September 29, 2006

Mild Update, Much Like a Bloggy Sip of Maalox

We've been seeing a lot of theatre lately. Two weeks ago we went with my dad, stepmother, and stepgrandmother Nabu (more on them shortly) to see a matinee of The Lion King in London. My family very kindly treated all of us to seats about 10 rows from the stage, smack in the middle of the theatre. None of us had ever seen The Lion King, and Nabu in particular was extremely keen to see it.

It was unbelievable.

The costumes themselves were amazing. The dancing, the singing, the sheer commitment of the actors, even on a Wednesday matinee....we were thoroughly impressed. It was fantastic.

Tonight, Angus and I are off to London as I've booked tickets to see Wicked. I'm nearly wetting myself in anticipation. I first read the book Wicked in 1997 as a poor soulless post-college slave in a stockbroking firm, and I was wildly in love with it from word go. Wicked the show has finally come to London and luckily we get to go-the tickets were so expensive they made my hands shake as I entered my credit card details on the website (is it too socialist of me to wish that theatre tickets were free? Work is life, comrade?) but we have great seats and we get to see the lead, Idina Menzel, who originated the role of Elphaba on Broadway (she's only here for three months).

And then Angus, taking pity on me because I have missed How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? so much (I can't believe I got addicted to a reality show), booked us tickets to see The Sound of Music. Due to the popularity of the reality show, the first time we can get see it is March 2007, so we've a long wait.

But I love seeing these shows, and I'm a bit like a kid in a candy shop just now.

So hey. A little culture.


***************************************


We've also stepped up the holiday plans. We're leave in a week and a half for a 5-day stay in the far northern Highlands in Scotland (including a stay at a whiskey distillery). We both love Scotland, and the way up there we're travelling by sleeper train. Now, I suffer from sleep issues but sleeper cars? I sleep like a baby.

November we're off to my friend's wedding in Atlanta, albeit taking an incredibly circuitous route and only staying 4 days. But still...Target. There's an enormous Target close to the hotel. That's all I can say about that.

Then because we have a British Airways American Express card and we reached a certain limit on it, we got a "buy one ticket, get one free" voucher. Plus, Angus has masses of air miles. So, with recent stresses on our mind and a need to cheer up, we decided to go away for New Years. We have his kids for Christmas but they have to go back to Sweden just after, so we did some searching. The goal was to use these vouchers and fuck off to Australia, while upgrading to business class, and spend New Years there. Turns out offers to Australia fill up a year in advance, so that was a no-go.

So we booked something else.

We fly in to Seattle two days after Christmas in business class, and once there we'll then go spend three days with my dad, stepmother, and Nabu. Then we hire a car and drive up to Canada to the ski area of Whistler, where we've pushed the boat out and booked a posh hotel, so we can go skiing and ring in the New Year and drink and relax for 6 days.

A New Year, a New Start, right?

Then we fly home.

In first class, something neither of us have ever done.

Frequent flier miles rule.


***************************************


On the work front, I rejected Option A. I thanked them very much. I told them I was honored but due to compensation, I couldn't accept their offer, and wished them the best of success. There have been no hard feelings (I know this, I do work with them still.) I recognized the job for what it was-the chance at a massive leg-up. An opportunity to bust through a glass ceiling, the first step to management. I saw it....and I said goodbye to it.

It's just not what I want for myself right now.

And this isn't about me, as a woman, not being strong enough to do this. This isn't about me, as a woman, caving in and saying: I can't do this fight. This isn't about me, as a woman, settling for a lesser position because I'm afraid I can't hack it in that role.

This is about me, as a woman with history and issues, putting her health and her happiness first.

I haven't accepted Option B yet because I'm just not sure if the job is something I really want-I'm not very excited about the product itself, and I worry that if I can't get excited about the product it will relate as me being lax in my role. I do have to find something as the project I'm on finishes the end of the year, and although I won't lose my job at the end of it, I'd rather choose what I'm going to do next as opposed to my bosses just moving me to what they want me to do.

Jump, not push.

I'm getting there.

-H.


PS-I've been invited by Maison Pants to join the Flickr Group called 365Days-it's about self-portraits, everyday for one year. I thought it was nice and introspective, and a great idea. I've joined, so if you see a lot of pics of myself in my Flickr account, I assure you I have not become a practicing narcissist.

