Adoption before IVF? I don’t think so.

22 04 2011

Making couples attempt adoption before IVF is simply wrong.

I recently responded with a letter to an ignorant and ill-informed  post by Cristina Odone in the Daily Telegraph. The link to the blog is here: http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/news/cristinaodone/100084585/the-adoption-crisis-is-down-to-stupid-criteria-and-slow-bureaucracy-but-i-blame-the-ivf-industry-as-well . Here is my reply:

Cristina, I am not sure what I think about what you’ve written, because for me the whole issue is particularly highly charged. That said, I don’t think you really understand this subject at all. Indeed, your last two paragraphs clumsily stumble into the very essence or heart of the psychology of being a childless couple: the choices are just not rational, it’s all so unfair, and you’re both so damned desperate to become parents.

As the fertile half of a marriage (that is no more) that tried IVF (seven times, privately), donor egg (twice) and surrogacy (once, with the donor), and adoption at the end of this tortuous road, I understand something of the issues. My blog, incidentally www.djpnz.wordpress.com “How Green Is My Grass?” graphically describes some of those experiences.

The thought process between IVF and adoption is very different. Whilst there is every hope and a chance (ours was less than 5%) that you can become biological parents, you do it. It becomes addictive, obsessive and dangerously intoxicating. To think about adoption, to us, was to admit defeat and for me, the fertile half, it was the lurking thought that I could still be a dad naturally.

We spent 8 years in the vortex of IVF, donor and surrogacy issues and we came out at the end of it battered, bruised and undeniably holed beneath the water as a couple. However, my wife could not give up on the dream of being a mum, so she investigated the possibility of adoption (in New Zealand, where I am still living) of older children, because the race rules are strict here and for every white baby presented for adoption, there are more than 200 potential parents. She persuaded me, and so we embarked on yet another painful journey.

So, the children we considered were 7 and 9, brother and sister, and wards of court since they were born, practically – mum was retarded and dad was a convicted paedophile. Social services were keen for us to provide a home, placed us under immense pressure to become guardians immediately and were indecisive about what do with parental visitation rights (mum only, since dad had a restrictive order placed on him) – which disrupted the equiliburium (two weeks of bedwetting per child). Add to this both children were damaged, psychologically after so many years in care. And, us, inexperienced, wannabe parents. It was all a recipe for disaster.

Eventually I had to call time, it was destroying us, and social services had simply lied to us, we felt, to get the kids off their books. The children went back into care and we imploded. We’d been treated very badly and bore deep scars now, on top of all the other stuff previously.

It’s not actually about exercising a rationale choice Cristina, it’s about satisfying a need as a human being to do naturally what others seem to take for granted. Therefore, for the majority of couples, exhausting all of the assisted measures is the only consideration; and it has to be a horrific realisation that nothing is going to work, ever, that forces you to regroup into the minefield of adoption.

Adoption shouldn’t be seen as something to go into lightly – a softer, cheaper option, it isn’t. Its got to be considered very seriously and forcing couples to consider adoption in advance of IVF is simply cruel, unfair and unkind. It should be everyone’s right to have at least one IVF attempt before other options are considered, but psychologically, those prospective parents have to be ready, and all the time they are pondering their infertility, as a couple, they are in mourning, emotionally fraught and definitely not ready for someone else’s children.

Advertisements




I am Darcey’s grandfather, apparently.

13 03 2011

Darcey and her 'grandparents'

 

I waited a long time to become a father and only ever fleetingly considered what it would be like to be an older dad, some ten years or so past the average age of paternity.

I have wondered how Darcey would feel taking me to school events as the more athletic dads pummeled me on the race track, how she would feel when her name was called out and there was me, sitting there clapping furiously at speech day, prize giving day, or graduation day… meeting her post-pubescent teachers, shocking them all with my wisened looks, imagining the comment ‘goodness, that’s Darcey’s dad, he’s so old…’

I dismissed the ageist thoughts as irrelevant, totally, completely and utterly. Who cares, I thought, I will never let it get to me.

