babyurbeautiful

Hi, I'm Cat.  I'm new to this site but here to stay.

 After a short hiatus and a mini makeover, we've both (myself & Lauren) put our heads together and decided to rebirth the baby (URbeautiful baby), so to speak.

 I'm going to regale you with my very long tale of how it took me to become part of the 'club' I hankered after for so long.

When I first toyed with the idea of blogging on Baby Ur Beautiful, it was going to be from a  slightly different perspective – it was going to be for the baby­-less; the women that apparently don’t hold a stake in societies future according to some failed leaders.

After years of peeing on sticks at various times in a month, faddy diets and the, “You’re leaving it a bit late” comments (which forced me to bury my head deeper into that cheeky bottle of Marlborough/gin and end the night sobbing on my friends shoulders). 
I remained the taboo one – the one without a child, and it's hard to forget these comments as my story eventually got its happy ending.

Don’t get me wrong. There were rays of hope. I got pregnant fairly quickly after we had decided to “start trying”. 
Six months after getting married I gagged at the smell of broccoli (which I love) shouted a lot at my husband, and suddenly it dawned on me – I was pregnant! 
I basked in my smug secret, idly looked at baby clothes and drank ginger ale from a champagne glass clad in my bridesmaid gear at my BFF’s wedding (theoretically I was an Usherette but that takes too long to explain!)
It was to be short lived, however. 

Two weeks after the giddy delight of watching two blue lines pop up on a stick it all went horribly wrong. In hindsight I’d ignored some key signs that it was about to. I’d searched chat sites for reassurance; brown discharge = normal, right sided cramping = normal, morning sickness miraculously disappearing at 8.5 weeks = normal.
Hospitals don’t deal with miscarriage very well – in fact they are fairly useless. 
On one level I can understand why; there’s nothing they can do and you are not ill. 
On another level I question the motives of some health care professionals for choosing such a vocation.

It was a Bank Holiday and we had gone into London to support a friend who had organised a fun run in aid of Leukaemia Research. I woke up that morning and didn’t feel great, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what felt wrong so I brushed it off – if Rich could run 10km whilst waiting to see if his treatment had worked and he was in remission I could get my backside into London to support him.
We met everyone at the pub post run. I had the most expensive pint ever. Two bottles of Becks Blue poured into a glass so no one would know ­- oh the irony! 
A couple of hours later we were finishing up; congratulating runners, saying our goodbyes to friends and planning to leave for along leisurely lunch to finish the afternoon. 
As a matter of course I popped to the toilet before we left. I’ll never forget that moment as I glance down and looked at the toilet bowl that was a sea of red. I froze. What should I do? 
I quickly pulled myself together told P (husband) we needed to go straight home and in a hushed whisper on the street outside I explained what I’d just seen. 
We decided to head home and go straight to the hospital. Once on the tube I changed my mind. I needed answers now - not in 40 minutes.
We headed to the nearest hospital in East London. We were seen quickly. They did the standard urine and blood tests and discerned what I already knew – I was pregnant. More than that they couldn’t tell me. 
The nurse asked to see my panty liner and declared (with a glimmer of patronisation) that with such a small amount of blood on it I was experiencing a standard level of bleeding that for some unexplained reason happens to a lot of women within pregnancy. 
The doctor readily agreed that I was looking ­ and evidently feeling ­far too well to be experiencing a miscarriage. 
I was packed off home and told that unless I experienced signs of an ectopic I was to wait until Wednesday and return for a scan.I went home. 
I continued to bleed. I returned on the Wednesday to the Early Pregnancy Unit(EPU) where after a 90 minute wait I was given an internal scan (with the wand that is now affectionately known as dildo cam in our house). The Sonographer, a lady of Polish origin, foraged about for a while and then said “Are you sure you were pregnant? There’s nothing there!” and that was how I learned that I had definitely lost my baby.

Miscarriage is much more common than people would think but it still remains a taboo subject. I am fairly open about most things in life so told people it had happened and many then opened up and shared their stories with me. 
Then there is the other side of the spectrum the people spouting the hard facts and the 1 in 10 pregnancies end in miscarriage. Slightly tactless, you think?

