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?

Where am I?

Such a good question when your belongings are in storage and you are back living with your parents. Even my classroom bits are in storage at the moment, ready for my classroom that doesn't currently exist! Next year, Year 5 will be in what is currently the hall so instead of my amazing view across London, I shall be in the underbelly of the school with a classroom adjacent to the playground (I'm thinking get out there as much as possible!)It is being split over the summer holidays into three classrooms, one of which will be used as a dining hall until the rest of the school is ready. Even though we've been told that the school will be ready in November, I can hardly believe that it will ever happen.

So a lot of turmoil at the moment! Everything in boxes. Bloody parcel taped up to the eyeballs. We did get contracts to sign today which is such a relief. Hopefully, we will be able to exchange by this Friday and get into our new house next week. It's very difficult being apart from P for so long. I know it's a maximum of two nights apart but it's really weird not having him around. I miss my kits too. Harley really isn't coping with the change and has become skin and bone. Jezzie is her usual doofus self, pottering around until Ruby turns up and offers her Starburst sweets!

We got another fur baby...

This is Max. He's a Sprollie (Springer dad and a Collie mum) which equals to a lot of complete lunacy! He is an incredibly intelligent pup and already at 13 weeks, he can sit, give his paw, roll over, lie down and leave a biscuit until he is told he can have it. On the other hand, he does like a good temper tantrum when he's over excited or over tired! We have him signed up to this dog training place. It seems really cool- they have all the normal puppy training classes run by an ex-police dog handler and then they have a fenced in grassy area and a fenced in wooded area so that you can recall train your dog.

Yes, obviously he's a replacement baby.

My due date for August is coming up soon. I hope it'll be like the others where I can just shed a couple of tears and be done with it. I'm dreading the October due date as my work colleague is due a week later, only she'll get to hold her baby and we won't. In regards to the Royal baby, I've been really trying hard to stay away from the news over the past couple of weeks but it's bloody hard when everyone else is celebrating so vociferously on every type of news and social media site. I've been asked by a few people about where we're at with everything at the moment and whilst we haven't been careful, I have felt sheer relief with the periods that came. Until this last one. I was late. A few warning signs were there and then, BOOM! Now, I am wracked with an irrational fear that the four pregnancies that have happened were it. They were my chances of having a baby and my body blew it each time. Complete lunacy, I agree but when you are high on baby crack, all you see are stories about women over the age of 30 having horrendous quality eggs (and when yours are genetically screwed...) or about declining fertility due to washing your hair, eating stuff out of plastic containers or generally being alive.

Just desperate for a bit of normality in one area of my life. School or home, I don't mind. Just a bit of consistency somewhere please?!

To end on a happy note, here are more puppy pictures:

Where've you been?

I really don't know. Having seen what a reaction some of my posts had sparked in friends and family, I became a bit worried about writing and then time elapsed and there is always that thing where you feel a bit of a doofus when you leave things hanging. To be honest, a big push was seeing Allie Brosh from Hyperbole and a Half update her blog recently after a long hiatus- a month and a week for me really is nothing!

If you are not already a fan of Hyperbole and a Half- I recommend going and reading all the back issues and the two about pages and everything else. It's utter brilliance in a blog and her latest blog about her ongoing depression sums it up perfectly. Since I took a pause in the blogging, things haven't really got better or worse. There have been some amazing explosions of sobbing that have lasted hours and at least a moment of panic everyday. One of the best emotional explosions was during an episode of The New Normal where one of them was being a hypochondriac about their puppy, they take it to the vet where it is diagnosed with gas and all of a sudden THE DOG FREAKING DIES! Now, animal deaths are never going to be easy but when an analogy is made between the baby that their surrogate is having and their dog- I think the comment made was, "You can do everything right but things can still go wrong." 

Let me make this clear, this wasn't a muffled sniff into a pillow. There were sobs, choking sounds, sniffs, snotting, red, swollen eyes and a very confused husband. As he said, he could entirely understand my sadness but didn't know quite how to make the sad stop. I didn't either and until I had downed a full bottle of wine, didn't manage to make the sad stop until a full hour and a half afterwards when I was screaming obscenities at the television during Question Time. 