Well, on Saturday, I was talking to one of the staff members who knows me, at our favourite bar come restaurant, with Darcey bouncing and gurgling in my arms. She was making very polite conversation about babies in general and then she said it, “Is this your first grandchild?”. In the length of a nano second, I died, was resurrected and carried on living, all with a smile, as I laughed out loud proclaiming “…actually, this is my first daughter…” to which a very embarrassed young woman replied, diplomatically, “oh, yes, I am so sorry, how silly of me…”

The problem is, this was not the first time, but I had forgotten that is had occurred before. I was picking up my free iPhone (as you do, courtesy of Vodafone Complaints Resolution Department) from one of their friendly stores in Ponsonby, and proudly, I entered the stored with Darcey for the young guy there to ask me “how old’s your granddaughter?”. He was serious but very quickly became very embarrassed by his faux pas.

So, the questions remain, do I look like a granddad, or are these young people (both in their early 20s) ignorant, unworldly-wise or just plain rude? Well, I must admit, even when I was twenty something, I don’t think I was ever that brazen to make any kind of reference like that in the first place to a customer or someone I didn’t really know. I’d worked in retail for over 10 years and had seen a few odd situations, couples mainly, where you’d wonder if the younger one was a son or daughter rather than a partner… It might just be that times have changed and people think nothing of speaking their minds like this, without fear of causing offence or embarrassment – and, so, there we are, I am showing my age – the generation gap writ large – between these kids and me.

I wonder what it is then about my face, my build, my body, my manner – that when someone sees me with Darcey, with all that evidence amassed they wonder, seriously, if I am her granddad. Okay, I have no hair, I have hardly any wrinkles and no gray strands within the hair on my head that remains, so what is it? Inside, I am laughing to myself that if they think I am indeed Darcey’s granddad, then I’d love them to meet her grandmother, and whilst we’re at it for pure shock value, let’s introduce the great grandparents too, they’d be horrified!

There is something else here though, in their defence, which is the possibility that I remind them of their parents, since their parents could definitely be of the same age as me. It would be inconceivable to them that their parents could ever be capable of having kids, let alone enjoy a healthy sex life at the tender and ripe old age of 43, going on 44!  Hence, in their eyes, the only relationship I could have to Darcey would be as her grandfather, anything else is simply too horrible to consider. How funny. It’s feasible, I don’t really get it, but I guess it makes sense in their eyes.

Whatever the rationale, it’s not so much the age thing as it applies to me, I am really seriously perfectly relaxed about it (please believe me, I am), even if I am not looking as youthful on the outside as I thought I did. Actually, for me it’s the thought of how Darcey will feel. Whilst I am pretty confident that as her mum and dad, we will be more active still than most parents of children Darcey’s age, it does worry me that she will feel a tad embarrassed, for more reasons than those young people are about their parents in general.

One thing is for sure…I won’t be the source of embarrassment to Darcey for trying to look and act younger than I am – I can at least promise her this much, the oldest swinger in town I will never be!





It’s all my fault.

26 02 2011

Me, in blue jersey, in 1975 with sisters and cousins, at home in Seaford, East Sussex

The summer of 1976 was seriously the last year I can remember as a child where the birds sang, the sky was blue, the sun shone, all was good with my world and I was as happy as a an innocent 9 year old could be. It was pure bliss. For me, that was the last year of my childhood, filled with Enid Blyton’s Secret 7Famous 5 and CS Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. My youngest sister who was three and a half years older than me was still interested in playing with cars in the dirt, and accepted time and again having to endure being the Germans in our elaborately built WW2 POW camps that somehow incorporated live hampsters and their cages, inspired in part by having seen the first live screening on British television of that classic film The Great Escape.

It was also the year of a very long drought, James Callaghan became Prime Minister, and Denis Healey was Chancellor of the Exchequer. It was he who pushed in front of me at the Woolworths in Seaford as I waited to pay for my penny chews with my pocket money. I remember staring at him and couldn’t help wondering at the time if his bushy eyebrows were for real (for all those not familiar with this particular Labour politician he possessed enormous eye brows, giving him the look of an owl, and an impressionist by the name of Mike Yarwood used to mimic him relentlessly with the catch phrase ‘silly billy’, which he had never used up to that point, but later adopted and used freely whenever he could).

