Lost...One Groove

I am still here and hanging on.

4 days to next counselling appointment for donor egg treatment.

12 days to trip to Prague to frolic in the snow and drink hot wine.

Work has been sucking big time this week as I have had to travel all over Britain for pointless soul-sucking meetings without a laptop. What kind of employer nowadays does not give you a wireless laptop, eh? Mine. Fuckers.

Crap hotels, crap trains and crap weather all conspired to push me farther over the edge than last week. Take my advice...never travel by Virgin train. They may look new and shiny but as Buffy would say, it is a glamour.

Sigh. Hoping to find my groove again soon.

That Joke isn't Funny Any More

The title says it all. The universe is fucking with too many people at the moment. That would include me too.

I have been doing real well at the weekends, trying hard not to succumb to the siren call of the duvet. I have been making huge efforts to get out and about, be a busy bee and ignore any feelings of blah.

Yesterday I visited a little tearoom just down the road from my house. A light lunch with Mr P, to be followed by the usual errands on a Saturday. This little tearoom is in the middle of nowhere and is usually most frequented by grannies out for a drive in the country. It was lovely and cosy and just what the doctor ordered.

The doorbell jangles and the door opens and a woman enters with a 9 year-old and a 2 month-old. No sign of Dad. An older lady joins them. The woman then proceeds to order for everybody and once that is done, sits at the next table, slap bang next to me.

She then proceeds to very elegantly and discreetly breast-feed the baby. I am about to die with longing and jealousy and bitterness. I only wanted to eat my minestrone soup and granary bread and have a nice cup of tea. I just want to curl up and die.

The father of the family then joined them. This is where I really wanted to die. It is one of my ex-boyfriends. The red-haired one. The one before Mr P. The one that really broke my heart into a million pieces. He said we were too serious and he could not handle it. It did not stop him marrying this woman 6 months after we broke up and having 2 children with her, the latest being the 2 month old. Both of them now aged 40.

I turned my head away and ate my bitter soup.

Television...the Drug of the IF Nation

Thank you for all your lovely comments as per usual. You all give me the wee warm and fuzzies! At times, dealing with IF and its negative emotions is like trying to hold back the tide King Canute-stylee.

You all make it better. Take a bow! You are worth it. We are all worth it. Cue L'Oreal tossing of hair. Well, I am growing mine and it might shoogle just a wee bit instead. You American girls have all got acres of hair to make up for mine.

Talking of shoogly, that is pretty much all I have been this week. I don't know what it is but it does not take much to set me off. I blame that bitch counsellor. Oh, and my period that arrived after a 68 day holiday somewhere sunny. Fucker!

However, a cold-hearted lump of concrete would have been hard-pressed not to emit a squeak of a sob at the final episode of Six Feet Under.

Now I have to say that yes, it has just been shown here in the UK on E4 and no, I am not going to spoil it for anyone who has yet to see it internationally. I detest spoilers in countries who see TV shows first then prattle about it. Please, please remember that there are some countries who are always behind in the schedules. I think SFU was shown finally in August in the US and I was terrified of reading about it.

I know it serves me right for watching all-American shows but I cannot help it. I currently am enslaved by Martin Sheen in all of his masterful occupation of the White House. And Boston Legal. James Spader is still cute even though he has gotten a wee bit chunky. All the more to grab hold of, as my granny would have said.

Oh..oh..and Grey's Anatomy....we have moved from Series One to Series Two without a break! TV Nirvana. The writing! Mind you, that was the one that was really spoiled for me when a blogger gave away the Sandra Oh storyline.

Mind you, the way nothing happens in Lost on a weekly basis, there is no chance of spoilers there! I have been making a vain attempt to keep the new season a mystery. I keep having to mute the sound on E! Entertainment so that I do not hear what is happening in Season 2.

And I am so loving the DVD box set of Firefly! My oh my. Captain Reynolds can tell me what to do any time. So much more delectable in that part than as the mad preacher in Buffy and no ad breaks. Woot! And Rome! The togas, the fountains of wine, the soldiers in the buff, ooh lala.