PPS-it's that time again. It's picture taking in our house this weekend, so get your wallets ready-we even do the "not safe for work" portion of the site. October is all about pumpkins, fallen leaves, apple cider...and boobies.

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September 27, 2006

Song and Dance Routine

I stand in the doorway of his study, unsure what to say.

I look like shit.

I feel like shit.

We've been arguing because neither of us knows what the hell to do about me, and today? Today is Armistice Day.

He tilts his head back to look at me.

I shrug my hands inside of my sweater. I bite my lower lip. I sniff (the flu). I fidget.

Then I swing my arms out and start doing the bus driver dance move.

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife!
So from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you!

I sing this.

He blinks, and then grins.

I fidget again.

You do what you can.

-H.

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September 26, 2006

Everything About Me

I have all day meetings, all days. I catch a train to Clapham Junction, catch a train to Kew Bridge, catch a train to a conference call and pin number. I spend the day in a hot room with men shouting and their business suit collars sticking up. The tables are graveyards for careers and sanity, our phones littering the space like tombstones-Here Lies Reginald, His Ring Tone Born To Be Wild, May He Rest In Peace.

Finally, it is time to leave. I have spent 10 hours of my day there, and I am tired. When I leave the building dusk is coming-Autumn has arrived and brought with it rain and chill, leaves curling from drought-stricken trees like the wrapping of a too-loved crayon. I sidestep puddles and lug my bag closer to me.

Everything about me is tired.

When I get on the train it is packed with people who radiate exuberance. I look around and think I am the oldest person on the train, and I'm not even thinking about age. When I catch sight of myself, a reflection in the darkened window, I am shocked-the deep rings under my eyes look like bruises. I am so completely and utterly sunken that I don't know how people bear it.

Everything about me is defeated.

I get off the train at Clapham, to discover I have to change trains twice more just to try to get home. I am so tired I can't stand it. When I get on the train both myself and two others give up their seat to accommodate a party of elderly travelers-it is our good deed of the day and we fold up like grasshoppers on the carpeted floor of Southwest Trains. Someone smells like L'Air Du Temps, and my jeans feel too tight against my bloated middle. My insect stance has me in the glare of a wall of glass and as I've forgotten my book and am too tired to move, I just look at myself.

Everything about me is broken.

Some days are better than others. I have whole moments when I don't think about it before I remember, and I am nearly crippled with emotions I don't know how to deal with. I cannot step outside of myself and my doctor has refused to prescribe me anything that will help shoehorn me out, so things are one thousand times harder. Someone once commented that they love it when bad things happen to me. I guess that person is happy now.

I've given up looking for answers because there aren't any. It's hard to remember that sometimes, when sucking the foam from the lid of my latte I have a flash, an idea. The flash passes and all that remains is the knotty feeling that warm milk gives me.

I just don't know.

My father was just here. While sitting in the plush chairs of a London theatre about to be entertained and amused by a West End show, he tells me that he always helps my sister out (financially, he says, but what he doesn't know is an affection-starved person views any attention as attention-finance is just the grease to the glare of adoration) because she needs it. She needs help. She can't do it on her own. You, he says, you don't need anyone. You get knocked down (but I get up again) by life and you take care of yourself. She cannot survive without help. You, you are so fiercely independent, you can do anything.

No! I want to scream. You have it all wrong! I pick myself up because I have to! If I had any idea you would've been there for me had I not solved my own crisis, I would'e called you. I am not a hero. I am not strong. I didn't have any other choice, it was fix myself and try again or die.

I don't want to be the strong one. I fucking hate it, I rage at myself and the world, I have moths in my cape and I can't find my other shoe, please don't think of me as put together. I can't keep anything safe, not my mind, not my heart, not even my embryos.

This day, today, is a down.

It happens, and then there is an up.

Maybe tomorrow is better.

I can only wait and see.

Everything about me is wait and see.

-H.


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September 24, 2006

No Murders Today

Last year at Christmas the CEO sent over a Christmas bonus-it was wholly unexpected but thoroughly welcomed (and I sent him back a thank you note and, unlike the kind you had to send as a kid thanking Great-Aunt Mildred for those bright orange socks, I meant every word of it.) The bonus had a cash lump sum and something called a Gold Red Letter Day, meaning I could go to the Red Letter Days' website and book up anything I wanted, up to £1000. Luckily, I also had some Red Letter Day vouchers from another award (thus the grand total of Red Letter vouchers was something like £1500), so Angus and I mulled over the Red Letter Days website in detail. We finally chose two activities-we're spending half a week in Scotland in mid-October, and we chose spend a day on the Orient Express.