We're in the process of buying a house and I'm being a bit shit. I have some money in an account that was left there by my grandfather and bizarrely, aged 30 and a half, I still have to get my parents signatures to be able to release this money... Oh yes, a conversation with the Pru and half an hour into them telling me the next steps, they suddenly say, "I'm terribly sorry but we can't discuss this with you"- now I don't play being a grown up terribly well but needing my mum to speak to them was a bit of a joke! Anyway, I had kept putting off getting the money out- my usual self-sabotage. I am very good at self-sabotage, it's like my opt out at doing anything because at least then it's my fault that it got screwed up and I have control over it going wrong! Proper screw loose eh?! So Paul had a moan at me, which was much deserved. Just a bit on the terrified scale that both it falls through and that it could go through. If it falls through, there's a chance we might have to move to one of our parents' houses and a lot of money has already gone in to surveyors and mortgages. If it goes through, we have a back garden and three bedrooms. I'm trying to visualise them as being the Dianna and the Kat rooms but we all know that is highly unlikely to happen as both of my girls are getting married in the next year and have their own homes (way more grown up than my stunted 12 year old self). Realistically, they are two empty rooms.

Two empty rooms that have the chance to go the way of our cupboards of doom. I have spent three days of emptying out our cupboard of doom at the back of the front room during this half term. Three days of sorting utter crap and memories. Letters from dead people, cards from children who are now adults and signed Manics photographs. I shouldn't really be surprised that today was another sad day. After getting back from school, I laid down on P's sofa and tortured myself whilst weeping for a good hour. Jester tried to soak up the tears but in the end, she turned into something a little like that Spaniel that was lent to Joey as the world's most happiest dog but after listening to him whinge about Rachel, became a depressed mess. I read about that baby who was stuck in the toilet pipe. I read about the baby who is currently killing its mother (there is a reason to be pro-choice!). I then followed links about stillborn and miscarried babies- the god bothering links and the never thought it would happen to me links, all the while weeping. Suddenly realised that Paul would be heading home soon and I needed to crack on with the cupboard. So I carried on crying in the cupboard but being a bit more useful by doing stuff at the same time. 

Whilst some of the stuff was heartbreaking- the Baby-On-Board badge from TFL that is still in its envelope, letters from the hospital detailing the last two miscarriages, various demands for bloods, x-rays and scans, letters from our dead neighbour detailing how to sort our rubbish according to house rules (seriously!). Other bits weren't so sad but still brought more tears- memories of being sisters abroad with photos and letters saying how much we loved our supposedly short-term family (not at all short term,as the ones that matter are still in touch!), pictures of fancy dress parties aged 15- oh how risque we were, dressing as Rocky Horror characters tee hee! Bad poetry detailing my obsession with disappearing, 5k running photos, posed photos for local papers with A Level results. I think I upset my mum the other day when I said that I feel like if I dropped dead tomorrow, I would have done enough with my life. Whilst I understand her horror, my feelings remain the same: I married the love of my life; I have the job of my dreams; I did the uni thing, twice; I have lived in another country; I have the loopiest best-est friends in the whole wide world who I don't really deserve as I am being a proper shit friend, they're still there though; I have been to the point where I had to make a decision where I was either going to die or start living. I have done a lot. Perhaps not enough to say that's it but enough that if I was hit by a double-decker bus, I wouldn't be too gutted other than in a literal sense...

So P came home this evening, knowing that I wasn't a happy bunny. He asked me what would make me feel better and other than my tears springing back for what would really make me happy, we decided on a cuddle for the meantime. P then tried the smile and giggle route and said, "It will happen you know. We'll get our baby. One day it won't be a broken baby and we'll get to cuddle it. I'll stop giving you broken sperm and we will have our baby." At the comment of broken sperm, I reminded him that it was me that was broken and he carried one with the giggle therapy. There really is something about cuddling up close with someone, half squashing each other, feeling the warmth of the other person's body and hearing their heart beating that does amazing things for sad days. I remember Harry, my uni counsellor (not my bottle opener), once said, "Sarah, you are leaving this room. Stop floating away and get a grip of the ground you are on." Noticing things really helps to keep you in the present and not dwelling on the obscure- I remember after one bout of depression, I noticed the buds of new leaves on the trees for the first time ever (in 23 years!). It was a real turning point in my life. My latest learning point is that I cannot spend my holidays alone. I need to be around people, I guess that's why I am a teacher- people constantly needing me and chatter (P keeps complaining that I make weird noises during the holidays- squeaks, roars and overly loud yawns.) I also have learnt the importance of hugs. Proper hugs where you really squeeze someone - with the recent events in Woolwich, a lot of our kids have needed extra cuddles and the adults definitely needed hugs too. As a teenager, I hated bodily contact but now, I need hugs and squeezes and cuddles until the unbroken baby comes.

