So… I have to admit…. I’m an angry person when pregnant (this time round). Maybe the IVF kept my hormones at bay last time. Maybe I was just happy to have finally fallen pregnant? Who cares? I just feel horrendous this time round & I’m making the whole world pay for it. Bothered? Not really. That’s the kinda mood I’m in. People should be lucky I can’t drink as I’d be a fucking nightmare right now.
So in light of my “with child status” am I experiencing anything new in HK? Nope. In fact, I’m sooo pissed off at the moment, all I can think about is London. Funny isn’t it? I know, people get “Island Fever” and have their highs and lows with Hong Kong… & so yes, I’m having a low point. I’ve not seen anyone the last couple of weeks (which for someone with 2 kids, aside from playgroups with strangers…I think is essential to your sanity), I’m angry with people I know here (dunno know…I just am) and I’m now looking for a 2nd Helper to, well “Help”, in the house. Would I have got this kinda help in the UK? Of course fucking not!!! Does this make me any nicer a person? No.
Why? I’m finding there is no real substance to the friendships I’ve made here (I guess having a history with people at home is different), and plus, I’m feeling like I’m hard work (I’m not really). I’m a great, loyal friend but in essence, I’m your party girl. I hate doing mundane bullshit and I HATE shopping, so I’m struck off many a “girls shopping trip”. They actually have facebook groups dedicated to this in HK. Wierdos. I like people I can call up last minute, have a chat to and basically relax with a drink. As I cant do this (due to my impending 3rd child), I am fucking torn with being here right now. I realise the substance of most of my friendships (not all, don’t get me wrong, I’ve made some very good friends too), but the ones you think you can count on, are the ones you always end up with at 4am, looking for a drug dealer and not speaking to for weeks on end after.
Is it all to do with my pregnancy? Probably but I don’t care. I’m dangerous like that though. I cut off from people very easily and don’t feel one shred of blood doing it. Nancy Kissel & I could have been great friends (joke).
Soooo… my mindset at the mo? I have to apologise as I’ve been getting emails from readers asking what hell is going on with my writing at the moment… The truth? I really truly can’t be fucked right now. And, feeling quite alone (can people even say that out loud in this day ‘n age?) here, I am fed up & cannot be arsed with anything. I keep getting invited to shit that I would NEVER EVER do in the UK and the girls in my apartment block want to throw me a “baby shower”. OH LUCKY FUCKING ME. A BABY SHOWER?! Someone stab me now. I explained, very gently that (a) no baby shower until this kid arrives healthy therefore I can actually have a drink, and, (b) NO FUCKING BABY SHOWER! Its not a party unless I can get drunk/dance on tables/get arrested & The Captain turns up to collect me grim faced & angry (hence angry crazy monkey sex will usually follow). As this wont be happening until February 2012… I’m gonna be a right bitch until then (& I guess, pretty lonely). BUT I still have to attend these stupid things. I’m too old for this shit. I want my old life back.
Fed up? Damn right I am. Can I moan to a single person here? Aside from one, or two, not really. That makes me feel pretty alone (yes, its my fault for being sooo cut off & a bitch…shoot me) If I was at home right now, I would have a WHOLE support network who have known me forever (therefore forgive my flaws/alcoholic tendencies) & who are, well, just like me … normal (ish).
So a few weeks ago, I started feeling incredibly ill… non-stop. I was being sick constantly, bad stomach cramps, lots of spotting between my menstrual cycle, up all night pacing the apartment with insomnia (handy when my kids kept waking in any event) and during all of this, I managed to neck a bottle of wine (sometimes Vodka) here and there too (hey, I’m only human).
My local Doctor kindly sent me off to a Specialist Gynaecologist after giving me a well overdue Smear test (don’t you just love opening your legs to a Doctor last-minute when you’ve forgotten to have a Bikini wax and not shaved your legs. Soo sexy).
The Specialist turned out to be a lovely Doctor based in Bank of America Tower (Hong Kong) and she chatted through my medical history in detail. I told her about the Twins, IVF, various operations I’ve had in my lifetime and that I was 100% sure it must be my huge Fibroids that were causing me the pain I was experiencing. I also asked this Gynae specialist to rustle up some good contraceptives for me too as I hadn’t got round to sorting any of this. She then asked me if I had taken a pregnancy test. Now for a normal woman who had not endured the fertility treatment I had, this would be a normal question, but for me… well, it just seemed pointless. That being said, I told her I actually had taken one that morning (ok, I did a quick test on a stick and looked at it a couple of minutes later. Negative of course). Soooo….. Gynae Doctor asks me to hop up onto the big white moving table thing and pulls out the horrific light sabre Luke Skywalker uses in Star Wars to stick inside me and have a root around, while both of us stare at a computer screen to see my insides.