The Orient Express is something that always intrigued both of us, but seeing as how the cost of two tickets is equivalent to airfare to New Zealand, we knew it would never happen. But with the Red Letter Day, luckily we did get to try it. We opted to go on a day trip to Rye, a very old coastal village in the south of England (at the time, we hadn't known we could've taken the Orient Express to York, which is slightly more appealing as neither of us have ever been to York. Oh well.)

We showed up at Victoria Station feeling bleary-eyed-Victoria is not easy to get to from our home during Peak Travel times and we'd had to leave really early that morning to get there in time. We sign in and are giving our seating-we were to be on the Lucille Coach, seats 15 and 16.

OK, cool.

We wait with many others who are dressed up-although the tickets urged us to dress in 1920's fashion, I knew there was absolutely no way anti-costume Angus was going to do that (I love the fashion of that time, but I wasn't going to dress up like a Flapper, regardless.) Waiting there, I saw no one else did, either. The other patrons were wearing business suits and dresses, and in general they were older and middle-aged couples. I think it's possible I was the youngest person there, but that just meant more champagne for me.

The train finally showed. It hauled onto the platform and people on other platforms stopped and stared-it's honestly an amazing train.


The Pullman


(That's me with Starbucks. Coffee must be had in the morning or I can't function.)

Once on, we couldn't believe it. It was so sumptuous, it was incredible. All of the Pullman cars were originals from the 1920's, all fully restored to original condition using methods from 1920's construction. The walls had inlaid designs from holly bushes, the seats were plush, and the china and crystal were real.


Inside the Car


Even the toilets were amazing-stained glass windows, dark cherry wood, original mosaic tiles in the design of African wildlife, and original silver pipes.


Pullman toilet


(Why yes, I asked Angus to take a pic of the toilet. Lucky for me, he did.)

I couldn't believe it. I was afraid to touch anything. I was afraid to breathe. Everything was so pristine, so beautiful.


Helen on the train


They came round with bellinis and breakfast-fresh fruit, followed by salmon with caviar and scrambled eggs with chives. I had never had food like this for breakfast-with the exception of the weekends we tend to be yogurt and cereal kinds of people but hey-when in Rome and all that.


Angus on the train


Across from us sat a wealthy couple from Malta-we talked a bit, chatted, and then went about our business of being gobsmacked from the glamour of a train ride.


Gobsmacked


We also got giggly from the bubbly.

When we got to Ashford, we hopped off the train to be taken via coach to Rye, a lovely seaside village. Unfortunately, the coach also came with a tour guide who talked.

Extensively.

About everything.

We heard about buildings. We heard about minerals in the area. We heard about the various flora and fauna that grew on the pebbly beach (at which point my suicidal tendencies started re-surfacing). We heard about famous people from the turn of the century who had lived in the area. I think it was right about the time that she was listing all of the birds and types of birds found in the area that I switched from "suicide" to "Red Rum" perspective.

Finally, we were in Rye.

We walked around-bought a few antiques (him, a 1920's lampshade that's now hanging in our bathroom. Me, an even older wire egg basket that I'm going to use to hold firewood.) We ate fresh quiche and walked through cobbled streets.

Then we met the Orient Express back in Hastings (as in: Battle of).


Train in the afternoon


It's a pretty train, huh?

The attendant in his livery met each of us at our train cars (they wore white gloves even. WHITE GLOVES. How do they keep them clean?)


The Train Man


Once inside, we were treated to a four-course meal, flowing champagne and sauvignon blanc, and I have to confess-we started getting a bit pickled.


Mullered Angus


(You can see the original lighting fixtures and the inlaid wood behind Angus here.)

The train was unbelievable. But even more unbelievable was that people gathered on train platforms and stared. They took pictures with cameras and camera phones. Passing through neighborhoods, people came out of their homes to stand and stare, and most of them waved to the train. When they did that, we'd wave back.