I loved my parents, I adored going to cubs and I had a great group of mischievous friends, with whom I would spend hours playing war games in the old battlements and trenches of the Canadian Army’s WW2 anti-aircraft batteries on the Sussex Downs above Seaford. Having watched repeats of the BBC drama Colditz, a friend of mine and I borrowed tools from our respective fathers’ garden sheds and began the long, dangerous and difficult task of digging a tunnel – to Australia. Needless to say, we didn’t get very far, but we got very dirty and into a lot of trouble.

From Seaford Head and all the way down to the Cuckmere Haven, in the sight of the Seven Sisters, this was all mine: where we’d walk and run across the cliff tops for hours, exploring and making ‘camps’; or taking picnics and cycling for whole days on end on forays into the Sussex countryside visiting places like Wilmington, Alfriston, East Dean, Friston, Rodmell, Newhaven and Bishopstone. That’s if I wasn’t going on secret undercover missions amid the undergrowth of the Old House, at the end of my road, a large, walled property, surrounded by trees with two sets of tall, solid wooden gates, through which no-one ever saw anyone come or go. Another favourite pastime was to hide in the bushes and remove golf balls in play from the fairway without the golfers seeing us – having previously removed all of the link numbers or swapped them around – accumulate our quarry, mix with older stray balls and then sell back to the Club House.

Naughty, well yes, a bit, but not deliberately destructive and disrespectful of others’ property (if you excuse the golf balls). Adult fearing, indeed, we respected our elders and did as we were told and shivered at the sight of the local constable. God fearing, absolutely, we all feared his representative on earth Sister Bruno and her slipper, at Annecy, our Convent primary school.

I was a normal boy, growing up in a family of three sisters and two hard working parents. From what I can recall, we were all happy children in a very protected, rural and seaside environment, a beautiful part of England, that I love and miss to this day.

Euphemistically, along came the winter of 1976. It was a bitterly cold winter with an average temperature that sunk to 0.8C (33.4F). I remember it well, not least because I got a brand new bicycle, a multi-gear ‘Hustler’ with lights and a speedometer, for Christmas! Mum had told me to get a blanket from the dining room because she was a little bit chilly, and unsuspectingly, I went to retrieve the blanket and to my utter amazement found the bike sitting there. I think I screamed in excitement. My eldest sister and I went on a bike ride later that day. I couldn’t wait to get back to school to show it off.

Sadly, that was the last ‘family’ Christmas we ever had.

In early January one weekday evening when it was cold and dark, mum and dad assembled us together in the lounge. I remember correctly forecasting to my sisters what I thought this could be about. But even then, nothing prepared me for the words that I didn’t really understand fully “…mummy and daddy don’t love each other anymore, and mummy is going to live somewhere else…”  I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards. I do remember that I cried in assembly at school the next day and in class. I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but I do recall the stirring of butterflies in my stomach and feeling sick. Mummy and daddy were splitting up. The odd thing is, none of my friends from that point on right up to and through university were the products of a broken marriage – not one. I was always the odd one out. How I looked admiringly into the lives of all my friends.

In looking back, there were strong pointers to the inevitability of this whole situation. However, as a child, there was no way I would have had a clue that those signals had been flashing alarmingly, semi-permanently for quite a long time. So, the day arrived when mum packed up her little blue mini and left home. In my mind, that dark, overcast, chilly late afternoon in February 1977 was like no other: it was the day that my world blew apart. I felt nothing but guilt, it had all been my fault and if I had been good, she wouldn’t be leaving now. Perhaps it was the time that I had been asked to do the hoovering, where I had taken out the hoover, asked how much I was going to get paid and was told ‘nothing’, and promptly wound up the cable and returned the hoover to the cupboard under the stairs. I was wracking my brain, desperately trying to think how I had caused my parents to break up.

As mum hugged me, she was in tears, I can’t remember if I was or not. I hugged her back and as she drove off, I remember thinking why didn’t I slash her tyres to stop her? I went inside and hugged the dog, and felt totally and utterly alone. The girls couldn’t even bring themselves to come out. My eldest sister was about to join the army, so before long, with dad commuting, it befell my two middle sisters to look after me, cook, clean and manage the house. It was a long, unhappy Queen’s Jubilee year. Where everyone else was happily getting involved with events, we were still coming to terms with the ground zero devastation of the implosion of our family unit.