The one thing everybody assured me was at least I knew I could get pregnant. 
That it would happen again very soon. It didn’t.

After a year where nothing happened I asked for a referral to fertility clinic. We were both “textbook perfect” for everything with the exception of me having fibroids and these seemed to be of little concern. 
There followed a year’s treatment of various medications. Some that stimulated eggs, others that released them and we were sent home to perform mechanical sex 18 hours later - still nothing. 
The Consultant decided that IVF was our only option and we agreed, attended an introductory lecture and planned to begin at the end of the year. Three weeks later I discovered I was pregnant.
This pregnancy was much shorter lived than the first. In fact I could have blinked and missed it. 
I discovered I was pregnant on the Friday evening and by 7am on Monday morning I was sitting in A+E wedged between a lady who appeared to be suffering a nervous breakdown and a surly looking boy cuffed to an accompanying policeman. I had no doubt this time I had miscarried. The clots of liverish sludge, the agonising stomach cramps that were forcing me to try and curl into a foetal position as I unashamedly sobbed. 
This time the news was broken in a slightly different way. A very harassed Indian doctor with a plethora of ear stubble simply said to me, “you were pregnant but now you’re not”. 

IVF had to be delayed as a result until the start of this year. I decided to throw everything I had at it. My Friday night tipple became peppermint tea. I had acupuncture, reflexology and took up yoga. 
I meditated. I reacted quite sensitively to all drugs. It was hell on earth. I felt tired, sick emotional and as though my body didn’t belong to me – it didn’t. All seemed to go quite well. They harvested 11 eggs, 10 fertilised. Then 10 fell apart. They thought the drugs might have been too potent. They weren’t quite sure. At my follow up appointment I was told that it was only worth one more go. We agreed to pay an extra 1k for various drugs; anti ­rejection drips, Clexane to thin the blood, steroids (which would ensure a hefty weight gain on top of all the hormones). This all came with a health warning though – I was old (38 to be precise) and therefore I was probably not getting pregnant because my eggs were old. If round 2 didn’t work my next option was egg donation.

After a long chat we decided to give my body a break and delay round 2 until the beginning of August.
So here I am. I should be preparing for round 2 of IVF. Instead I am preparing for a 20 week scan!

My initial reaction was “How did that happen?", apart from the obvious answer! 
Typically ­and almost annoyingly as everyone says it’s when you are not thinking about it that you fall *coughs Lauren*  – I had become pregnant in a normal month where I had eaten whatever I fancied, drunk more than a little (I’d been on a long weekend to Ireland – enough said) and generally had fun. 
I’m naturally delighted. I’m also petrified. 

The first weeks after I found out were the worst. There was no excitement when I saw two blue lines – I didn’t dare feel excitement, but when I saw a heart beat on a grainy picture in our local hospital I felt a surge of love I’d never felt before. I felt it was important to acknowledge the struggle it has been to get to where I am today – and I am mindful it is a long journey ahead. 

Future blog posts will therefore have to be about the here and now – all the bits that no one tells you and I promise they won’t be as long as this (within reason!)

Having spent a lot of time with my friend who has recently been through a miscarriage (her second) followed by intense IVF, that subsequently failed, I really feel her pain.
Not indirectly from the above, but the way people treat her situation.

Do you remember the scene in SATC Movie 2 where Carrie and Mr Big are sat at Stanford & Anthony's ostentatious wedding and a couple at their table ask when they intend to have kids?
'It's just not for us," Carrie says.
'So it's just going to be the two of you?" the female says, her voice dripping with pity (I'm not quite sure this is the exact quote, but something along those lines and she was definitely patronising and disapproving).
But what if it wasn't 'for us', and that was just a facade.
It wasn't. But what if?

Imagine if Carrie was one of those mothers feeling a failure and judged for having to resort to IVF (obviously there is absolutely no reason to feel that way) and had retorted; 'Actually you nosy bitch, we've been trying for the  last five years. I spend practically every day looking at babies, praying that one day I'll have one of my own, and now you've gone and spoilt this evening for me - mazel tov!'

*downs G & T*.