As you can see, I am attempting to fill the neverending waiting by trying to cram as much viewing pleasure in as possible. It is a pity that I have to leave the house 5 days per week to go to work, isn't it?

I cannot believe that there will be no more Six Feet Under though. No more Brenda, David, Claire, Ruth, George et al! Sob!

Mind you, Nate was being such a prick...oops! I am doing it now too. So easy to enter Spoilerville.

I Predict a Riot

The first counseliing session for my family donor was Thursday.

Just as I was beginning to come to terms with donor egg treatment, the counsellor did a pretty good job of questioning everything I feel or will feel or had felt...ever.

Now I can deal with this but my donor had to endure the rough and ready treatment that us infertiles are used to. You know, like ever had any STDs? How many sexual partners have you had? Is your husband the father of your two children? Is it the guilt of having two children really easily that made you offer to donate eggs? Why have you not told all of your extended family that you are doing this? Are you sure that you have not had any STDs? Oh OK, we will test you for HIV, Hepatitis, CMV, the cystic fibrosis carrier gene and anything else we can think of.

My poor donor. She is doing this for completely altruistic reasons as there is no payment involved. She is willing to go through this to help me and Mr P but the counsellor acted like I had put a gun to her head. I am so angry and so hurt that she not only has to endure the physical effects of IVF but tolerate this psychological bullshit first.

Oh, and Dear Ms Counsellor with the very bad shoes, I understand the counselling is about the implications of giving away your genetic material and the receipt of another person's. But for Pete's sake, stop asking me questions about a child that until they are here in my arms, I cannot conceive (no pun intended) of the reality of it. Let me get through 9 months of pregnancy first and then I might be able to talk about it.

The riot will continue in 3 weeks for a further double counselling session. I am already pissed off that I have to wait a further 3 weeks because time does not matter, does it? Hel-lo, I am 40 already!!! But maybe a cooling-off period is required. I am sure if I am arrested for assaulting the counsellor, there might be a problem, mais non?

For Ms Prufrock and the other indie popstrels, one-stop Xmas shopping

All items courtesy of Morrissey. Unleash your credit cards!

Freak like Me

Thank you for all your wondrous comments on my ring and Mr P. Unfortunately, he should be demanding a divorce after this week as I have been freaking to hell.

My egg donor will (hopefully) be a family member who is not blood-related. She made this offer to me the day that the clinic informed me that yet again, no embryos had survived the incubator of death. At the time, I could not wrap my head around the concept but as time passed and Mr P and I had long discussions about where our lives were headed and came to terms with our loss, we decided that we would accept this wonderful gift.

I truly do not regret any genetic loss from my side. I have gifts but nothing that cannot be learnt or taught. I am genetically imperfect myself in that I have PCOS and diabetes and myopia and a propensity for dramaqueenage. Mr P has innate talents in music and maths and fiddly IT things that I would rather have the potential to be passed on to a child. He is kind and loving and thinks that there is nothing but good in the world.

I think an inevitable consequence of IF and its water-on-stone effect on your self esteem means that it is easier to accept the dark side, to grasp the nettle of genetics. My body does not work so let's bypass it. The whole nature vs nurture argument has rumbled on for decades and I am all about the nurture.

In my own mind, I am happy with the potential genetic mix. My donor has the same hair colour, eye colour and skin tone as me. She is thinner and of a slighter build but that is no bad thing! She is well-educated and thoughtful. She would be a good choice, even if she was an anonymous donor.

To be a UK egg donor, you must be under 35, have no horrible diseases and have completed your family. She fits the bill. HFEA rules demand that mandatory counselling be undertaken by any potential donor, known or anonymous. Her appointment for this is next week. As we crawl closer and closer to this, my hamster wheel mind is conjuring up disaster scenarios like Steven Spielberg on speed. Will she change her mind? Will her family make her change her mind? Will Mr P change his mind? Will I?

That last question is moot. I will not.