Before long we were getting into the habit of life as a family apart. After school on a set day each week, we would all troop to the Tuck In Cafe, a greasy spoon, where mum would meet us and we’d make a tearful reunion. Eventually, one or two of us would go and stay with mum at her flat above the Flude’s shop in Worthing. It frightened the living daylights out of me, Lord knows how mum coped as she slogged her guts out holding down three jobs, to earn money to survive and to occupy the sad emptiness of her new life.

We moved house, downsized to a bungalo on the other side of town, me, dad and two of my sisters. I remember getting depressed on Sunday nights. I’d always been anxious about going to school and it had taken me a long time to adjust to being separated as an infant from the girls when they were in juniors, and again when they moved on to senior school. The only two items of comfort I had was Minty, my cat and my glow in the dark rosary that hung at the end of the bed, demonstrating the presence of my guardian angel. Perhaps the real issue was that the country itself was depressing – everything was beginning to break down and from 1977 to 1979, every union took a turn at putting the knife in. Our family just fitted in with everything going on around it.

I know mum will be reading this, so for her and a wider audience that at this moment is possibly clambering for a variety of nouns to describe their outrage, please understand, I do not blame her nor I do feel rage or anger since I have done all that. Mum has endured the brunt of some of my outbursts, indeed, she’s borne the brunt of one hell of a lot of abuse from all of us, in some shape or form over the years, none of which could make any of us proud. She has more than made up for deserting our home and I love her very dearly. She’s been a tower of strength and a true friend and supporter.

When mum left, she was suffering from anorexia and she was dangerously thin and under-weight. There were other reasons too, more personal and more hard to comprehend, that forced her hand. I remembered a period where, and possibly this is my memory exaggerating a bit here,  she had been back and forth to hospital, for one major operation after another. I remember the last occasion seeing the distinct flashing of blue lights coming into my room at the front of Maurice Road, as she was taken off to hospital in the middle of the night. I forever remember her recovering in her dressing gown, the one with the mauve velvet straps, as I sat close, on the floor by her feet, often rubbing them or applying cream to her soles.

I cannot know what really went on in my parent’s marriage – indeed, such knowledge of those facts could be too painful for anyone to bear – but one absolute fact that is incontrovertible is that she was unwell and I think from what friends of hers have told me, that at the end of the day, it was either her marriage and role as mother and wife that were going to have to be sacrificed, or her own life.

The flight for survival then is the path she chose and was encouraged to take I think, quite rightly, by her parents. The pain of her guilt that she must have suffered, each and every day of her life since leaving home must have been immense. Who would not have been tormented by the image you saw in your rear mirror of your little boy, waving goodbye, a small figure in gray , as you left the family home for good. And then, to lose her parents, both of them, within the space of two years, must have been additionally traumatic – suddenly alone without the closest supporters you could ever want for.

We were part of a small community of 20,000 people in Seaford, a coastal town at the end of a railway line that was dominated by Seaford Head, a massive assault of white chalk that rose inexorably into the sky above the town and seemed to me as a boy, as if it were indeed the pathway to heaven. We attended a Annecy catholic school with only 200 pupils, a wonderful, innocent, time warp in a dangerous world. Everyone was close and parents knew each other from inter-related school activities, football, cubs, clubs and church – except for dad because he was a non-practising Anglican. Mum worked in the town and felt the heat of others’ judgements – always suspecting that another party is involved, but not really knowing the real facts. She endured gossip, whispering and shameful torture from supposed christians, friends’ parents and people we knew, who would rather cross the street than have to look mum in the face and acknowledge her. There were no good samaritans in Seaford, just a bunch of dreadful hypocrites.

Dad, for his part, had always been this rather remote, victorian figure, a less extreme version of his father whom I remember as cold and grumpy. Granddad had lived with us for a number of years but he and mum had never seen eye to eye. For all their differences though, he always said that she was a very good mother.

As far as dad is concerned my impression is that children, at that time, were there to be seen and not heard. I think this changed when he became a father again in his forties, to my half-brother Michael. A perception I have is that dad had more interest in, and patience for, the intricacies of an industrial mechanism than with the musings of a child. I can’t remember just ‘mucking around’ with him where he let his hair down, it was always rather formal. So, our relationship was formed around things military, air shows, the garden, mowing the lawn and digging the garden. Dad didn’t do football or rugby, but we occasionally did cricket, chess and draughts. I can only remember one occasion on which dad read me a story at bedtime; and the only time I can remember him bathing me, he used a loofah on my back and not only removed baked on grime but several layers of skin into the bargain. In his defence, he was probably very busy, working, commuting and constructing things.

