My grandparents

In September, a baby girl will be born. I will be her daddy. My parents will finally be grandparents, and my grandparents will be great grandparents. If they had lived.

I guess it comes to most people when a new generation is born. Suddenly you start to look back to where this baby girl comes from, this fresh new human being. I finally understand why old people when I was a child studied my face and told my mother how I looked like so and so relative. Or how I looked like my dad but had the heart of my mother. It comes from perspective. It comes from understanding that life is finite and suddenly it’s all over and a new generation will take their place. And in those 100 years or so since my grandparents were born, everything have changed and nothing have changed at the same time.

I don’t even know when my fathers father (my grandfather) passed away. I think my father was 15 at the time. For me, it’s always been like this and I never dwelled on the fact he wasn’t around. It is only during these last years and months I have come to realise that this kind man never got to experience growing old. He would never see his grandchildren being born. He would never experience that day when my father got his private flying license and roared over our house in a Cessna 172. He would never see how much my father have accomplished. From five year long boat and car restorations, playing blues rock or attending air shows with his son. The story of my grandfather is nothing but a sobering tale of «what if’s», but I guess – like my father most likely have concluded – you can’t dwell on it. A life ended halfways and there’s nothing you can do about it. I never got to meet him, and at times like these, with a baby girl coming, it creates a certain grief I have not experienced before.

While my father have been resilient about everything, my grandmother was not. Her life spiralled out of control after he died. She would never recover, and would spend decades struggling with un-treated anxiety, periods of severe alcoholism, chain smoking and simply living a horrible life alone in an apartment 60 minutes away from my family by car. I guess that with my grandfather life ending so abrubtly, so did hers. But she had a choice, and she made poor decisions. She would neve really be a functioning grandmother, but my father always sheltered his children from her behaviour. I remember once when she would visit us and we would pick her up at the bus station. She came as planned, but obviously drunk. My father caught on at once, and told her to get out of the car and take the bus back where she came from. And that she did. It happened so quickly I never really understood what happened until I was a grown up. She died about five years ago, having lived a very unfullfilling and lonely life. A failed life. But she’s still my grandmother, and I miss her. I can even understand her. Life is sometimes just too hard to handle. She was the one that gave me the Christmas present I remember the most; a CD stereo system. She must have saved for months and months for it.

While my grandparents on side ran into hardship and even death, the other side lived a different life. A countryside life with many children and a heap of grandchildren. My mother was the fifth and last in line of girls. I guess my grandpa, in his early 40s then, wanted one last go at having a boy, and subsequently failed in the attempt. He had no education to speak of, but worked different jobs through life. Often when I worked nursing homes in the beginning of the 2000’s, old men that knew him often remembered  his height. He was quite short. Family to my grandpa was everything. He never travelled, he settled. Like most people in his generation did. Because they had no other choice. It doesn’t mean he didn’t have a good life. Family is the most important thing, and grandpa had that in a large scale. I grew up next door to my grandpa and grandma, but they were already growing old quickly when I just started growing up. I wasn’t even a teenager when my grandma developed alzheimers and I’m the only one of my sibblings that developed some sort of relationship with them. My grandpa sort of gave up his physical state in the early 90s and ended up in a chair in his home for the last six or seven years of his life depended on home nursing. In 1998 he died, and the last thing he did was call out for my grandma.

There’s something strange about my grandma though. When I think of her, I get a sense of love and care I can’t figure out. It’s been coming to me the past years. I have developed some sort of new bond to her even if she’s been gone since 1994. My grandma was a lot like my mother. With deep care and commitment she took care of her family and her grandchildren. She knew little about the world and it’s complexity. The whole world to her was the surrounding peaceful countryside. She was a real a product of her time. Simpler times. It’s indeed a wonderful place most people in the world can only dream to live in. When I was very young, I often played outside and I could smell that distinctive smell of the dinner she was making. Potatoes, brown sauce, Norwegian meatballs. A smell that is not often to be found today. And I know she cared deeply for me. Alzheimer destroyed her last five years on this planet. I can’t even imagine what she went through, knowing she would drift away somewhere else.

I have developed a new relationship with my grandma these past years. I have almost gotten to know her again. It is one of the most strange spiritual experiences I’ve had. I can’t figure out what it all means. It doesn’t matter what it is really. I just accept that it is. And if she’s somewhere around looking after her family still, I know she will be very excited and very proud that another generation will step into the world this September. Like all of them would be.

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Two small thumps

I haven’t bothered your mother much about touching her stomach. You have to be a bit smart with these things considering everything we went through, and how much I fought for you.