If life gives you lemons...?

You make lemonade! Went to the hospital today and was utterly delighted by the fact that my doctor, the amazing Mr L had good news for me... The reason for my latest miscarriage was no more than the old genetic lottery that my chromosomes like to play. Bearing in mind all of the reasons that pregnancies end and having been tested with no bad results, I am truly delighted to hear that we are only dealing with the wonky chromosomes and nothing else.

Obviously there has to be a bit of a bummer that comes with this- my chance of miscarrying is higher than we  were told by Guys. It's around the 40-45% mark which is a little bit on the high side but when you think that four in four of my pregnancies have ended in miscarriage, it gives it more reason.

I do, perhaps, have the best consultant ever. He spent around twenty-thirty minutes talking about what our next steps were going to be, how I was doing both physically and mentally and the major "what if" (what if we didn't manage to conceive naturally). He ended the session by giving me a direct number to contact him on as soon as I fall pregnant again so that he can monitor me from the word go. I know my dad has done nothing but ask him to look after me well but he really has. I feel like I'm getting private healthcare attention from the NHS.

It still doesn't make the baby crack lessen and we have an uphill struggle ahead of us but at least we finally have a clear reason. Not only do we have that reason, but it is in fact the same reason we thought we were dealing with in the first place. A known quantity and nothing new.

When will we win the lottery?

I have my doctor's appointment tomorrow. The one where I find out what caused the fourth miscarriage and because the hospital kept us waiting with as to whether the test results were back (my file was too big for an instant answer- note to self must have less miscarriages so that it is easier in the future...), I am going alone. I am so scared. If it is anything other than the genetic issue, it will be pretty terrifying as after all, everything else came back clear like the bloods and shape and size of stuff. Really scared if it comes back with anything other than what we already know we're dealing with.

Understandably low, I am teetering on the edge of tears a lot at the moment. Just feels like there's a lot of shit happening at the moment- you know the adage of, "It never rains but pours"? That. Entirely that. Flats that leak, dead mice washing into your kitchen and psychopathic neighbours have lead us to looking to buy our first home together. It should be an exciting step but there's that fear that the old credit rating won't be good enough for them to give us a mortgage and then it's me letting everyone down again. Obviously, credit rating is more controllable than fertility but urgh: YET ANOTHER THING!

We have found a property that is pretty local to where we are currently living- three decent size bedrooms, good sized bathroom, front room, kitchen, downstairs loo, walk in larder, front and back garden and roof space. It's ex-LA on a quiet road that overlooks a private football field with little greens breaking up the road. The downside is that it is a concrete build so a non-standard building material and therefore there are less people who will lend on it. The windows and doors need replacing but I daren't look at how much it would cost as it almost feels a little like looking at baby stuff when you're newly pregnant. A few weeks later, you lose the pregnancy and feel a total idiot for dreaming.

I remember whilst working at M&S before teaching, I was chatting to one of the managers about the fact that I never thought I would ever meet someone. After all, I had a best friend who was like the other half of my brain and a wonderful relationship with my mum- so many people had less than that so did I really deserve anymore? Seven years later, sitting in my front room with my husband, that didn't really work out the way I expected but in the way of the house and the baby, they feel like too bigger a dream. If I dare start to believe they might come to fruition, then I'll curse it from dreaming too hard. Whilst teaching our RE unit about weddings today, I teared up looking at the photos- it was the most perfect wedding, perhaps that was our lucky bit?

Don't get me wrong, I know I will be a mum. There's no doubt about that. We made a decision at the weekend that we wouldn't go for the IVF route- egg donation or PGD. I'm so glad that P is on the same page as me- was utterly terrified by the thought of such an invasive treatment with no guaranteed result. I'm not saying never ever, but just not right now. Whilst I would never judge anyone on their choice to have a baby through IVF (I get how much you want your own baby, really!) for me personally, I feel it would be selfish for me to do that whilst seeing kids on a daily basis who could do with a bit more love. It might still happen naturally of course but if we do get to the point of not wanting to try anymore (which feels sooner rather than later), we do have options.