Dad was, is, a perfectionist in everything from building houses to renovating them and constructing things from scratch. This made it difficult for him to teach me  – I simply could not do anything to his standard, he was impatient, overly critical and frustrated when I got it wrong – very odd for a teacher. I felt for years I was useless with my hands, and to this day I still think he despairs at my lack of DIY prowess, irrespective of some of the projects I have completed. He was the cleverest person in the use of their hands I have ever known, and remains so to this day. I could only ever aspire to be half as accomplished as dad and I feel very inadequate by comparison. He and mum together taught us an assortment of good values, manners, smart dress codes and controlled behaviour – they also had a no swearing policy and required us all to speak well and clearly.

When mum left, dad’s facade evaporated. Suddenly, there was a vulnerability about him, and I can vividly recall his agony, tears and sadness. Many was the time, having crept out of bed to listen, I heard dad unsuccessfully begging mum to return. He also told my oldest sister when she in the army serving as a nurse in Hong Kong that he missed her and that ‘she was the only one he cared about.’ He was if anything always effusive about her, she was his chink of happiness and pride in this sea of doom all around him. However, for once we were seeing a different, softer side to dad, but to be honest it was frightening and made me feel a lot more insecure because not only had mum gone, but my dad was now a different person as well. For a child, this was extremely hard to handle, there were no guarantees of certainties anywhere.

As an adult, I now understand mum’s motives and why she took her decision which to many is an action that is indefensible: to leave your husband and children and start a new life. Let’s be clear, without understanding all the facts it’s neither fair nor rationale to condemn. As we will never know all the facts and frankly, as it concerns my parents I do not want to know all the facts, no reliable judgements can be made.

It’s at this point though, that one’s understandable outrage at her actions needs to be replaced with compassion and understanding. I am not denying how I feel nor am I trying to justify mum’s decision that damaged everyone around her. However, if I am not prepared to condemn or to blame mum’s actions, then nobody else should either.

A course of events were set in train, the consequences for every family member were very different.  However, they have presented themselves in many forms: lack of trust, reclusiveness, huge insecurities, lack of confidence, lack of self esteem, social anxieties – eating disorders, panic attacks, irrational fears, morbid thoughts, in some shape of form, all four children have suffered  some or all of these problems. These may or may not have been a direct consequence of my parent’s marriage break-up, but it for sure compounded whatever genetic predisposition we already had.

I can see some real strengths from mum and dad though – resilience, perseverence, humour, emotional intelligence, drive, compassion, attention to detail, sensitivity, articulacy, numeracy, a sense of history, a love of nature and so the list goes on. Mum, for her apart, is a truly inspirational woman who has single-handedly achieved so much with so little through nothing other than hard work, drive and intelligence. Dad, in his own way held it together for his kids when he was left on his own – he could have behaved so differently, but he he didn’t – no alcohol, no women, no vices of any kind other than a searing cynicism for figures of the political establishment! It could all have been so different and I thank God that it wasn’t.

This story is about my take on a period which affected me profoundly – I own this piece of that experience and it is my story. It was Darcey’s birth that made me begin to seriously reflect on my earlier life and want to write about it. It made me think very deeply about what kind of foundation I would create for her and how I would leave my mark on her blank, innocent canvas of a psyche. Darcey’s arrival then has had a tremendous impact on my view of the world. As my sister Giselle said to me, ‘…as her father, you will be the first man Darcey comes into contact with. Make sure that her experience is a good one.’ We only have room for so much philosophy in how we run our lives, but that, for me was a catalyst. It not only preoccupies my thoughts about that father/daughter relationship, but about my relationship with Mandy, and what memories and influences Darcey will infer from witnessing how we behave as her mother and father.

This post then was written without malice or spite. It will serve to archive  a period that should not be forgotten, for there are so many things to learn from it. I also wanted to convey a message that faith in God, love and honesty are the most powerful weapons in overcoming any difficulty we face in life. If we lose sight of those three things we can become seriously distracted and struggle to make sense of anything.