But, this week I felt a startling sensation on my hand when I touched her stomach. It was you, and you kicked instantly as to say hello to me.

We were down at her familys pier, just talking about stuff. I think we touched upon the subject of overweight, and I was trying to tell your mom something when I placed the upside of my hand on her stomach.

Instantly I felt two thumps. I wasn’t sure what it was, thinking it was just her stomach doing something when she slightly moved – and not you. But, it was you. It was really you.

I kept my hand there a few more seconds, and you kicked hard. That was the first time we had any form of contact even if it came via your mothers stomach.

A few days ago I did it again, and you kicked so hard I felt my fingers move upwards.

I do apologise for playing a song from the soundtrack of the Trolls movie as your first song ever the other night, but your half sister was there and she loves Trolls. I couldn’t really go for my fave song –  Estranged by Guns N’ Roses right there and then. Maybe later?

You kicked though, either because you liked it or because you hated it. Hopefully the last. It really is some shit songs on that soundtrack, and they drive me nuts.

You know, I always imagined you being a girl. Even if I strayed a bit on that since my ex and I split up and everything changed. It was only fitting you were a girl. I know you by looks won’t be exactly the same girl as I envisioned you years ago, but from my side of DNA, genetics and what not of it you will be. My part of you will be the same. Perhaps my part of your spiritual essence of you is the same even if you will  look different? Perhaps you will be that girl I could almost feel was there beside me at times when I was struggling and not feeling the best.

I often missed you terribly and couldn’t get to you because you never had the chance to exist. I think I once wrote that you will never been exactly the same even if you got to be born later at one point. Maybe I was wrong?

Maybe my part of you will be just like I imagined it. You will be THAT person.

So, I finally get to meet you! It’s like you’ve been by my side for years now. And now you will step out from the spiritual world and into the physical world. And we will meet. You’re almost ready, kicking my hand from inside the womb to say hello to me and tell me; yes, I am here.

In the Beginning

Week 14 + 3

This will be the first (of perhaps many) letters to you. Maybe one day you will read them all, or maybe this will be long gone in the mist of technological advancements by the time you have grown up enough to understand all of this. Who knows. It’s in English as well, which serves as a good code language between us. Your mother most likely won’t be able to keep up with these ramblings anyway. She once told me she quickly loose track if anything is in English! By the way, I do hope you will find usage of the English language as exciting and fulfilling as I have through the years.

First, well, I’m sorry it took a while! I had a few issues to take care of first. I’m sorry I’ll be a bit of an old fart, but here’s the thing; I don’t plan on being old. My father always said; keep yourself updated on your surroundings. Embrace new technology. Always be positive to advancements. Never let the world pas you by while you’re stuck in some godforsaken decade where the internet sort of doesn’t exists (except when you pay your bills). Stay on top of the world and the current. I plan on doing the same. It truly is good advice.

On New Years Eve 2001, Axl Rose took to the stage for the first time in almost 10 years and told his audience; “I have traversed a treacherous sea of horrors to be with you here tonight”. I have to admit I feel the same about this. I could write a book about it all, but it won’t be realistic enough for people to buy into it. I am confident it will be worth it though.

Right now, I don’t even know if you’re a boy or a girl. I can honestly say I don’t care. I’ve seen you on a TV screen, wobbling about in your mothers stomach. You be nice to her. She have been feeling unsure and unwell. Treat her nice. It’s not her fault. It’s just nature and hormones. Life experience even. Just make sure you grow right and be all healthy. It would mean a lot to her. Comfort her, and care for her like I do, and it will be alright in the end.

The Ragged Edge

Wednesday. D-Day. Low risk? High risk?

I have a terrible night. Vivid dreams. I dream the call is made from the hospital with the comforting words of “low risk pregnancy”. I get upset when I wake up and find out it was a dream. Another dream follows quickly. My dog, in my care, is let into a huge compartment store and for some reason dies in there. I wake up again. My girlfriends daughter is sound asleep in her bed.

I notice when daylight arrives. I hear the morning train howl it’s familiar sound on its way to Oslo.  I finally look at my phone. It’s 0655. Five minutes before the alarm.

I get her daughter ready for school. She behaves proper. I give her milkshake for breakfast since its the first time I’ve taken care of her in the morning. I forget her wollen socks which my girlfriend notice at onces when she arrives 30 minutes later. I make my girlfriend fresh orange juice as is the norm these days.

