I love my husband. I have just come back from the most frustrating walk ever (lots of pot holes and bins mid pavement which interrupted my bottom clenching power walking), weighed myself, and quelle surprise I have not lost an ounce in weight in the whole 2 weeks and 1 day of my new fitness regime. Feeling mightily hacked off, I read a mail from my husband that amongst other things said, "just got up to speed with your blog.....I cant believe I am still copping grief re the plane ride home! I think you need to mention that you told me to take the seat and that I came back repeatedly to see if you wanted to swap...." I should be cross that the bit he finds most newsworthy is that, and not the emotional stuff, but I have to admit it tickled me rather - and his comment, "point of criticism.... what bit of anonymous do you not get Ana Boulter??" Whoops - I had been planning on doing this anonymously but as you can see I forgot.
Anyway back to the point - having been back to back pregnant for 18 months, its fair to say I am twice the woman I was. My hips and ribs have widened in preparation for each pregnancy and never quite gone back in, so we're not getting off to a brilliant start. A hormonal trip to the hairdresser after miscarriage no.6 resulted in my long brown hair being chopped off and replaced with short blonde locks. All well and good but as my head is now disproportionately small to the size of my large, rotund body, I look ridiculous and the short hair only helps accentuate that. A 34B is a thing of the past and more likely to be a motorway junction number than a bra size for me. Then there's the fact that I have been almost on bed rest since October 2009 - if you have had one miscarriage every subsequent pregnancy comes with a 'do not even breath too hard' warning and exertion is most definitely not advised. Its a bit hard with a toddler to stick to the rules entirely but it does mean that any gym ambitions were dead and buried, which to be honest wasn't something I mourned much. I was quite good at 'what the hell, I'll be pregnant and much fatter than this soon so yes please I'll have the cheeseboard for pud,' in between pregnancy's. Then when pregnant, there is the carb ambush that happens at around 5 weeks and doesn't go until around 12-16 weeks which is basically is Mother Nature (we're gently re-building our relationship - if she can make my cycle return to 28 days and therefore fit in with the flights back to the UK for the IVF then we might be friends again) making sure that any thoughts of weight control during pregnancy are banished before they even started. As if its not depressing enough to not be pregnant, my stomach that used to be famed among friends for its flatness looks as though it is hosting a party for at least 2 babies, my bottom could house another 3 or 4, and for the first time in my life my cheekbones that used to be relatively prominent and my only source of pleasure in my face are nowhere to be seen. I am in the words of Marjorie Dawes from Little Britain's Fat Fighters, FAAAAAAT.
I will never reveal my weight to anyone, if my husband found out what I weigh I would be mortified and go into hiding. I was so concerned that he would see the horrible truth when we were being weighed at our IVF appointment I made the nurse cup her hand around the paper where she was writing the dreaded figure. Poor woman looked like a child trying to hide the answers to a spelling test, I was on the scales poised to rugby tackle her to the ground if she so much as let the light spill through her fingers and reveal the true horror. However, I can reveal that I am over a stone heavier than when this whole debacle started - in fact I am a stone and a half heavier but the extra 7lb really does make it seem hopeless and I am resigned to the fact that unless I have some surgery to remove a buttock, a stone is realistically all I can hope to lose between now and April. And that's pushing it.
So, I have been on a mad quest to shift the fat which has basically resulted in my own ritual humiliation. I power walk every day, looking like a total idiot (I am not allowed to run because of bad back and dodgy pelvis). On day one I was seen by no less than four of the uber glamorous mothers whose children are in my sons class. They are the type who wear skinny jeans that are baggy on them, hair is always blow dried and perfect by 7am, if they wear make-up you can barely tell so perfectly is it applied. I tend to drop my son off with a touch of the previous days mascara under my eyes making my shadows darker than they already are, wearing one of my husbands jumpers over leggings in an attempt to cover the horror of my bottom and thighs, head hanging as low as it can so that I am not recognised, ready for my walk. I did think about teaching my son to say 'bye bye Granny' to me when he goes into school therefore deflecting attention from my true identity, but as my mother would consider it a disaster if she hit 8 stone and would fit in perfectly with the glamorous mums, I realise that would never cut the mustard. Plus even though she is hobbit sized she is pretty fierce when she wants to be and would kill me if she found out my deception on her next visit out here.
So, I drop the little man off at school and begin my walk which according to my physio should last no longer than 30 minutes. I don't think she has quite grasped the urgency of the weight loss, so I do 45-60 minutes. When I first started I was passed TWICE by a Chinese woman in full make-up, pearls and very smart walking kit. Buns of steel, and frankly a body I would kill for. On her second passing I got a closer look and realised she was probably around 80.