What I'm trying to get at is that we've all fought our own battles to get to motherhood and don't need others judgement on top of that.

Some have it easy to conceive, yes, but then they're the ones who probably spend the entire nine months honking up, or with cankles the size of Hilary Clinton (soz, Hils). Then becoming irascible old moos while inhaling prawn curries slopped over chips to ease the sickness - because that's normal to feel better, right?
It would be nice to think that was their penance for falling so easily - but every one of us has been tested along the way regardless of conceiving, pregnancy, bump or child and it's never cool to be jealous, right?

Prior to my son, I miscarried. I lost the plot, I became a recluse. I eventually met someone new - and he was born a year later. Obviously it was all too soon for us - because we're now separated. I didn't even know I had fallen with him, and when they say it's when you're most relaxed or not thinking about it - well there we go.

As my gin friend I formerly refer to forgoed her favourite past time in favour of fresh mint tea (I thought it was only fair I join her and quite frankly think we've both had a skinful of it now).
I watched her body put into an early menopause to produce the healthy, strong eggs she needed. Her already ample bust ballooned, night sweats ensued, tears, anger, frustration followed - and there was nothing I could say or do to make it better.
But through it all, she had so much time for everyone else, including me - and children, and kept a cool exterior throughout. I became fiercely protective.

Why do we fight our motherhood battles alone? Why don't we open up and stop all the awkwardness and bashfulness - it's a painful and uncomfortable subject whether someone wants or can't have a child, but the likelihood is, you call out to one of your sista's - she'll holla back.
It's something we can all resonate with -  every single one of my new found friends had experienced miscarriage or IVF - even both. For those idiotic few who are so wrapped up in their own pregnancy  - perhaps our honesty of what we're going through would put paid to the ignorance.
It's so easy to be caught up in a baby bubble with all the excitement. For you, it's just a picture on Facebook, for someone going through IVF it's a knife through the heart each time.
She's very open about her journey - and how it's on hold for a while. It's intense, people need to know why you may not be yourself at times.
Like I said before, there's nothing to be ashamed of - it just seems every else makes a big meal of it.

A few weeks ago we spent a day with her rosy-cheeked earth mother chum recreating a bus scene; by this I mean lining up seats in the middle of a cafe in front of everyone while she (the friend) jovially bellowed wheels on the bus. I begged gin bud not to see her again, or at least for a while - for my own sanity too.
I'm surprised she didn't cry, because I wanted to out of sheer embarrassment.

Then come the invites for birthday parties with the side note of: 'But I can imagine you don't really want to come to a children's party as you don't have any of your own.' For FUCK sake, least said, soonest mended, eh?
A social event is a social event - they're a really nice couple so would feel as comfortable dancing to a Take That tribute band with cheap chardonnay as they would to Peppa Pig, some party rings and some fizzy pop. Why just presume it's NOT their scene? It always has been and always will be - with or without child.

The two of us sat through a meeting the other day, a heavily pregnant woman chatting about herself and hypo-birthing yada yada, her perfectly coiffed chelsea blow-dry, tan, bump, cashmere clothing - then she looked us both up and down, found a middle ground with me as I have a two-year-old. But my friend? I am sure she guest-i-mated her age as mid-thirties, asked her if she had kids, then automatically filed her into the 'doesn't want them' and Carries-wedding-guest-friend reaction and carried on wittering to me. I was FURIOUS.
Again, an ignoramus presumptuous idiot - which resulted in me apologising on her behalf as we left the coffee shop (thank fuck she paid for our fresh mint tea).

Why is it SO hard to ask someone you know is going through IVF - are they ok? How is everything - what have they been up to? It's ok they won't make you feel uncomfortable and start wittering on about they've had more prods pokes and pricks than Helen Wood (Rooney's bit of strumpet/BB Bitch) in the last month. But likelihood is they'll appreciate you're thinking of them, if they don't want to talk about it - they certainly won't.

I remember a few years back when a colleague was going through IVF - there was salacious gossip stirring around the office like it was some dirty secret - and I felt terrible for her. She's the one laughing now - she has three beautiful boys.

So next time you ask someone childless how their dogs are, realise how insular you sound...