We exchange a couple of words before I take her daughter to school so she can sleep off a hard nights work. “If it’s a high risk..then….” she starts. “I don’t want to use sick days to go to another ultra sound”. I had booked one for Thursday just in case the result would be high risk and this drama would not be over yet. I am surprised it doesn’t mean enough to her for a sick day, but like a lot of things I just swallow that one too. She says she needs to sleep and won’t answer the phone when they call either. I shiver at the thought of another day or another night in limbo but let that go as well. What can you do?

At 0900 she sends me a surprising Snapchat message. Doctor called. Low risk. There’s nothing wrong with the baby. So, that’s over and done with. Funny how so much worry and so much aggression and frustration can be dealt with in just one simple fucking text.

It’s week 14 now, and we’re at the end of all this. I’m about to let this little secret out to most of the world, and she can’t stop me. That’s it. No more.  Then I realize it’s me we are talking about. I am sure there will be another curveball within hours or days. I am ready.

Messages from Earth

It dawned on me in the shower at 11pm last night.

I am being harassed.

It’s like when people come to me at work, frustrated.

“I’m not angry at YOU”, they say; “I’m angry at the system!”.

So that’s it. I’m being harassed by an unknown force that often finds women to do its dirty work. Whether its the ex-girlfriend from 2003, the ex wife, the ex-girlfriend from 2017 or my current girlfriend.

I am simply being harassed. There are no other words for it. My girlfriend jokes about it being because I had my name removed from the church books. While the idea is laughable, even I start to wonder what the hell is going on.

Last Wednesday we went to Oslo for a risk assessment on the baby. The risk for three serious conditions including Downs Syndrome. For the entire duration of the day – up until the subject changed, I had to endure a never-ending spree of “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want the baby” speeches. Some of them beyond any common sense I should spend time replying to. But yet I spent the first four hours trying to talk sense and logic, and most importantly remaining calm and supportive.

The problems started when they did the measurement of the Nuchal Translucency. I wasn’t sure of the measurements involved, and when the doctor said it was “a bit large”, shit unraveled quite quickly on the way home. This was my girlfriends ticket out. This was my ticket to hell. However, the blood work wasn’t done, so what we really were doing was discussing an unfinished test with a risk asessement for Downs that had not increased more than 3 points (from 140 to 137). Well, that was enough for my girlfriend anyway. So, in a room of 137 people, one of them have Downs. I thought that was a bit of a weak decision to have an abortion on. The real odds isn’t even in yet. Afterwards, I did extensive research on the subject, and anything below 3 mm is normal, anything below 3,5 is also considered normal (depending on who you ask). It also depends when you actually measure it (week 11 to week 13). Some people operate with a 1 out of 10 chance of Downs if the measurement is above 3 or 3,5. In addition to all of that, the measurement was difficult to do and the one who did it was under training. The doctor eventually took over and tried to do a better one herself concluding with “well, that will have to do”. Gee, that was comforting, thanks!.

This is just never ending harassment. All I want is peace, quiet and a normal life with a family to care for and love. But something/someone/ is simply harassing me. It doesn’t help when my girlfriend late at night is so frustrated about the pregnancy that she is on the verge of a breakdown. And I’m stuck in the middle of it all where women in my life goes from crying for not becoming pregnant to crying because they are pregnant. Is there nothing inbetween? Seriously??

And so to you, the one who keeps harassing me; step out of the shadows of hell if you are Satan. Come down from heaven if you are God. I will face you both. Show yourself. If this life and universe I live in is a a mere complex simulation, I ask you to leave your game and face me like a real man. If this is because of something I did in my past life, I am truly sorry for it but enough is enough already. I can’t take responsibility for it. If this is the work of dead relatives, then at least tell me what I am doing wrong. If this is just because the universe wants knowledge and experience, move on now. Find someone else to harass and gain knowledge from.

I want peace, quiet, and comfort.

Stop harassing me.

A Day in the Strife

D-Day is looming. Or at least thats what I think. I thought the first ultrasound was D-Day but it was more like the Dieppe-raid. But enough with the WW2 symbolism.

14 of March is D-Day. Her last and final attempt at getting rid of the “problem” is a check-up to see if the size of the feutus is corresponding with her blood tests. If there’s even a slightest hint at a problem, she’s “taking care of it”. It’s interesting though, how the Christian of us is less Christian than the self-proclaimed spiritual atheist. Me. But I can agree to those terms. If there’s something wrong with it, I’m not keen on dedicating a large portion of my life to helping out a disabled individual.