I do love my walking though, when I am not dodging anyone I know. I listen to The Archers, which recently has been more of an emotional roller coaster than my life - some idiot in the BBC decided to kill off Nigel Pargiter, one of the best characters, and it has been harrowing listening. Brilliantly done but not ideal if you are already on an emotional precipice. I have cried my way around my walk on many occasions for poor Nigel. Mind you, it does rather put things in perspective and if I think we are having a hard time I only need to think of poor Elizabeth and her children who now no longer have a husband or father. Dreadful (and an example of how I tend to talk about fictitious characters or famous people as though it was real life and they are my friends - don't start me on Giuliana and Bill Rancic). I do clinical pilates twice a week and have just started horse riding again (we really need to keep this from my phsyio - given that running is a no go she would likely strike me off her books if she found out - I got a roasting from my mother in law on this subject too so the less said about the gee gee's the better), so you would think that I would be dropping some weight. I eat dust and drink air - ok not true but I do eat a low calorie diet, I am not drinking alcohol but I am drinking the equivalent quantity (i.e a lot) of chinese tea's that allegedly boost your metabolism. As a Nearly Doctor I know the only way to shift weight is to eat less and exercise more, so I am doing both. I think I have found perhaps the first flaw in being a Nearly Doctor as opposed to an Actual Doctor - I obviously missed the lesson that talked about the flaws in this theory, of which from personal experience there are clearly many. I do think I would like a little sign to carry around that say's 'fat for medical reasons.'
Despite the distinct lack of weight loss, I am not giving up, I will definitely continue the regime as if nothing else I am enjoying the newly found scenery and beauty of Hong Kong that I didn't even know existed before (how dreadful is that - we've lived here for 5 years!) and despite getting lost on the trails quite regularly, when I do stick to the beaten track I am building up a few walking 'buddies' who nod and smile as they pass - at my random outfit probably. I do feel better for the exercise and while it does not seem to be having the effect of restoring my body to its former mediocracy, it is at least filling my time while my son is at school and my house feels empty. I have some 'me' time to think about whatever I like, which for the past week has been our sons dreadful behaviour since starting school (do we really want to do IVF? I can barely cope with the one I have!) although he has been making me laugh a lot so I can forgive him a bit. He asked me last week if he could take his 'massive big poo' to school to show Miss Eileen? How can you not laugh at that?
And on that note - it could be so much worse, my friend has Giardia and hasn't lost a lb. Now that really is something to complain about.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Letting the dust settle
I have often sat on the plane leaving London to come back to Hong Kong in a slightly melancholy mood but excited by the prospect of going home. We adore our life here in Asia and we are extremely fortunate in all that we have, but the one thing that the ex-pat life cannot provide is family. Our trip to Nottingham had been another example of how much I miss mine and wish I could be closer to them. My sister had extremely kindly given birth to her first son a week early so that I could see him, which I like to think was Mother Natures attempt at making amends. My sister might say that it was Mother Nature swapping her dislike from one sister to another as she had the most heinous birth, but nonetheless we were incredibly fortunate to meet the little man who bias as I am, really is adorable. It was poignant as my sister and I had shared a due date, as I had so often wished for (to the point where I was trying to get her to plan her conception at the same time as us. She steadfastly refused for many months which is nothing short of selfish, but then as luck would have it, we had exactly the same date. Now how about that for spooky?!) but as we know, for us it wasn't meant to be. I think it becomes easier as time goes on to see the babies - the 'could have beens' and it also makes it easier if the baby is born to a close friend or relative. I no longer look at them and think, ' I wonder what ours would have looked like,' or 'that could have been us,' as I did so much in the beginning, but I would be lying if there isn't a touch of sadness and a little reflection. Having said that, when the new babies start screaming and I see the familiar tired lines etched on the faces of the mothers, I do wonder if we should be doing IVF at all or just being happy with the fact that we at least get sleep these days?!
On this trip which had frankly been an emotional roller coaster, I was so very sad to say goodbye to my family, knowing I would miss out on seeing the baby achieve so many milestones, and sad that our son who for some reason loves babies would miss out on being close friends with another cousin. My sister in law has a son 6 months younger than ours and I often wish the boys could play together. If we can't have another child for whatever reason, a cousin would be the next best thing.
Still, you can't spend your life wishing and we do have a great life out here in Honkers as the local expats affectionately call it, and I must remember in times of self pity that I do have a live in helper and haven't picked up the iron for 5 years, so life isn't really that bad. But on the flight back I did feel very sad and low. I must interject here that it wasn't helped by the airline upgrading my husband and leaving my son and I to turn right, which just about had me running for the emergency exit. Seriously, what kind of person decides that its ok to split a family up and move the husband to the top of the hierarchy and into business class? I was so cross I promptly cried, then unleashed my full anger on my jammy husband who had left the sanctity of his little booth to come and braved walking into economy to see if there was anything he could do. Yes darling, swap seats would be a start. Husband retreated quick smart to his flat bed and I endured the worst flight I have ever had, totalling a mere ninety minutes sleep as my son, who got a good 5 hours, kept falling off the seat, which was made for a midget and not a regular sized toddler, let alone a posterially challenged middle aged hormonal woman. Still, as I couldn't sleep I did at least have 13 hours to mull over the events of the past week and indeed 2 years, and as the drinks trolley had stopped serving many hours ago, I could do this through very sober eyes.