Well…. there staring at both of us, and I knew the minute I saw it, having had numerous scans throughout IVF, was a BABY. A 9 week old baby. The Doctor asked me again “When did you have a pregnancy test?”, my shaky response was “errr…. this morning why? Is that a blood clot?” (knowing full well it wasn’t). The Doctor responded “No Mrs X, that is a 9 week old baby. CONGRATULATIONS!!” Then she turned up the volume on the Scan machine and BOOM! I heard the heartbeat.
At this point I almost fell off the table (even with the light sabre still inside me and no underwear on) and started crying. The Doctor (clearly not a woman with children) thought they were tears of joy. Ok, I admit they were a little but it was honestly more full-blown, holy fuck, shock. I explained to her that there was no way I could be pregnant unless it had been by divine intervention as I had been beating the Captain away from me with a stick for months (he’s like a Puppy trying to hump me non stop. It gets exhausting after a while, even if I know I should be grateful he’s not out banging Domestic Helpers in Wan Chai). I also asked her how, when, what the fuck was going on. I HAVE 16 MONTH OLD TWINS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!? HOW WOULD I COPE!!? I had to refrain from physically shaking her by the arms as I asked these questions. I also recalled the past NINE weeks of parties, drinking constantly, sushi, debauchery and anything else that you would never do while pregnant. Shit. I’m going to hell for this one.
At this point the Doctor was rushing me through to her nurse for blood tests, weight checks, urine samples and handing me my Ante-Natal card while smiling happily and patting me on the shoulder telling me I was due next February. I stood there, dumbstruck, holding the Ante-Natal card in my hand like it was contagious. I was convinced there had been a mistake and was desperate for a glass (ok, bottle) of wine and a cigarette (I gave up 9 years ago after starting at the age of 12. I’m hardcore clearly). I asked for a photo of the scan as I knew the Captain would not believe me – bless we both thought I was seriously ill, which made me drink more. To cope with the stress obviously of thinking I was dying or something.
So in my daze, I somehow manage to flag down a Taxi, get to the Captain’s office and ask him to come down to meet me for lunch. He suggested Sushi. I told him no (obviously I was being responsible the minute I discovered I was pregnant).
As the Captain made his way down the escalator, I felt myself shitting my pants and thinking, I’m about to devastate this man who has been soo happy the Twins are finally becoming more self-sufficient. I ask the Captain to come sit with me outside and right away, he’s like “Shut up! Whats wrong?!?!” I initially thought it might be easier to tell him (a) I was actually really ill and had only a few months to live (b) I was having an affair, or (c) Both of the above. I was terrified to say I was pregnant. I mean, this is meant to be my Best Friend in the whole world and I was scared to tell him. I didn’t even know how I felt about it all but that was the shock talking. Two years ago, before Itchy and Scratchy, we would have been jumping for joy. Now, without IVF, and one night of crazy monkey sex (thats what we call it when we go all out), we had managed to do what we had failed to do before. Fall naturally pregnant.
In the end, I just pulled the scan out my bag and handed it to him … kinda like I was serving divorce papers. The poor Captain, stopped in his tracks and asked me “Whos the Father!??” as I clearly have loads of time to shag around in HK, in between my sleepless nights, writing, Pilates classes, cooking, cleaning, drinking etc. The Captain then went through an hour of torturing himself (like I had in the clinic), wondering how we would cope with 3. THREE kids under the age of 2.5 years old?! Madness. I’m going to turn into a raving alcoholic at this rate ladies as I can’t see any other way to enjoy this one sober.
So… thats it for me at the moment. I guess my hardcore partying days are now limited to cakes, baking, waddling and eating cheese, while rubbing my expanding belly and moaning about carpal tunnel syndrome and pain in my hips. Allll those months of Pilates to give me a washboard tummy… down the fucking drain.
How could I be this irresponsible for fucks sake?! I’m a grown woman. The Captain, of course, wanted to celebrate that night by having “crazy monkey sex”. I told him to piss off and never touch me with his penis again.
ps. The pregnancy test, the one I took in the morning before my specialist appointment. Well…. lo and behold, there it was staring up at me from the bin, with two positive lines when I got home. I had been so convinced it would be negative, I didnt re-check it 5 minutes later as per the dumbass instructions state you should.
pps. The photo above is taken of an Organic Wine Cellar I visited in Chinon, France……I then consumed 3 bottles just to make sure I was happy with the 8 crates of vino I had purchased.