And so the days go by like this. The best of days is when her family is around, especially her father, and talks sense to her. She has so much respect for him that she doesn’t really object to anything when he simply speaks what I welcome more than most – common sense.

I tried getting her onto the topic of names, but it didn’t really work out well. And then we get into very strange arguments. Like my interests or the TV channels she got. She suddenly hates commercials and wants to get rid of all TV channels because she doesn’t watch them. She suddenly only wants to watch NRK, the equivalent to the BBC or Netflix. I tell her that if she’s doing that I’ll pay for the TV package because I greatly enjoy channels like History, H2, NatGeo and Discovery. When I tell her about certain shows like “The Curse of Oak Island” she finds it “distant” and “strange”. She sometimes speak with prejudice about computers and people who like to spend time with computers, games and programming, and I find myself in a position where I have to defend myself and my hobbies/interests. She says she doesn’t want to be compared to the locals and often look down on the locals and speak of them in bad ways – but in my book she’s just like most locals; ignorant and prejudice of technology, and ignorant of topics, shows and issues that are not Norwegian. I am not like the locals, and I’m not like my generation of locals and I’m often enough not even very Norwegian. I guess it’s all the anger and frustration talking from her side though. There is a whole world on offer to her, but she doesn’t want to grab it because it feels “weird” to her.

D-Day is fast approaching. After D-Day is over I am either making a plan to tell my parents and my friends or I am in complete chaos and utter dismay. And what’s most funny is that I am so confident it will be alright I’m not too scared of D-Day at all.

The Long Dark

Well, I don’t know what this is – but this blog is turning into some form of twisted pregnancy blog. Like if you take a normal pregnancy and all the happiness of it – and write a blog, but then you twist that into something completely obscure and unreal. Some sort of sick joke. Like shit you see on a soap opera, and giggle in silence while you drink a cup of coffee because it’s just not realistic. But in this case it’s all so real. What a way to start the first and only time I will have a shot at fatherhood. I should have been writing down thoughts and wonders about life. Instead I’m just hanging on to my own sanity.

I often thought about how I would actually write such a blog. How my child would look at it when he (lets just use “he” for the time being) grew older and would wonder at the fact that I was writing all this down to someone who wasn’t even born. The question is – can I actually show my child these blog posts? Will he be disappointed in me or his mother? It’s not really suppose to be like this.

And the fact remains still; I don’t even know if this will turn out in the end. Maybe there will be some sort of problem in the next coming weeks and it will all end? So maybe this problem if you may will be nothing anyway.

A major hospital in Oslo called. They offer all women at 38 and plus a more extensive check-up than what is normal. She had obviously talked to them about her feelings because the woman at the other end had repeated the mantra of “nobody decides this for you – it’s your body and your decision”. Which is all fine. I don’t have anything against it. I support womens right to choose. I assume she “forgot” to tell the hospital lady that she had already agreed upon having a child with me (in principle, not like really going for IT), and had second thoughts. But this is how this game works; I have nothing to say in the matter. My opinions doesn’t count. I’m left as some form of Sideshow Bob with no rights, opinions or say in the matter. Half of what is inside her is mine, but yet that part of me is not mine. Its hers and she is in complete control over it and thus also my destiny and well being. My health.

It was last Monday or Tuesday where she wrote to me that she felt pressured into doing this. I went completely insane. I called a friend and spoke (screamed) to her about it. I was trembling with anger. I called my psychologist from last years drama. She was not working there anymore, so I called on further to find out where she was. I set a date with the doctor as well – for the 14th of March. Just in case. I was furious. It’s like signing a work contract and then later on complaining you feel pressured into going to work. The nerve! My friend calmed me down though, and the next day I was feeling alright. I guess because we didn’t speak more about all this when we met. Not then and not yesterday. It’s at those moments I actually Google each week of pregnancy and start to have a glimmer of hope in all of this. Names or sex is still beyond. To imagine telling my mother is way beyond. My own health is shot for the time being.

When this is all over, if it goes well even, I will have to do deal with two things in this relationship; trust and anger. My trust in what women (including her) tell me or promise me is completely blown out of the water. It is zero. And I have lots of anger at her, me and the situation in general that created a matter where the biggest and greatest thing someone can experience have been – at least in this first phase – completely destroyed. Articles online clearly says; “this is the time to start taking photos of your stomach” You got to be kidding me? It’s all ruined anyway. I start taking photos of her now? Last week I tried to touch her stomach, and she pushed my hand away.

