Dear body: I forgive you…

You’ve been my sidekick for the best part of, okay well actually, for four entire decades now. We haven’t always been the best of besties and lately I’ll admit I’ve been blaming you for a lot of shit. It’s no secret we haven’t seen eye to eye or even seen each other at all. 

You’ve let me down. You’ve changed. You’ve stopped doing the things you used to let me do so easily without even blinking an eyelid. You’ve made me bat shit crazy at times and sent me almost to the brink, dangled me over the edge with nothing but my fingernails to hold on with. 

You’ve made me know things I didn’t want to know. Forced me to ‘discover’ so much shit about myself that at best is an overshare and at worst is fucking downright cruel. 

 Yet now we’ve become closer than we ever needed to be and I fucking hate it. You share far too many of your monthly secrets with me. You fire out hints of happiness and then just as quickly yank the buggers out of my hands before I can hold on tight enough to believe in them. 

  You make me feel so utterly inadequate sometimes I wonder what the fuck I did, or who I mistreated in a past life to end up with you. 

       There’s been far too many nights I’ve woken up, or not even made it to sleep for worrying about your stupid self so damn much. Shit there’s been moments I’ve been so angry I’ve thought I needed to harm you a little bit just to snap you the fuck out of it. But of course I haven’t. I can’t. We’re too close for that. 

Last weekend I went to a function for spinal injury research and I listened. I drank in the stoic atmosphere as an incredibly courageous group of people – those who’ve had a much more difficult relationship with you than me – shared their humbling but tragic life stories of being confined to wheelchairs, of being involved in horrific accidents. Of having their lives irrevocably changed involuntarily. 

I sat intently listening to a woman tell of her life spent conquering battles after an accident almost all but took her hopes of becoming a mum. She’d spent years trying before and continued to traverse the IVF terrain for seven years after the accident and then finally falling pregnant naturally to a healthy baby boy

She could breastfeed her beautiful bundle but she couldn’t hold him. She managed to bring a life into this world but will never run, climb or carry him to the swings. 

But she wasn’t looking for sympathy just help. Help for her and the most amazing group of talented scientists, specialists and researchers who make it their life ambition to cure spinal injuries. It was both humbling and awakening to hear her’s and those of her compatriots’ plight. It’s something close to my heart having lost someone I loved with all my heart from a spinal injury. 

So I’m sorry, Body. I’m sorry for blaming you and being so angry at you all the time. You’ve tried your best and you’ve been the pilot at the helm this whole time. You haven’t always let me down and the times you have I can forgive you for. You’ve carried and brought into the world the most spectacular mini human in the 12 y o. So thank you. At least when I feel like shit in the morning I still get to put my feet on the ground…to live my life mostly like normal. There’s an awful lot of people who don’t get that choice. 

Promise I won’t take you for granted again. For the team at the Griffifth university Spinal Injury Research thank you for not just the incredible job you do…but for opening my eyes and making me forgive myself. Lov n’hugs, Lady MamaG xox

Somtimes things go grey, REALLY grey…but there’s always a rainbow

you are my make me happy, when skies are grey...

you are my sunshine…you make me happy, when skies are grey…

Earlier this week was a day I’d really rather forget. It was a bad day filled with grey and covered in so many uncontrollable emotions. That’s probably the worst part of it. As a Scorpian, as a Woman and as a bloody Stroppy Bird, I like to always be in control. Stand up to my emotions, look them dead in the eye and tell them to piss the hell off, there’s no place for them here. It was one of those type of days that rhymes with what people do on horses when they’re trying to kill a fox (you can work it out among yourselves and yes, I do have the tongue of a sailor).

I don’t quite know what triggered it. Maybe someone cut me off in the traffic. Maybe it was because there wasn’t any fruit toast left in the fridge. Maybe it was because I couldn’t find my favourite running pants (okay, who are we kidding, I don’t actually run in them but they are bright…and supa comfy). No, I know what it was, fertility. She has this really uncanny ability to get in the way of being able to pursue a normal life. I watch my temperature like Courtney Cox waiting for a Friends reunion and it’s a constant reminder that I’m on the train of Unfortunate Mess.