I owe my parents a huge amount, particularly my mum and I wanted to publicly thank them both. Whatever happened during my childhood, I still think I have so much to be grateful to them both for and I pray to God that I might be as good a parent as they were, despite their issues, with Darcey.





The loneliness of it all

23 02 2011

‘No body understands’ is a phrase I’d utter repeatedly to myself. I had had such visions of me, a dad, running around doing all those fatherly things. How could it be? But then how bad could it be, I wasn’t the infertile one. The guilt I felt was immense, but the sense of being utterly alone was even greater.

When I started looking at the family tree, I don’t know why, I started digging at this time, I could see that the line was a very fertile one. On Dad’s side, my great great grandfather was one of 10, my great grandfather was one of 9 and my grandfather was one of 24 (from two marriages). Dad was one of 10 (6 still born). Mum’s side we knew less about but she was one of four, her father was one of three and his mother was one of 9 or so. I was one of 5 (two marriages). When my father went to have a vasectomy, after two previously failed attempts, they told him he was probably one of the most fertile men for his age in West Sussex. Then of course, the evidence came back that I was ok biologically.

As I’ve said before, all that is no consolation, I might as well have declared myself infertile because actually, the predicament is acutally something that afflicts two people, you the couple – it’s a shared problem. But it’s a tricky business to share because one of you will turn round to the other at some point and say ‘you can’t know how I feel in all this’, and it would be true; but, my advice at that point would be not to argue that point, but to concede. However, my reposte would be that there are two people in this relationship and we both hurt but in different ways. This is what gets missed.

The truth is, you owe it to each other to recognise the different positions you find yourselves in. The focus is so naturally the one who is biologically or biochemically challenged, all the attention is on that half of the relationship, but the other half needs comfort too. The other half in all this is told that they ‘don’t have a problem’, but the reality is they do, and if  you ignore this, then, over time, the real problem will actually become your relationship, not infertility.

How many times have we all privately gone away to weep? How often, by contrast have we wept together? On how many occasions have we made time and stripped down to ‘yours and mine’ where we expose our true, deep feelings about all of this? In all probability, a lot at first, less so as time has moved on. My advice is that it should be ongoing. Make no assumptions, leave no hostages to fortune – the narrow focus on the end game can leave your partner silent, emotionally crushed and unable to express how they really feel. Both of you have a responsibility to monitor the temperature of your feelings and to resolve any issues that do exist before moving on.

The loneliness of deep inner feelings will gnaw into the fabric of your love for each other. It will be expressed in word or deed at some point, but surface it will and the shock could be devastating. So, remember, you are a couple, you’re doing this together, you need to know how the other really feels because the process you’re engaged in needs informed consent of the deepest kind. If it all seems too hard, slow the process right down to relieve the pressure of it all and get yourselves back on an even keel. Only then, when rational thought returns should you continue, along that well trodden path, together, whatever the outcome.





A privilege

11 12 2010

On November 8th, 2010, Mandy fell ill, literally, and was rushed into emergency surgery 30.6 weeks pregnant with Darcey. We did not know what was wrong. However, twenty minutes later, at 1942 Darcey was delivered and was effectively 9 weeks premature and spent the next nine weeks in NICU (the neo-natal unit of Auckland City Hospital). She weighed just 1.5k or 3lbs 5oz, and was immediately placed on breathing and feeding apparatus. As for Mandy, unbeknown to either or us, she was being examined by General Surgeons who found that her bowel had flopped over and twisted into a volvulus. Luckily, there were no signs of necrosis and so they righted the bowel and turned what was going to be a lateral, gentle, bikini line scar into a vertical one 14 inches long.

It was another two hours before I could see Mandy, but I still had no idea what was wrong. Eventually, the surgeons found me, confirmed Darcey’s birth and the fact that Mandy was recovering from bowel surgery.
It seems nothing is ever simple in my life – however, I doubt it’s no different for anyone else who reads this.I am so grateful for Darcey but even more thankful for Mandy’s recovery.

