The Word Cloud

So, I figure it’s time I put pen to paper (or rather fingers to keyboard), about my recent journey. To those who have noticed my absence, I am still here and have missed your Cloudie companionship.  I made a vow of silence over this matter, acutely aware of its news worthiness in my small town – oh they just  looooove to talk, but I think it was also my own means of avoiding its reality. Now, as it draws to a close, I feel the need to get it down, not for a pity party (please no!), but rather selfishly, to gather my thoughts and process my feelings.

It started a year ago, in the sterile linoleum lined Doctor’s Rooms of the best Specialists Obstetrician in SA , wow, renown for the successful treatment of infertility. After undergoing numerous tests, X-rays and scans, he advised my husband and I that we were unable to naturally conceive a child.  Shock and horror!!!! But I wasn’t truly surprised, I had suspected this my whole life ... also I’m not the typical ‘Mommy’ type. I don’t stalk to-be-mum’s and babies down the shopping isle, in hope of feeling the stretched expanses of a pregnant belly or  squeeze the appled cheeks of a screeching slobbering child. OK, that sounds a bit horrible, sorry, I know not all woman (or kids) are like that – don’t go bashing me with hateful comments please, I’m a little bruised and hormonal at present!  That being said, I have not yearned for kids, I have not felt that maternal clock ticking, the one that most woman of a certain age talk about.  I have been happy, just two peas in my pod, my husband and I. However I might try to ignore the pull, my real need for family runs thick through my veins.  Coming from a small close-knit single parent family, I married into a large involved one, with insatiable curiosity in all business Coleman (that is my surname) and a genuine concern for the wellbeing of all its club members (in the overbearing kindda way!), along with a kind and caring surrogate family on my brother-in-laws side, refined and honestly sincere in everything; I truly understand and appreciate, and actually survive off their support and acceptance, in fact I thrive on it. So, this being said, I knew the years to come would be difficult ones, famililess, without the proverbial passing onto a new generation. And so it all began. 

It came to a peak 6 weeks ago when we arrived at the final stages of our first attempt at ART (Artificial Reproductive Therapy).  This meant daily injections and numerous blood tests. Living very ‘Far From the Madding Crowd’, this logistically posed many problems, most exhaustively getting the necessary drugs supplies and co-ordinating the quick processing of pathology results, a difficulty I had not anticipated and a daily slog, a constant reminder of the aching changes in my body. Never the less, many phone calls and a million questions later, my doctor’s impatience mounting, the day  finally arrived and we were off to Natal, a 900km drive to the Doctor’s rooms and Hospital - my eggs half-baked,  manipulated into submission, instructed to be an inviting and nurturing host.

Over the next while, we followed the strict preparation schedule, getting everything in line for the Embryo Transplant.

The day was dark looming, as we left for the hospital. It was 5am. With a stomach ready to burst with ripe fruit,  I felt a small sense of pride that I’d produced anything at all.  Lying on the theatre table like a slab of meat, I calmed my ragged nerves, and then, into a deep sleep, only to wake with a suffocating dry throat and a completely numb tongue, the rest of my body still lay quiet, unaware of the 5 punctures in my stomach.  Returning to my parking spot in the ward, I found my husband reassuringly waiting patiently, normally an impossible feat. And then peace, as I drifted in and out of consciousness for most of the day, until eventually the Doc arrived .... There were complications, so that meant procedural changes, new drugs, and weeks of questions and uncertainty.

Ok, that’s enough detail, this is supposed to be about me and how I feel now, waiting for my first pregnancy test.

I am now back home, in my bed with an ache in my stomach unlike anything I have known before. So, I lie with my feet up, as instructed, and honestly, it is too sore to do much else. I’m surrounded by a breakfast tray of work papers, ‘my’ cat Livingston, my bean bag lap tray, ‘our’ Jack Russell Beatle, my laptop on the one side and the autobiography of Andre Agassi on my bedside table, a hectically busy place of rest for a convalescent!

I ask over and over and over:  who am I going to be after this? How will I feel about the results? What will develop from it all? What is coming for me?

I am somehow changed, a stranger in my mirror, timid and restrained.  My strong, ambitious and yes, opinionated character, normally able to burst from any confines, is spent and limp. My writing has tamed my exuberance, provided me a quiet place to vent and explore, unwitnessed and safe. Yet, now I feel its complete departure ... like a favourite dress that won’t fit, carefully packed deep in the closet, secreted away with a distant hope that it’ll fit once more ... but then again I’ve watched that scathing terrible twosome, Trinny and Susannah, always determined to throw those exact items away.

I think of my adorable little nephew, Howard, his irrepressible hysterical laugh, and ecstatic smiles, determined pout, and questioning eyes, a life of adventure and amazement, gasping delight at the unexpected and screaming defiance at his greens – maybe that is my way forward. Look for nothing and appreciate everything.

But secretly, silently my hope grows.