And to you, unborn little baby. I am sorry. This is not my choice. I have nothing to say in this matter. I can’t fight for you, I can’t do anything for you. Just cross my fingers that someone in the end will see common sense.

 

Chapter 7: And All My Dreams Torn Asunder

The chance was 1/3 from each try. We had three tries. I threw a dice three times to see if I got the right number. I got it on my third try. I figured it would go down that route. How we would be succesfull at last. It couldn’t possibly not work. Things like this simply didn’t happen the wrong way. At one point or another she would be pregnant. In all fairness to the Universe, we would be great parents. It clearly had to see this.

She actually got pregnant while she was “reseting” her body in February 2015. Not from IVF either. It came as a surprise. If she had not been so “aware” of everything, I doubt she would have noticed anyway. She was just a couple of days late. It meant she had to abort her medicine and start all over. It was a chemical pregnancy.  After a couple of more days, everything went back to normal. It cost us another six months. She came to me with her stick that said “pregnant” and her voice was shaking of joy and surprise. I will never forget it.

We went in to Oslo for our fourth attempt in the fall of 2015. Maybe it was our fifth, I can’t remember. I was looking for signs by then. A caravan down the street had the name of what we had planned to name our child if she was a girl. Adria. I took it as a sign. A positive one. The sky that morning before we left for our last attempt was crispy clear, and an a Airbus A340 from SAS streaked across the sky coming in to land at Oslo Airport from New York. I took that as a sign too. I still couldn’t really believe that all of this could be for nothing, so I expected the last attempt to work. But it didn’t. It simply didn’t.

Adria

If it was a girl, we would call her Adria. From Stargate SG-1. We figured a girl might look like her.

We decided to not give up, and went to a private clinc quickly. We bought an IVF package worth 60 000 NOK (excluding medication). The total sum would be about 100 000 NOK. Her mom paid half, I paid half. We tried once. The eggs were developing, but not good enough. They inserted the one which looked semi-promising. It didn’t work. It was perhaps the worst disappointment of them all. She also had a terrible physical reaction to it. The private clinic did things differently, different medication. She got sick. Very sick. We barely managed to get home. At one point I had to take taxis around Oslo to find a specific drug as many of the pharmacies were sold out. I went out of my way. At least I thought so. She was upset because I didn’t tell her “it would be alright”. How could I? It felt like lying. To her, I wasn’t doing my part. I wasn’t saying the right things, and I wasn’t suffering. She was. She was suffering. All I had to to was deliver a cup. Mentally I dealt just as much as her. She just didn’t see it.

My MasterCard bill was growing rapidly, but we still had another two tries left. That was the package deal. If it worked on the first try, we would still have to pay for three. We had gone for three. The clinic was very serious about their work. We liked them more than the state run hospital. They had a different approach to things.

Our next attempt would be in February 2016. I had a trip to England coming up, so she went to the clinic by herself for the usual talks before the attempt started – what kind of dose of medication would work, when she would start and so on. By then we didn’t really work as a couple any longer. The IVF process was consuming us. We talked of little else than IVF and our dogs. It was all eyes on it. All our energy. I read articles online saying it was normal. I took care of the house for the most part. Inside and out. I was doing everything I could.

When I got back from England I found her at home in tears. She had aborted the IVF treatment. For good. She had had some kind of breakdown at the clinic and had decided to not do it anymore. From being “all in” a month ago to completely abort it was a shock to me. It dawned on me she had ideas and issues/problems/thoughts she had not shared with me. About us. She wanted to address our issues. I understood, but replied I always thought it was natural considering how hard the IVF was to deal with. I guess she disagreed. So, that evening – after just being back from England an hour beforehand, everything was off. IVF, children, relationship, marriage. It was all off. From what I could gather she had pushed her body through these tries without actually “being there” any longer. She just went along with it even thought she didn’t want to any longer. How many guys can say they had to deal with a broken up marriage and aborted IVF on the same day?

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I didn’t know what to think. A weight lifted off my shoulders the same night, but I didn’t know what to make of everything. I had been worrying about her for years. That weight disappeared. I didn’t have to worry that much now, she had pushed me away. What now?

It took another six months until I moved out. Simply because we had to untangle our lives and make the best choices. She had to be able to finance the house on her own and I had to get my own place. It was a mess. I bought a car in May with automatic gear change. Not because I wanted one, but because she couldn’t drive a stick, and because my father helped finding the car. He didn’t know anything. No one knew anything, and I had a horrible time telling my parents. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, but it wasn’t up to me. I was simply put in a situation where I had to make some choices. I distansed myself from her quickly. I was angry, upset. But one thing kept me going; she couldn’t have kids. This put me in a situation where still might be able to – if I met someone else. That first night after I came back from England I suddenly remembered something she told me once before the third try at the hospital; “if this doesn’t work you can make someone else pregnant if you’d like.” I thought she was joking around. She had actually been trying to tell me something.