The Naturopath has suggested I start meditating. Who are we kidding? I can’t even sit still long enough to finish my cup of herbal tea, relaxation is the Andrea to my Gina…we just shouldn’t be in the same room together. That is, if you don’t count a nice relaxing massage but the last time I tried one of those the ONLY thing I could think about for the entire forty-three minute ‘journey’ was if it was harming my as-yet-unborn-and-completely-ficticious-embryo by sucking in the ‘harmonious essential oils’.

As it stands I’ve decided to go Gwynnie and Consciously Uncouple with Fertility because she just won’t play nice. She lives inside my head and takes up way too much space, wears all my favourite outfits and doesn’t return them, breaks everything she can get her hands on – mostly my heart and my head. She changes my mood and makes me cry uncontrollably for three hours – so much so that the poor unfortunate girl who happened to call me on said morning possibly thought she might have needed to alert the people in the white coats. Yep, like big thundering clouds every damn thing went grey. So I cried and cried and heaved and heaved until I thought my eyes were going to fall out of their sockets they became so red. I was like a five-year-old trying to explain why their big sister is soooo mean because she pulled my arm out of socket. Emotion came in and took over, she rode off into the sunset with my sanity and left me a helpless mess.

But once all the clouds were gone I came out and felt okay. At least I hope I did. I haven’t been broken in a long time. A LONG time. But like anything you learn to ride the bumps.

Infertility is a curse but it’s not an affliction. Sometimes it feels so much like it’s not fair but not fair is the kids of the beautiful Gold Coast mum who will spend their first mother’s day without a brave woman who lost her battle with cancer last week. Not fair is the parents of the 200 young Nigerian girls who wait anxiously to hear if they’ll get their daughters back. Not fair is the children of the families who went missing on Malaysian Airlines 370, who today don’t have a mum to call and wish a happy mother’s day.

It is hard, hell yes it’s shitful but there is always a rainbow after all the grey. For me it’s the little boy who has spent 10 wonderful beautiful incredible mother’s days with me and one smile from his twinkling eyes is all I need to remember in the end, it will all be okay. To mums everywhere you are and share a blessing. And to the 10 y o, every minute you’re in my life I am grateful for. Love n’hugs, Lady MamaG xox

Once was Fertile…

the good, the bad and the ugly...infertility

the good, the bad and the ugly…infertility

There’s a picture of us on our wedding day, over nineteen months ago. We are so unbelievably happy. There is nothing that can break how good we feel. At least we think there isn’t. Yet what neither of us know with our smiling faces and twinkling eyes is what lies ahead in our first year of marriage is a ride on one of the most painfully emotional journeys that will test every ounce of our souls. Constantly. We thought we’d be pregnant by the end of the honeymoon. Hell, I thought I’d trip over The Vet and instantly become up the knock. Oh. How. Wrong. I. Was. Because I Once Was Fertile. Hells to the yes I took it for granted. I thought I was born as fertile as a field bunny. Turns out maybe I was in my 20s. Another decade (okay, and a bit) later and it’s taking every little bit of my courage left in the jar just to keep getting out of bed in the morning.

It’s not just the fact my wardrobe seems to have shrunk…along with my (very cherished) Tank Cartier, my equally beloved wedding rings and even any type of shoe that doesn’t resemble an open-toed jandal (sorry, can take the Girl outta Kiwiland). It’s not the fact my once taut belly has turned into mushy tiramisu. It’s not that we’ve spent so many thousands of dollars we could have gone on a round the world trip – and still had money left over to buy a luxury car. It’s not the fact the hormones make my personality switch from lovely to Kathy Bates’ Misery in the blink of an eye. It’s not that my bowels think it’s a funny joke to either withhold everything for days or expel it immediately (sorry for overshare) when there isn’t a loo within cooee. It’s not that I have had more general anesthetics this year alone than Courtney Stodden has for all her surgeries put together. It’s not even that I’m taking every kind of hormone you can think of and then some (and deeply concerned there could be an onset of facial hair growth at any minute). It’s not that my arms look like pin cushions and my belly is full of little blue bruises from where the needles have gone in.

