How can you mend a broken heart?

Hahaha! Utterly dramatic title, eh? It's not really broken in the slightest, just a little dented around the edges. I had just noticed that one of my other blog entries was a song title too and thought I might start that as a theme instead of random questions. Isn't it maddening when someone mentions a band or a song and you might be a million miles away from music but it gets completely stuck in a loop in your head? Yesterday, I read a tweet from Pete Paphides (he might be a human being in his own right but he is and always will be Mr Caitlin Moran to me) and he talked about Boney M. That was it. Brown Girl in The Ring (tra la la la) was stuck in my head.

I love how music reminds you of a place and a time. You can be whisked away from a heaving bus in Woolwich to a holiday with friends or to a moment in a film. A song can make the sun shine on your face or transport you to dancing around the kitchen with your husband. It can whisk up the bad bits too- for example, realistically I can't listen to the Holy Bible by the Manics without feeling my teenage angst self creeping back! The Ellie Goulding song- Anything Could Happen- reminds me of my most recent miscarriage. I am desperately trying to tie it into the beginning of term (got to have a theme tune for the school year... or is that just me?) but it's just reminding me of that misguided hope that the pregnancy could have turned into a baby.

The worst part about having wonky chromosomes is the fact that in the law of averages, we should be able to become parents naturally. It's not a definite NO. YOU CANNOT HAVE A BABY. It's a horrible hold your breath and keep everything crossed position to be in. Of course one route is to keep trying but how many more babies can I really lose before I either lose my marriage or mind? Do you go the scary route of PGD or do you hold your hands up and say, enough. Enough of the constant heartache from either not being pregnant or the pregnancy not going to full term; it's time to adopt.

Even without the big decisions, my heart really is aching. Like properly aching hard right now. I see people with almost full term bumps right now and feel like screaming, "That should be me! That should be my bump! I should  be tired and irritable from not being able to be comfortable. I should have that rising fear of oh crap, how am I going to get through this birth?" It isn't though and it's really crippling at the moment.

I never used to be bad at seeing babies. It was only ever pregnant women that riled me- the old green eyed monster raging away as after all, I've never got that "bump". It's bad now. Made worse when I see someone cuddling their baby. Don't worry- I'm not about to snatch one as really, it's not their baby that I want. It's my own.

Since forever, failure has been a big thing for me. Not in a productive way but quite destructively as I used to scrape by, always pulling myself up at the last minute. It wasn't until I almost failed completely at something I really loved that I tried to avoid it. No matter how people say or put it, I do feel a failure in not being able to keep a pregnancy. I have achieved quite a bit in life, I guess- all the normal school qualifications, degree, PGCE, seven years of teaching (I think the average is 3?)- a family who are generally alright, if a little mad, a great group of friends, a house, and three furbabies- by the age of 30, I guess that's ok. However, I haven't made my parents grandparents or added to my in-laws' grandchildren. I haven't made my brothers or my sister-in-law an auntie or uncles. I haven't made P a dad.

To me, that's a big fat failure.

One that I can't even work harder at.

I have found a little bit of light recently. Obviously, I have a great human support network of friends and family but it is great to find other people who are having a bit of a shit time of it too! Through Twitter, I have found so many people from all around the world who are having a crap time of trying to have a baby. A whole group of people with so many differing reasons as to why they are struggling. I don't think it's a case of misery seeking misery, it's  knowing that you're not the only one struggling in a hopeless sea of imaginary babygros and nappies.

One of the people I have recently started following is Baby Hopeful. My most favourite post is this, which is called Anniversaries of Nothing. It's almost P's and my first anniversary. Next weekend, in fact. I have really struggled as all the anniversary cards mark another fantastic year spent together. Whilst any time with P is bloody amazing ( he is a truly incredibly human being), it hasn't been a happy year. Three miscarriages since we've been married. Over a month of having to live apart whilst we bought our first house together. It's been bloody tough. I think I mentioned in a previous entry about how I hoped that I wouldn't be able to drink for our first anniversary, there was a glimmer of hope that it would happen but sadly not now.

Hope is a funny thing. I taught my children to retell the story of Pandora's Box using story hands this week (thumb the beginning, index, middle and ring as the central events and the little finger as the ending). I had one child who was able to link it to multiple stories in the Bible and another who was able to link it to Sikhism. I then wondered about what hope means to me. As I have said, I am an atheist; a humanist. Humanism isn't about hope, it's about seeing the world as it really is and making the best out of it. Religion, beauty products and elections sell hope but humanism doesn't. It truly is a deep human need, especially after a significant trauma to want hope in your lives. Hope, to me, isn't about ideas, it's about needing human contact and support. It's saying, I need help or a hug right now.

Which is kind of what I need!

Oh and another song you won't be able to get out of your head...

When do you say enough?

So a lot has happened since the previous post- we are no longer living with our parents as the move went through at the beginning of August! We are now in and settled with furbaby number three. The mogs are mostly living upstairs due the "dirty dog" who is babygated off from them but next week we will start them on trying to get the kitties out into the garden. All my babies are growing up! Leaving my nest! I remember the night before Max (the dog) moved in, I couldn't sleep as all I could think about was someone else's dog attacking him- utterly ridiculous but I remember freaking out at the first suggestion of the cats going outside (secretly I'm hoping that it will be raining so that they won't want to!)