Stupid as it sounds, one of the hardest things I am coming to terms with is facing the fact that we are having problems. I am well aware that 6 miscarriages would suggest things aren't going too well, but before we had taken the IVF plunge, it did seem as though there was a possibility it could work out by itself and we could gloss over any technical hitches. Slight head in the sand syndrome. Ok, massive head in the sand syndrome. I suppose it must be like an addict admitting they have a problem, once you say it out loud its real, as soon as you start having treatment its really real. I am not one to think too much about stuff as my thoughts have a tendency to confuse me, and I also have the attention span of a dead newt, but when strapped in a tiny airline seat with a 16kg child asleep on your legs (well I should say leg singular, I had lost the feeling of one of them somewhere over Amsterdam and was not sure it would ever regain consciousness) with sleep was as far away as the final destination - some 6 thousand miles - there was nothing to do but think.
I haven't really discussed the miscarriages in much detail - in the blog or indeed as they happened. I definitely talk about them on a fairly one dimensional level, and with the risk of sounding very hard and cruel, I didn't really do much crying when they happened, so to the outside world I think I came across as quite a cold fish. I am not sure if I am or not, I was most certainly sad when they happened, but sitting on the plane staring into space I realised that I have learnt quite a lot about myself throughout this process. I think in essence I don't like to go too deep and the reason for that is I am quite an emotional character and I don't have brilliant self will. I think if I allowed myself to really digest in it's entirety what has happened, I might not be able to pull myself out of a fairly dark place. I also feel that there are so many other dreadful things happening to people in the world, some of whom I am friends with, that in the grand scheme of things our problems are not quite as bad as they could be. Life can be very mean to the people who least deserve it. So I am not saying I am shallow - I hope I am not - but I am not sure that thinking things over too much is necessarily a good thing. For me anyway.
I don't know if I have become more religious - well actually thats a lie, given that I wasn't even a tiny bit religious before we got married, and then decided that there was perhaps more to the whole Big Book than I had previously thought, I am considerably more religious but a long way off the level that would grant me a pass into the inner sanctum of worshipers. However, I definitely do think a lot about why things happen. I did for a long long time blame myself for the miscarriages. I blamed the fact I used to smoke, the fact I am not adverse to a glass or wine or two (my maiden name was Boulter and my nickname was Two Bottles Boulter. Ahem). I thought each miscarriage was punishment for something I had done in the past. I once drove passed a cat that had been hit on the road, but I didn't stop to help it. If I had, would the cat be alive now and was I being punished for letting it die? In fairness I don't know if it did die, but you can see where I am going with this. I would see a correlation with the smallest indiscretion and our misfortune. I then started to think I was very ill, that I had polycystic ovaries, that I had ovarian cancer - not helped by the millions of e-mails circulating at that time raising awareness for ovarian cancer, bowel cancer, fingernail cancer, you name it. I would google the symptoms and be convinced I had each one and that is why I was not getting passed 8 weeks of pregnancy - not even worrying for a second that I might actually be ill, just more that the illness was rudely getting in the way of my pro-creation.
I have definitely mentally covered more or less every sub topic to be found on the subject of miscarriage, loss, fertility issues and probably in a far more dramatic way than is really necessary. I suppose emotions are really the only thing in life you can't control - you can make sure that they are tempered for the outside world to see, but there is very little one can do to actually try and influence them when alone with them. Well, thats how it works for me, and during the 13 hour plane trip to Hong Kong I had some 'quality time' with my emotions, which was interesting at best! I'm not sure I would recommend it - certainly not if during this time one of the most pressing thoughts is 'I wonder what my errant husband is up to now in business class' but it definitely gave me perspective. I resolved that as soon as I forgave my husband for abandoning me in economy, we would attack with vigour and excitement the road ahead, and perhaps it was time to let the events of the past be exactly that, the past.
On this trip which had frankly been an emotional roller coaster, I was so very sad to say goodbye to my family, knowing I would miss out on seeing the baby achieve so many milestones, and sad that our son who for some reason loves babies would miss out on being close friends with another cousin. My sister in law has a son 6 months younger than ours and I often wish the boys could play together. If we can't have another child for whatever reason, a cousin would be the next best thing.