So girls, I have a question for you? Or those of you who’ve had IVF treatment or suffered years of infertility treatment, which include dozens of Doctors, in every shape & size, taking a peek inside your vagina (undignified, even if you do arrive stoned and giggling). When you finally fell pregnant, did you then tell people it was “all natural bla bla” (like J. Lo) or do you fess up and be honest (like Julia Roberts with her twins), saying it was because you had fertility treatment?
The reason I ask is that I got told, politely of course, by a family member, not to tell people I had IVF when asked if Twins run in my family (actually, Triplets naturally do). “Why?” I asked innocently. “Because they don’t really need to know, if they don’t know you that well”. Well, I have a couple of issues that caught in my throat over this particular discussion.
I spent nearly TWO years trying everything to fall pregnant. I mean, bloody hell, I saw Princess Diana’s nutritionist on Harley Street as someone said he helped them. If someone told me to sleep with a wooden penis under my pillow as it would pass on good vibes (or is that a vibrator?!), I would have done it to speed the mind-blowing, heart rendering process up. That kind of strain is horrible on any relationship, but when you spend soooo many years trying not to get knocked up, it kinda feels like a cruel bull-shit joke, when you want to, and yet, cant.
Especially when EVERYONE and their dog (ok, it felt like everyone) was falling pregnant around me and those really annoying ones who had JUST got married, well they were pregnant right away (bastards). We had TWO years of different treatments until the Doctors said “its unexplained”.
I’m sorry, but, WHAT THE FUCK DOES “UNEXPLAINED” MEAN???! I need hard-core facts, not “ooh sorry, you fall into that 20% group of people who just don’t know why they can’t fall pregnant”. FUCK OFF!!! You’re a bloody Doctor. You’re really telling me that you can’t get me pregnant any quicker?! Yeh right. It’s all about money. I was told to change my diet, no sugar (no fucking alcohol or drugs, the bastards), try Clomid first, then Metformin, Progesterone (orally or anal…joyous both ways), smiley annoying faces on ovulation sticks, then I got the expensive machine from Boots to make sure it really worked with an extra big smile and temperature valve, then injections to make you ovulate, the test with dye through your tubes to make sure there are no blockages, IUI (absolutely pointless and fucking expensive if you ask me), and then finally when all else failed and screaming at my husband to “pound away as I’m ovulating!!” didn’t work, we did IVF.
Now, I dreaded IVF, but I have to admit, it was fine. I used THE most amazing clinic in London (The London Women’s Clinic on Harley Street) and they were fabulous from the minute I got there. I was pregnant within a month.
WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T I GO THERE AT THE BEGINNING?!?! Ok, so the Captain had to chase me around our house with a needle every night to administer various drugs … and considering he’s terrified of needles ie, before a jab for Hep B he infamously said, “Dr, I have a fobia of needles, can I have a Valium first!?”, I was a little worried. He had to give me 3 injections daily, FOR NINETY MOTHER FUCKING HARDCORE BASTARD DAYS. NINETY DAYS. During the period before this, he was due to go on a boys weekend to Spain and on announcing this, I threw, yes threw, an ashtray at his head (it was when we were still allowed to smoke spliff). Yes, that’s right. I’m a determined gal. I wanted babies and then, boom, allllll those injections (which involved freezing my arse and then warming various body parts to get maximum effect), TWO arrived! What can I say? I’m an overachiever… plus The Captain has a fab sperm count, which massively helps his ego (& his daily attempt to frame his count results).
So, you see, when someone says “Don’t mention IVF”, like its you or your Hubby that’s a failure, I don’t see it that way. I wear it with a badge of honour, as I know how hard that time was, and I also know that we have helped lots of friends who have been, and are, going through the same thing because of it.
Why hide it?! I didn’t have fucking herpes, although at times, we would probably have preferred that so we could treat it! I’m annoyed that anyone tells me “not to mention it“, like that makes me, or The Captain… well, “less perfect”. It’s life!! When you get older, it gets harder to conceive and not just that. Its like I’ve got my own version of war medals for all the shit I went through to get to where I am now…. and I feel proud of myself, every single time I look at my gorgeous, screaming, moaning, laughing, now walking (& teething… WOT?!), Twins. I did ALL of that work, and put my own body through all of that (yes, The Captain was great & wonderful too) because I wanted to love these babies that much.
In my personal opinion, and of course, it’s just mine, the IVF generation need to stand proud, and say it loud!! There is no shame in IVF.