The house is brilliant- there truly is a different feeling when you own your own home- pride with a side of panic (after all, where is the landlord to fix things when they go wrong?) It's a bit like when people asked me if I thought anything would change after P and I got married and quite honestly I didn't think it would as we had a great relationship already but there is a change. A real change. Even right down to the symbolism of wearing a ring (I have felt naked for the past three weeks as I haven't been able to wear my rings) and it's the same when you first move into your first bought home. It felt like a holiday to begin with but after having a few friends and family around to see it, it feels more real, like it is actually ours. What is really nice is that all of my friends and family have said that they really like our new house- that it has so much potential whilst also (knock on wood) being in good enough condition to not need to do anything urgently.

One of the best points is our big back garden- it was like a ginormous jungle but P and I decided to tackle it on bank holiday Monday. We worked pretty methodically around the garden, clearing weeds, cutting back roses and trimming the grass until I decided to attack the ivy. We had two lots of ivy in our garden- one towards the back that had wrapped itself around a post and a bit by the kitchen that had grown over a fence. So by this point, it was pretty hot (I was utterly confused by this as when is it ever sunny on a bank holiday?) so I rolled back my sleeves, rolled up my trousers and swapped my trainers for sandals. P and I then worked together on chopping the beastly ivy down, slowly working our way through the branches until there were little rivulets of sunlight breaking through the horror film gloom! After a good four to five hours out in our garden, P and I felt utterly saintly for doing something other than watching box sets in our pants on a bank holiday.

My choice in clothes became my downfall. The next day, I noticed a bit of contact dermatitis in the areas that had been uncovered- my hands, arms, feet and legs. Just the usual eczema type dry bumpy rash and I thought I would self treat with the usual emollient cream, hydrocortisone and piriton. however, by the Friday I ended up in a walk in clinic (between GPs at the time) in Woolwich as I had a huge amount of swelling around my ankles and wrists- they looked like elephant feet! Whilst at the clinic, they also did a pregnancy test, which came back positive making me about 4/5 weeks along so they were careful in the drugs that they gave me and popped me on some antibiotics that were known to be pretty safe. I was told to return in 48 hours if there was no improvement, which I ended up doing as the rash had started to spread further up my limbs and onto my body and the swelling had reached a point where I was struggling to walk easily. The doctor ended up referring me to hospital as he was afraid of giving me anymore drugs and I ended up in the QE on an IV, on fluids, iv piriton and steroids. There was a wonderful moment where the doctor asked me what pregnancy I was on- I answered that it was my fifth and she asked me how on earth I coped with so many children!!!HAHAHAHA!!! She looked a little winded when I quietly said that none had been born. So, eventually I was sent home with 20 tablets to take each day (a strong wind would have made me rattle). I was hugely worried about the pregnancy and the fact that no one seemed entirely sure what was going on with me.

It was pretty hideous- my skin was splitting due to the swelling and the dryness and the allergy plaques looked like burns. All in the week before my best friend's wedding! After one more trip to the doctors (where she got me to strip off and poured cream all over me), it all started to clear up albeit with lumps of dry skin falling off! So despite feeling like shit, I dragged my suitcase across London to catch a train to the wilds of Sussex to see my best friend get married. Then the familiar numbness started in my tummy. After the brief legal ceremony was done in Hastings, we all ended back at the hotel and the first thing I did was run to the loo and lo and behold, there were streaks of blood. So I snuck off into Rye to try and find a pregnancy test (the last positive having been done the day before when I signed up at my GPs clinic) and it came back negative. So I ended up completing my fifth pregnancy in the middle of a field, in a very posh portaloo just outside of Rye. It won't have been the drugs, no matter what people say, I know it was my crazy chromosomes again. All over before it had barely started.

I have a real fear at the moment that nothing is going right with my body. It just isn't working properly and I'm not entirely sure why for some parts. My allergies seem to be worsening and becoming more random and when the fuck, are P and I going to manage to get the roll of the dice right?

To begin with, I thought, "This is it. I've had enough. I think I want to do something now- either go for adoption or go down the PGD route." There was a sort of relief that came with that thought too- like the big part of pain was over as we were taking decisive action. Then yesterday whilst playing with Max outside, I thought well maybe we could try again in a few months... Gah! Everything is a muddle. I feel like I'm being a bit shit at everything- shit best friend/ shit wife/ shit daughter/ shit teacher. To top it all, I seem to have caught a cold in my first week back at work too! Grrr!

I had a little chat with P last night. He came over and cuddled me (which was punctuated with us having to jump up and get Max off the other sofa) and he said how he wanted to know what I was thinking and that we were both very lucky with having so many lovely people around us who truly care about us and whom we can talk to but that he needed to be kept in the loop as well. I mentioned my fear at my body just not working properly at the moment and the fact I felt I was so shit at everything and he made the most amazing point. P said that I was kind of trapped by the overwhelming need to be a mum, so much so that I can't think about the future because there is still some kind of hope that I will be pregnant and it will stick for longer than 11 weeks. This really hit the nail on the head. I can't think what I want to do professionally next as I'm hoping that there will be a baby in the not so distant future and I know that once they come along, priorities change (just leaving Max with the dog walker was hard enough!)

At some point, I will also have to say to P that I need him to help me make decisions. That he can't just claim wanting the best for me (what a bastard!!!!Hehehe!) and that I need support in making decisions that affect us as a family. He is the one picking me up every time I fall, the main soaker-upper of tears and that can't continue without it eventually damaging our relationship. There does need to be a natural route cut off as we know he winks at me and I fall pregnant but the fact that it still hasn't resulted in anything more than loss- there needs to be a number when we say enough. If we do try PGD, there also needs to be a cut off with that. A certain amount of tries and then we say enough with that too. Urgh, it's all coming back to maths again!

I am completely confident that we will be parents, no matter which route we take. It's just that the point where we stop just "having a go" is coming closer. It's almost time to start making some decisions. Mañana?