The phone went off today. I answered and it was my older sister.
She was in tears, so much so it took a few attempts to get at the bottom of what was wrong. It turned out she was really dreading a counselling appointment she has tomorrow.
I talked her though writing things down so if she got so wound up she couldn't speak she should still communicate (her therapist apparently wants her to rehearse it all in her head), having something lined up to do afterwards to cheer herself up (her husband is an arsehole and won't do anything, and agreed with her that the things she's upset about are very upsetting.
I had to go, but then spoke to her again later. It was the same conversation, although I suggested she take up some sort of exercise as that helps (her back hurts), line up something to do with her kids (she might).
I found myself getting rather irritated a couple of times (and I hope it didn't show), when she wanted to talk about our brother dying and how she'd never got over it, and had I got over it? I still think about him, but generally get on with my day to day life, because that's what you do.
I find it frustrating that my sister rejected virtually all the suggestions.
At a loss to suggest anything else and not really knowing what else I could do, I got the conversation back onto more normal stuff, she chatted for a bit and said she had to go.
I also find it quite difficult because I genuinely have had mental health problems myself, to the point of being on ADs a few times. Twice through pregnancy losses, once through a career related drama last year.
To be honest I'm still not feeling entirely myself about the career thing and miscarriage happening so close to each other (I will blog about it at some point when I've figured out how to make it less identifying), but I have been religious about going to the gym recently, doing my actual job, spending time with the Boy and hobbies and just trying to tread water until I figure out what to do next.
It's difficult because you can't measure mental health problems so I know I can't tell her that x, y or worked for me so she needs to give herself a kick up the arse.
I also can't get sucked into her calling constantly as that will pull me back into bad mental health myself, which helps nobody.
I know from bitter experience that as a society we just aren't set up to help other people through depression or bad mental health, but I don't know what to do beyond what I have done.
I did, once, find a newspaper cutting that my mum was going to send my sister, that was from a right wing newspaper and inferred that the high rate of women on antidepressants was down to us wanting to "have it all".
I know this was a bit bad of me, but that article mysteriously found its way into a recycling bin outside of the house. It probably had a negative impact on my mother but not as bad as the one it would have had on my sister had she read it.
I guess it's all about trying to find a balance.
Wednesday, 24 May 2017
Wednesday, 17 May 2017
The fun bits
IF blogging tends to be a bit of a depository for negative thoughts (at least it is for me), a way of getting stuff out there.
But soon, the Boy is "a five" as he calls it. We are all very excited.
Hights of the last five years, that make it worth all the IF crap and then some, are to do with travelling. I love travelling, so does my husband. The Boy does also.
There was the time we took him to a caravan when he was a toddler. He - and I know this sounds like Bad Parenting - got into a box with a lot of switches and played with them. We turned on the oven and the caravan lights all went off.
We found someone to turn them back on but in the meantime it was past dinnertime and we'd only bought stuff to put in the oven, so he demolished half a ginger loaf we'd bought. We all like ginger cake and I have some ready for his birthday.
I have to travel sometimes for work and when the Boy was very little we often combined this with a family weekend away (tbh, we still do). I'm not sure whether kids are happier staying in hotels than they're generally given credit for or whether this is early experience - I didn't stay in a hotel until I was 13 and he seems to just take it all in his stride.
If we're staying in a hotel or airBNB now he likes jumping on the bed, checking out the toilet, trying to persuade us to let him sleep in the biggest bed, going through the TV channels and all the sorts of things you do when hotels are a novelty.
If he particularly likes the hotel room we sometimes have to work hard to persuade him that the rest of the city is worth exploring.
He hated camping in the Lake District; I've got a photo taken of him just after we got there and it started pouring rain. He's sitting in his car seat, staring straight ahead, scowling (it did get better, he loved the waffles we got in Penrith).
He liked camping in Galloway. It was sunny but windy; I blew bubbles for him outside the tent.
He loves Romania because of the trains, the pub at the beach that had a trampoline, that everyone was kind to him (they really were), the bread and the amazing playparks in Bucharest.
We went to Spain, unexpectedly after the miscarriage, becausse neither I nor my husband could face the dark days between New Year and school starting back without a distraction. The Boy kept us going; he loved the room, loved the toy shop in Malaga, and was generally happy with his toys afterwards. And he even ate his dinners.
The other thing - for me - I love about being a parent is teaching him to try different foods (we've got the encouraging him to travel bit ok - although I do worry about where he will end up! - and are trying to set him up not to be fussy about food).
We have a game where he gets £1 if he tries a new food, and his Dad or I get £1 if we end up eating it. He always tries the food in the end, if only to stop one of his undeserving parents from ending up with the money.