No, the really suckful thing about this ride is that I. Lost. Control. Of. Everything. Long. Ago. My body, my emotions, my ability to be any sort of rational. To be patient or even positive.

Everything about IVF and infertility involves waiting. You wait until you can start your daily hormone injections then you wait 10 days to see how many follicles have grown. Then you wait to see how many of those turn into eggs. Then when you get the eggs out you wait to see how many of those they could inject. Then you wait to see how many of the injected ones make it through the night. Then you wait each day for five days after that for your phone call to tell you how many cells they’ve progressed. Then you wait to see if you’ll have an embryo to implant. Then you wait 11 days to see if that embryo has embedded in your uterus. Then you wait to see if it makes it to your first five week scan and blood test. Then, just to be sure you wait for another week to see if your hormone levels are still increasing. Then you wait until eight weeks to see if it has survived. Then you wait until 12-weeks before you know if there are any genetic defects. Then and only then do you get to finally think you might have a little bit of luck. You. Might. Actually. Have. A. Baby. One day.

This month we are on our seventh cycle of IVF. That’s thirteen long months of mood swings, dimpled thighs, disappointment and dropping more wads of of cash than Squizzy Taylor. Even the strongest Scorpions have their breaking point. I’m just hoping I can find a pocketful more brave to keep me going through this round – which this time is a bit like being in the ring with Mike Tyson. Blindfolded.

I know I’m not alone. There’s girls out there who’ve been on this journey a helluva lot longer than I have. There’s people who’ve had success and there are people who have not. There’s couples who, like us, have come so close they could almost smell the baby powder.

Cross your fingers that the two little embies we have left will make it. To my fellow infertility junkies…love, luck and wonder to y’all. Love n’hugs, Lady MamaG xoxo


Hello old self, are you there?

Least I haven't reached this stage...yet

Mind out where you put that chain, lov, you’ll end up with a nasty yeast infection… Just saying…

Today I thought about doing some pilates. Which is better than yesterday when I didn’t even think about it at all. I still haven’t done it but the very thought of doing it, I believe, has awoken some very very lazy muscles in this here LadyMamaG. The reason I’m telling you about thinking about almost doing pilates is because I want to share with you how much fun it is to not feel like your real self anymore.

This morning I thought it might be a good idea to weigh myself, see what all them lovely lil’ fertility drugs been doing to this here 37 y o body. To my greatest relief the scales had gone flat. Thanks to the Gods who made that happen. It still doesn’t change the fact almost everything, no actually everything don’t fit no more. I used to love getting dressed in the morning. It was like a little fashion magazine shoot going on in my wardrobe every single day. Now I’m quite happy to mooch around the house in my pilates pants (let’s not judge me) until oh, at least before I have to do the school run. Sometimes I might even do the school run while still wearing them. To which 9 y o rather unsubtly reminds me, ‘why are you still wearing that mummy?’ when he jumps in the back seat. Thanks young man for making me feel like Britney post-shaven head. He also likes to ask why I haven’t got any makeup on. Kids are good at honesty, I’ll give ’em that.

So besides the fact I dress to do pilates but don’t actually do it. And that every single thing in my wardrobe no longer even wants to look at me it’s so disgusted, there is the other thing. What have I become? Am I the girl who is happy to let her armpit hair grow a couple of inches (stop screwing up your face, I haven’t reached that stage yet) while still trying to squeeze into a pair of shorts sans-IVF that are two sizes too small and therefore give me two bums? Lucky for you all, I have not assaulted your eyeballs with this visual though summer is just around the corner you’ll be glad to know. Have I become that girl whose vocabulary doesn’t stretch much further past progesterone, gonal-F, orgalutran, prednisolone, progynova and elevit – which besides the fact makes me sound like some really clever person who might be a doctor, when really I’m not – can be mighty boring. Especially to those who may just think I’ve rattled off the cities of some far away country.

Well at least I’m not swinging naked from a giant cement ball. Though if I did look like that, maybe I would…

Countdown is back on until my next round of friendly local neighbourhood needles. Fun times indeed. Lov n’hugs to y’all specially those with foam fingers, LadyMamaGxox