Now that the little cherub has been home some five weeks now, after having been incarcerated in NICU for 60 days, we are both enjoying parenthood, sleepless nights and no social life, but loving every moment of this special time. Each day something new occurs and each day I thank God  for this chance to fulfill my dream of being a Dad.
I have written much about my experience of infertility and the pain that I still carry with such raw memories inside me. But, today, I look down at my daughter in a sling over my arm, sound asleep and still have to pinch myself that after all this time and after everything that I went through, I am now a Dad.

All the way through NICU, I made sure that everyone knew how special this baby was. For many people we met there, none of them had ever experienced the ravages of infertility and were totally unaware of the pain, desolation and despair that infertility inflicts. They are now all a little wiser.

There is one promise that I have made to myself, since before Darcey was born, and it is that I will never forget my journey to parenthood, nor will I betray the memory of those for whom the pain and the misery still continues.





Are we all mad?

2 09 2010

Extracting the stone of madness by Hieronymous Bosch (15th century)

When Abbi, my first black lab died recently, I was patronisingly accused of having ‘lost it’ because I felt such tremendous grief which I related and compared to the sense of loss felt with unsuccessful IVF attempts. Apparently, according to this uninvited insight, I had grief laid bear which I had never dealt with all those years ago and I was obviously in need of help. I responded tersely  that I was actually in total control of my emotions and that I had chosen my response and was working through the issues. The comment was offensive.

So, my initial advice to those who are suffering from bereavement or a sense of loss is not to listen to any unwanted advice or suggestions from armchair psychologists. You will know if you’re in that dark place and whether you’re coping or not and, if you’re not coping, do get some help from a professional.

I keep coming back to how we deal with negative emotions but I am also certain that positive emotions will also cause problems for some people too. Elation at the news that you’ve harvested  x-eggs, or that y-eggs have been fertilised, or that z-embryos have been put back are stages on that journey to parenthood before the wait that only God determines. In that space, some will try to offer advice that you shouldn’t get too excited ‘just in case’ something happens or it doesn’t work – as if the bleeding obvious had never crossed your mind!

My view is that in an enterprise with no certainties, you need to enjoy the positive outcomes you get along the way, it builds optimism and hope (things you have been without for so long) but, realistically for many, it will sadly be as close as they get to parenthood. But, no-one who has not been through this, certainly not those who have had children naturally, could ever understand the importance of these staging posts.

Your pathway to parenthood is a potential roller-coaster with no certainties at any point along the way – all humans share this vulnerability, but the lucky ones never have reason to consider it. Those of us who have pondered what it takes to create human life appreciate it all the more.

We are not mad for wanting something that others achieve with ease and without contemplation, nor are we mad for expressing our grief, in whatever circumstance loss occurs. Desire your dreams and express enthusiasm, don’t contain your exuberance or optimism and equally, express your grief and loss in ways that are beneficial to your recovery.





Going through to the other side.

5 08 2010

Someone said to me the other day that because I am going to be a Dad, it means that I am ‘going through to the other side’, meaning that I will soon forget about how it feels not to be a parent and yet to want it so badly, because I will join the ranks of the privileged.

I am not sure I agree with that statement nor do I think it’s fair.

Whether or not I became a parent, there are bits of the assisted pregnancy process I have forgotten about, unintentionally anyway, but there are huge parts of it that have left me scarred for life.

The pain I felt reminded me of a scene in The Godfather where Al Pacino’s coming out of the opera and an assassin’s bullet misses him but kills his daughter. He stands there, distraught, mouth open, looking up to God, but not a sound comes out of his mouth for what seems an eternity, seemingly as if the pain of what has just happened acts to atone for his sins. Then, in an instant, the pain comes out in a torrent of emotion. We all feel for him.

Well, there’s an element of this in all of us who suffer IVF failure after failure. Even years later, what affected me then can be triggered by other events today. Armchair psychologists tell me I don’t cope with grief very well and that I have many issues to deal with. I don’t think so. In fact, I think I am in touch and in control of my emotions in a way I never was before.

I will never abandon the memories that touch the experiences of assisted reproduction. Too many years and too many tears were expended to forget it so easily. So what I intend to do, once my family is complete, is to donate sperm and help others achieve their dreams. I will also get involved in whatever way I can with fertility pressure groups. I will honour the memory of what I went through by trying to help those who are going through it today.

So, to the arm chair critics and anyone else who believes I am walking away and not dealing with things – I am here to stay, here to help and ready to give.