Maybe, reading this back, I should be so hung up on the infertility years that I'm training him up to move two blocks down, only eat my food and go to the same resort every year on holiday.
But maybe he'll take us somewhere exciting that we wouldn't have tackled without him, someday.
But soon, the Boy is "a five" as he calls it. We are all very excited.
Hights of the last five years, that make it worth all the IF crap and then some, are to do with travelling. I love travelling, so does my husband. The Boy does also.
There was the time we took him to a caravan when he was a toddler. He - and I know this sounds like Bad Parenting - got into a box with a lot of switches and played with them. We turned on the oven and the caravan lights all went off.
We found someone to turn them back on but in the meantime it was past dinnertime and we'd only bought stuff to put in the oven, so he demolished half a ginger loaf we'd bought. We all like ginger cake and I have some ready for his birthday.
I have to travel sometimes for work and when the Boy was very little we often combined this with a family weekend away (tbh, we still do). I'm not sure whether kids are happier staying in hotels than they're generally given credit for or whether this is early experience - I didn't stay in a hotel until I was 13 and he seems to just take it all in his stride.
If we're staying in a hotel or airBNB now he likes jumping on the bed, checking out the toilet, trying to persuade us to let him sleep in the biggest bed, going through the TV channels and all the sorts of things you do when hotels are a novelty.
If he particularly likes the hotel room we sometimes have to work hard to persuade him that the rest of the city is worth exploring.
He hated camping in the Lake District; I've got a photo taken of him just after we got there and it started pouring rain. He's sitting in his car seat, staring straight ahead, scowling (it did get better, he loved the waffles we got in Penrith).
He liked camping in Galloway. It was sunny but windy; I blew bubbles for him outside the tent.
He loves Romania because of the trains, the pub at the beach that had a trampoline, that everyone was kind to him (they really were), the bread and the amazing playparks in Bucharest.
We went to Spain, unexpectedly after the miscarriage, becausse neither I nor my husband could face the dark days between New Year and school starting back without a distraction. The Boy kept us going; he loved the room, loved the toy shop in Malaga, and was generally happy with his toys afterwards. And he even ate his dinners.
The other thing - for me - I love about being a parent is teaching him to try different foods (we've got the encouraging him to travel bit ok - although I do worry about where he will end up! - and are trying to set him up not to be fussy about food).
We have a game where he gets £1 if he tries a new food, and his Dad or I get £1 if we end up eating it. He always tries the food in the end, if only to stop one of his undeserving parents from ending up with the money.
Maybe, reading this back, I should be so hung up on the infertility years that I'm training him up to move two blocks down, only eat my food and go to the same resort every year on holiday.
But maybe he'll take us somewhere exciting that we wouldn't have tackled without him, someday.
Tuesday, 2 May 2017
Romance isn't dead
There was an article in a right wing tabloid today... a couple who are having their second child naturally after a first IVF baby have claimed that IVF is "just as romantic".
Really.
I think there's a bit of naievety in there as they seemed to be lucky on their first go at IVF and have experienced the full horror of the infertility trenches.
But... still? Romantic? My top non-romantic things about IVF are:
The drugs. Last time round, I ended up weeping copiously when I started the progesterone. Then there's the downregging, the stims, everything else. They make me want to smack my husband rather than engendering any romantic notions.
Then there's the stirrups and general poking about in your fanny. I'm fairly disinhibited about all this now. Let's face it, if they got to me then I wouldn't be counting my IVF goes on two fingers. But romantic they are not, unless you're got very strange ideas and boundaries.
The fear of failure, that you're throwing money, emotional investment, side effects and generally feeling shit at something that might never work.
I know I'm one of the lucky ones in that I did eventually have a baby.
But, y'know, if I had the option, I'd take even the most perfunctory quick shag as being about a million times more romantic then and infinitely preferable to fertility treatment.
Really.
I think there's a bit of naievety in there as they seemed to be lucky on their first go at IVF and have experienced the full horror of the infertility trenches.
But... still? Romantic? My top non-romantic things about IVF are:
The drugs. Last time round, I ended up weeping copiously when I started the progesterone. Then there's the downregging, the stims, everything else. They make me want to smack my husband rather than engendering any romantic notions.
Then there's the stirrups and general poking about in your fanny. I'm fairly disinhibited about all this now. Let's face it, if they got to me then I wouldn't be counting my IVF goes on two fingers. But romantic they are not, unless you're got very strange ideas and boundaries.
The fear of failure, that you're throwing money, emotional investment, side effects and generally feeling shit at something that might never work.
I know I'm one of the lucky ones in that I did eventually have a baby.
But, y'know, if I had the option, I'd take even the most perfunctory quick shag as being about a million times more romantic then and infinitely preferable to fertility treatment.
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