I read on Facebook the other day some meme thing:
“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”

―Elisabeth Kubler-Rose

I might have made a comment about preferring to be ugly than go through this shit... :)

Is knowledge always a good thing?

As we strode towards the Easter holidays, I decided to take a bit of a break from the blogging. Y'know, sometimes it's a good idea to actually talk to people rather than tell them what's happening through writing- it's a bit of a one sided conversation! So the Easter holidays came and I became so damn sick! Like proper hallucinating feverish sick and although I'm not exactly quiet in anything I do, I'm surprised we haven't had passive aggressive notes from the neighbours below complaining about me disturbing the peace!

Whilst the illness was raging, I was surprised at how the tears dried up- this sadly was a bit of a short term thing, obviously the tears weren't able to flow when all the liquid in my body was on my lungs! 

It's funny because obviously you can torture yourself pretty well over things for quite a while without needing to change the topic but just recently, the dark thoughts have started to stretch out to other things. With the recent deaths of Margaret Thatcher and Robert Edwards (IVF pioneer), it's hit me that they were all born in the same year-1925. That's the same year as my nanny, who will turn 88 in August. She seems to have suddenly become a lot older.This was also coupled with my mum saying that she doubted her elderly Bassett will make it to their holiday in Devon- I seem to be dwelling on morbidity a hell of a lot more than usual. I tend to have a pretty flippant attitude to death- the complete opposite to my best mate who has a true hatred of death (partially the reason she became a doctor?!) so this is a new development. This has extended to an almost flippant attitude to my own health. Even with the stinking chest infection, I still wanted to smoke. Just have no reason to look after myself- WHICH IS UTTERLY STUPID! Of course I do! We'll be trying again soon and my body needs to be healthy enough to hopefully not mess it up this time.

For the first time since number 3 and number 4 happened, I held a baby on Tuesday. It was a really good friend of mine's second child- I had been one of the first to cuddle number one, in fact, perhaps the first other than family! I was a bit of a state in the kitchen the night before, crying over P's fajitas- thinking about how I was going to deal with it. Thing is, when it comes to real babies- that seems so far off, I can't even imagine actually having a baby. When I spoke to another friend later the same day, she said her sister was exactly the same (she's two weeks off giving birth to twins) after having so many issues herself. When I first saw the baby and her big sister, there were absolutely no pangs of jealousy whatsoever- having children seems like a very abstract notion. It was so lovely to see a good friend and her family again. It hurt going back over all the crappiness of the past few months but she made a point which my step mother had made before. My brother and I have always been fully aware of what our future fertility would hold from both our parents and the medics involved.

Does it help though, knowing so much? Knowing the statistics? If you are told that you have a 30% chance of having a miscarriage, that makes the chance of having a baby 70% which doesn't seem too bad. However, if your pregnancies keep falling into that 30% statistic, is that 70% just an optimistic carrot on the end of a stick? I am really worried about trying again. The whole thing is incredibly stressful. Do I do the peeing on ovulation sticks? Do I leave it to happen completely naturally, like we did over the honeymoon? I guess tapping into the fatalistic attitude I have at the moment, it doesn't really matter what we do as there seems to be no issue with getting pregnant, just an issue with it getting past the first trimester and there is nothing I can do to stop anything from going wrong there. It'd be great if I could actually get my hands in there and sort out the DNA myself, but short of something worthy of a horror film, it's not down to me. 

The doctor's appointment is looming too. With the foetal test results from the D&C. Man, will I be totally freaked if it says it's anything other than genetic! I did everything right with the last one- everything, right down to taking the baby aspirin and folic acid on a daily basis, no smoking, no bad foods etc. After all the tests they've run and that have come back totally clear, for it to be anything other than genetic would be a big kicker.

So whilst unlike another blogger  Retro Chick, who I love to read, write about her grumpiness- mine isn't grumpiness but it is negativity. I've never been a negative person and I cannot allow the bad times to turn me into one. The flippant attitude needs to change. I need to stop smoking for me rather than because I have something growing inside of me and I need to stop having a fatalistic attitude. Things are not inevitable, just a bit rubbish sometimes.