I can never name my child Adria. If I am lucky enough to find someone and have a child that is. The name Adria is a symbol to all those six tries which did not go the right way. They were just five or six cells, but in my mind I can picture what the child would have looked like. And that is Adria. It’s a horrible feeling. It’s like missing someone you’ve never met. I can imagine her in my head. She actually feels real, although disappearing more and more now that I have some distance. I’ve met people who simply do not understand the despair and grief of something like that can give you (it’s another story). It is very real. Just by writing this I can feel my face tightening up. Having children is a unfair game. It is simply unfair. Nothing to do with education, being smart or anything. It’s just about luck.

It’s at these moments I am usually putting on Butch Walker’s melancholic album “Afraid of Ghosts” and I think I will now. I could have written this more personal or with more feelings, but I simply can’t. It is simply too hard.

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Chapter 5: No Surrender, No Retreat

I can only speak for myself, but I was always of the impression that pregnancies could happen at any time – anywhere as long as your penis circulated a vagina area. Fine, I exaggerate a tad, but it was to prove a point. Babies happened. It was all over the TV. Soaps showing unexpected pregnancies in all ages, and shows on MTV about teen pregnancies. A friend of mine got pregnant when she was 16. To me, this should have been one of the easier tasks in life. What would come later would be hard part – the upbringing. I expected babies to happen as soon as we went for it.

teen-pregnancy

Most people have one or two things they struggle with. Physically or mentally. Perhaps you were raped as a teenager. Maybe your mother was an alcoholic, or you lost your significant other in a car crash. Maybe your father died when you were young and always longed for a father figure. Maybe you have no self confidence, maybe you are under-performing in life and know it. Humans always seem to have one or two “soft” spots. I often wondered what mine was – now that I had broken free from a shaky start of adult life to excel in what I was doing, I almost expected something to pop up.

Turns out it was lack of pregnancies. She simply did not become pregnant. We tried for a couple of years, nothing happened. Perhaps it something physically wrong. Maybe it was her mental state of stress. She was always stressed out. Perhaps it was hormonal. More than likely a mix of all. We just didn’t know. All we knew was that it wasn’t me that had a problem.

We were referred to IVF treatment. First three times are free in this country. I didn’t know much about it, but figured this would be a safe bet. Considering it was a 30% chance on each try, the math was good. A 90% chance. In theory it would work. We talked about children names and prepared like any other couple. First try didn’t work out, and I started to calculate the chances in different ways.  By each step in the process, 50% of the eggs would disappear. The Norwegian approach is also to be very conservative and not insert many eggs – compared to Israel where it was more of a “go flat out” approach with many eggs and considerable amount of twins being born. I read articles online saying it was mentally demanding. Physically as well – for the female.

woman-injecting-ivf

First try was a failure even before got to the insemination part. She made a mistake with her drug injections prior to the date we had at the hospital. It didn’t cost us a try.

Second one went alright. Six eggs was taken out. Three  didn’t evolve. Three was alright, but two of them did not develop properly. We had one left, which was inserted. The nurse talked about “the golden egg” which I found odd. Why bet on a “golden egg” when chances would increase if you bet on several of them at one try? Their response was that they didn’t know her body well enough to know how things would go. They were simply being cautious, but in my world that cost us two tries before they found the right dosage of drugs and what not. It was like putting your hand out in a dark closet and hoping to find that shirt you want to wear on that particular day. Among so many others. The more I calculated based on how they were doing things, the less positive I got. And it took months and months between each try. It was all a process. And a painful one at that.
Second try was aborted while we were halfway to the hospital by train. It was a two hour ride. None of the eggs had developed. We jumped off the train and went back home with our hopes shattered for a second time. I realized at some point that this may as well not work. I could end up not being able to form a family at all.

nochild

I thought it to be very ironic. Of everyone I knew when I was growing up, I always considered myself as very capable with children. I adored children. My confidence in fatherhood had not even gone down when my self-confidence was low and I was insecure. If it was one thing I was good at, it was professional and personal care for others.

And in the midst of this painfully slow and tough process, we were growing apart from each other.  Or maybe she had already disappeared from me, she just couldn’t find a way out.