask in what #2 might mean.
For anyone who’s never suffered infertility or known anyone who has that problem, it’s big. It’s huge. It shakes the very foundations of your world, hurts to the core of your soul and undermines a large aspect of the whole reason you’re here in the first place.
And we have a reprieve.
Although, I’d like to point out that Husby’s calm ‘I’m not gonna bother getting too upset – it might all change’ attitude is not only annoying in the moment (when I’m freaking out and he’s not) but afterwards, when he was proven right and my expenditure of emotional energy measures somewhere near the top of the Richter scale and he’s still cool, calm and collected. Git.
Thinking of reprieves, I read about Save the Storks organisation today.
It’s a very cool idea – they’ve got a van kitted out with ultrasound equipment and are offering free ultrasounds and pregnancy tests to women who are about to enter whichever abortion clinic the van’s parked outside.
They don’t plead. They don’t condemn. They don’t wave pamphlets.
They offer help. Immediate, no-strings-attached help. And then, if the woman would prefer (having seen her baby in the scan) to discuss a different option than the one she thought was necessary, they call a taxi to take her to a pregnancy clinic run by Get Involved for Life.
Just awesome. And they’re on Facebook.
On the fitness front (seeing as, in spite of my pipe dreams about employing a personal trainer, I am trying in real life to get fitter) I’m actually rather encouraged by how little there is to go to hit my target. Not my healthy weight target – the one which will render me eligible for infertility treatment (damn you NHS and your unhealthy obsession with BMI).
It’s 13lb away.
I have three months.
I’m already on the 5:2 diet and am doing more exercise.
Should be a cinch.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand back to #2.
If anyone had told me 8 months ago that in the upcoming year, we’d eagerly try for children only to find that Husby had a really serious endocrine problem; that we were infertile; that we weren’t infertile; that we were going to be infertile (permanently) because of medication; that we were utterly infertile right now and (finally) that the current infertility could be fixed, I probably would’ve passed out from shock and trauma.
THIS is why God doesn’t clue us in as to what’ll happen in future – it’d likely be far too overwhelming.
For now, there is hope and the world has regained its shine, the sky is blue and I can hear birds singing again.
But part of me is poised for the next time the carpet’s ripped out from under us and we tumble back down into a heap.
I’m going to start checking for grey hairs.
I think the thing which I love most (apart from the awesome melody) is the delicious poetry in the line “The boys like ‘er; she’s all lycra and no class.”