Still, you can't spend your life wishing and we do have a great life out here in Honkers as the local expats affectionately call it, and I must remember in times of self pity that I do have a live in helper and haven't picked up the iron for 5 years, so life isn't really that bad. But on the flight back I did feel very sad and low. I must interject here that it wasn't helped by the airline upgrading my husband and leaving my son and I to turn right, which just about had me running for the emergency exit. Seriously, what kind of person decides that its ok to split a family up and move the husband to the top of the hierarchy and into business class? I was so cross I promptly cried, then unleashed my full anger on my jammy husband who had left the sanctity of his little booth to come and braved walking into economy to see if there was anything he could do. Yes darling, swap seats would be a start. Husband retreated quick smart to his flat bed and I endured the worst flight I have ever had, totalling a mere ninety minutes sleep as my son, who got a good 5 hours, kept falling off the seat, which was made for a midget and not a regular sized toddler, let alone a posterially challenged middle aged hormonal woman. Still, as I couldn't sleep I did at least have 13 hours to mull over the events of the past week and indeed 2 years, and as the drinks trolley had stopped serving many hours ago, I could do this through very sober eyes.
Stupid as it sounds, one of the hardest things I am coming to terms with is facing the fact that we are having problems. I am well aware that 6 miscarriages would suggest things aren't going too well, but before we had taken the IVF plunge, it did seem as though there was a possibility it could work out by itself and we could gloss over any technical hitches. Slight head in the sand syndrome. Ok, massive head in the sand syndrome. I suppose it must be like an addict admitting they have a problem, once you say it out loud its real, as soon as you start having treatment its really real. I am not one to think too much about stuff as my thoughts have a tendency to confuse me, and I also have the attention span of a dead newt, but when strapped in a tiny airline seat with a 16kg child asleep on your legs (well I should say leg singular, I had lost the feeling of one of them somewhere over Amsterdam and was not sure it would ever regain consciousness) with sleep was as far away as the final destination - some 6 thousand miles - there was nothing to do but think.
I haven't really discussed the miscarriages in much detail - in the blog or indeed as they happened. I definitely talk about them on a fairly one dimensional level, and with the risk of sounding very hard and cruel, I didn't really do much crying when they happened, so to the outside world I think I came across as quite a cold fish. I am not sure if I am or not, I was most certainly sad when they happened, but sitting on the plane staring into space I realised that I have learnt quite a lot about myself throughout this process. I think in essence I don't like to go too deep and the reason for that is I am quite an emotional character and I don't have brilliant self will. I think if I allowed myself to really digest in it's entirety what has happened, I might not be able to pull myself out of a fairly dark place. I also feel that there are so many other dreadful things happening to people in the world, some of whom I am friends with, that in the grand scheme of things our problems are not quite as bad as they could be. Life can be very mean to the people who least deserve it. So I am not saying I am shallow - I hope I am not - but I am not sure that thinking things over too much is necessarily a good thing. For me anyway.
I don't know if I have become more religious - well actually thats a lie, given that I wasn't even a tiny bit religious before we got married, and then decided that there was perhaps more to the whole Big Book than I had previously thought, I am considerably more religious but a long way off the level that would grant me a pass into the inner sanctum of worshipers. However, I definitely do think a lot about why things happen. I did for a long long time blame myself for the miscarriages. I blamed the fact I used to smoke, the fact I am not adverse to a glass or wine or two (my maiden name was Boulter and my nickname was Two Bottles Boulter. Ahem). I thought each miscarriage was punishment for something I had done in the past. I once drove passed a cat that had been hit on the road, but I didn't stop to help it. If I had, would the cat be alive now and was I being punished for letting it die? In fairness I don't know if it did die, but you can see where I am going with this. I would see a correlation with the smallest indiscretion and our misfortune. I then started to think I was very ill, that I had polycystic ovaries, that I had ovarian cancer - not helped by the millions of e-mails circulating at that time raising awareness for ovarian cancer, bowel cancer, fingernail cancer, you name it. I would google the symptoms and be convinced I had each one and that is why I was not getting passed 8 weeks of pregnancy - not even worrying for a second that I might actually be ill, just more that the illness was rudely getting in the way of my pro-creation.
I have definitely mentally covered more or less every sub topic to be found on the subject of miscarriage, loss, fertility issues and probably in a far more dramatic way than is really necessary. I suppose emotions are really the only thing in life you can't control - you can make sure that they are tempered for the outside world to see, but there is very little one can do to actually try and influence them when alone with them. Well, thats how it works for me, and during the 13 hour plane trip to Hong Kong I had some 'quality time' with my emotions, which was interesting at best! I'm not sure I would recommend it - certainly not if during this time one of the most pressing thoughts is 'I wonder what my errant husband is up to now in business class' but it definitely gave me perspective. I resolved that as soon as I forgave my husband for abandoning me in economy, we would attack with vigour and excitement the road ahead, and perhaps it was time to let the events of the past be exactly that, the past.
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