In recovery theatre this morning I woke up to the sound of crying. I wasn’t sure if it was me or not. I’m so dosed up on all kinds of shit to make me stop spewing my ring piece out that it’s very difficult to decipher. It’s like a really shitful trip. You hear voices, sounds and are very uncertain where they’re coming from.
Turns out that no. The tears are not mine. Though when I look at my hand and see the number 3 they might as well be. Three fucking shitful measly little eggs. What the fuck? There were nine follicles. Anyway, in this our last round ever, we only ended up with three. Could be triplets. Could be nothing. I’d gone into this round with trepidation because after this I’m giving up. It has beat me and we can’t fight this shitassing battle anymore. INFertility has won.
So back to the tears. They weren’t mine but there was only two of us out of theatre this morning. I can hear the nurse consoling her, the girl on the gurney next to me. Her tears keep coming. Hormones will do that to a girl.
Once we’re up and dressed they move us into a communal recovery room and sit us down in particularly ugly orange vinyl chairs. I wait for the lady to finish having her heart pressure measured and ask if she’s okay. She’s still choking back the tears. Yes she’s been in for egg collection. But she only got 11 eggs. She’s 33. Wow, I tell her that’s fucking fantastic, superb numbers. No, she says. Last time she had 15 and still got only one embryo. Oh honey, I tell her as non condescendingly as I can. I’m pretty sure 11 is a really lucky number I say, astrology or something. The last (and only) time I got 11 we had 4 embryos to chuck in the fridge. ‘But this is my last time,’ she says. ‘My husband is dead’. My heart sinks. Here is a woman who is braving this fuckstick battle all on her own. She hadn’t even told her family she was doing it. It was her choice. And her husband’s. He had died in April of an illness only diagnosed in September. And left behind this poor girl and her four-year-old boy.
Oh darling girl. Life is so damn cruel, I tell her, knowing full well her pain will never ever subside. A few minutes later her friend arrives to take her home. I wish her the best and send her all my own strength. Her battle far worse than mine right now.
See that’s the thing. There’s always someone worse off in the world, or even in the hospital, than you. Someone whose pain is far greater. Whose battle great chasms wider and longer. And I tell that to the 12 y o all the time. It’s what keeps us grounded. No matter how shit we feel, we are lucky.
Except that’s hard when it feels like life is a battle of shitsticks at 12 years old. I’d really hate to be a teen right now. Even though I’m sure our own parents had their fears, today’s obsession with social media means our kids are exposed to so much more than their mental capacity can handle.
Last week the 12 y o got tackled from behind and took a big hit to his jaw. The game had already been over but this kid decided he’d go in and get him anyway. Attacking from behind is cowardly no matter what. First I hear is a call from the school. He’s been in an incident and has retaliated by throwing a punch. Something we’ve told him to do because every other option has thus far failed. You’d think it would end there. No.
It seems one of his mates didn’t agree with the punishment and decided to mercilessly meter out his own battle on him – both in person and via social media the entire week.
Mid week he calls me from school where he’s locked himself in the toilets at lunchtime in floods of tears. ‘Please come and get me, mummy I don’t want to be here’. He’s been teased about being gay for idolising his favourite supercar driver on the anniversary of his daddy’s death. Jealousy I suspect. He’s been told everyone hates him (untrue of course he has plenty of mates). He’s been told he’s ugly, called sperm head (apparently because of his blonde hair). Told he’s useless and excluded. All at the hands of a kid he adores and thought was his mate but we’ve long suspected otherwise. Boys can banter about, give each other shit but this goes far deeper.
Next comes a text no mother ever wants to receive. ‘Sometimes I don’t want to be alive’
What’s the highest rate of young deaths in this nation…? Is it car accidents? Drugs perhaps? Accidental death? No it’s suicide. And the most at risk group? Male youths aged 15-24.
We are doing all we can to make him feel better. I’ve been to the school – whose policy on bullying seems to be rather non existent being as its the third time this year I’ve picked up my son from school either with a black eye, a bruised jaw or a damaged self. We remind him there are so many people who adore him and he has a list of incredible male mentors in his life who’ve got his back. Especially The Vet.
This week is a new week, I tell him. Life can be a giant bucket of shit sometimes and you have to learn to kick it over and jump the puddle to get out of it. All it takes is strength. There is always someone far worse off than you and at least you are loved. So very loved.
He’s one of the most caring, beautiful natured kids in the world. And I’m proud to call him my son. For those sad little buggers who want to bring him down I just feel sorry for them. Like I tell him, in ten years time he will be amazingly successful and this school shit and the people in it will be not thing but a blur.
The only way we make it through life’s shitful battles is with strength and love. I’ve no idea how this week will unfold. Maybe we’ll have an embie to transfer on Saturday…maybe we won’t. The outcome is not mine to choose but the recovery is.
To the men in my life who make every day on this earth a blessing, the 12 y o and The Vet, I hope beyond my wildest dreams this is our time. I love you to the moon, a hundred times around it and back again, lov’n hugs Lady MamaG xox