And I felt so incredibly, unbelievably shocked. I had this wonderful experience, this chance to do something that I never could have foreseen-I got to ride on this famous train and spend a day in a type of luxury I could never have imagined. Here they were, people coming out and waving at the train, taking pictures of it, the train running on tracks in their imagination...yet there I was, a chick who has the background I do-I come from origins so humble they have no claim to modesty. I'm a nothing. I don't deserve to ride a train as sumptuous as this one (much of the time, I don't deserve.) I am a stranger in a strange land but-more than that-I'm a stranger inside. I'm not posh, I didn't even pay for my ticket, the company did.

But I waved back.

Maybe it doesn't matter how I got there, all that matters is I was there.

The trip was brilliant. And I am so hugely thankful that I got to experience a day like that.


Us and the Train


We both are.

-H.

PS-like others, we totally kept our champagne glasses (one of which has already accidentally been broken). We may have had this remarkable chance but we're still riffraff, really.


Orient Express glasses

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September 22, 2006

A Grand Adventure

Short side-trip-we have a day out today, and we're very excited about it. We get to Victoria Station this morning at 9am to have a grand adventure, one involving train travel like they haven't seen since the 1920's.

And we get met with champagne.

Any day that starts with champagne is a grand day out.

If you need me today, we'll be on this:


Orient Express


(The dents on the envelope are courtesy of Gorby. He has a real hate-hate relationship with the mailman, and he likes to be on the receiving end of the mail chute in our door, and his receiving end has pointy white teeth on it.)

It's just for the day that we get to ride on it, but we are absolutely thrilled.

Courtesy of an award I won at work, we get to take a day trip on the Orient Express.

It's a Grand Adventure.

-H.

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September 20, 2006

Choose, Choose and Decide Your Path of Destruction....

OK, so say (hypothetically of course) that you had a job you'd been doing for, oh, 3 years. Your job was great in some ways-high profile, great for the career, you got several awards, and you made a name for yourself after falling from a great height.

Then say you got burnt out.

Too many long hours.

The stress and pressure were endless.

Your bosses, too much to deal with.

Your enthusiasm....gone.

So, say you got a job offer.

Then-surprisingly-another one.

Then-believe it or not-a third.

What would you choose?

Let me lay it out:


Option A-

Promotion within the same company-(a nice big promotion).
High profile.
Very high stress.
Long hours.
New team to work with (most of whom you like a lot).
New bosses to work for (most of whom you like, some of whom you really don't).
A product you're in charge of that you know somewhat.
A lot of politics.
Unclear boundaries.
Lots of management interference.
Much greater responsibility for no pay raise (the company has a freeze on pay raises just now).
Line management responsibility.
Some travel, mostly to Paris.
Good career move.
More weekly travel into London-an impact on not being able to work from home as much, should I manage to ever get knocked up and not lose it this time.


Option B-

Running a project exactly like the project today, only far less rodent-y.
Working with a team you mostly know already (although they are not the team you lead today).
Working for a new boss, but bosses' boss is still the same (unfortunately).
Running a product you don't know at all.
No pay raise, but at the same time, no interviewing process-the job is yours if you want it, the manager is keen to have you.
Little to no stress.
No politics.
Clear boundaries.
I get to run the project on my own.
A lateral move, in the "career move" scheme of things.
The same amount of travel into London you have today and high flexibility of working from home should I manage to ever get knocked up and not lose it this time.
Some travel involved-mostly Europe, a few America/Japan trips in scope.


Option C-

Moving to a whole new company, to take on the work they have that you already know very well. Exciting company, mostly stable, but with some history of letting people go.


Option C is, for me, really a non-starter. Despite the problems I face, I do actually really like the company I work for-their policies for their employees tend to be great (pay rise freeze not withstanding). Plus, the company I work for now has fantastic maternity benefits and again-should the future rounds of IVF actually work, the company I work for is the best place to be a working mom in, I have no doubts about that whatsoever.

So it's Option A and Option B. I want to reject A simply because taking on that responsibility and not getting compensation for it is crazy-I'm already underpaid. This will make it much worse, the gap is not something that can be closed for many years. Option A is exciting, it's sexy, it's a great career move, but the stress is quite high. Option B is ok, it's a lateral career move, but the stress is much lower although I run the risk of never "succeeding" quite like the project I'm on now managed to do. That in itself is maybe not such a bad thing-I learnt that work isn't everything when I lost my job three years ago, that all the hard work you do is not always repaid in protection.

Maybe this is what happens-you get a choice between career and sanity. I've spent my life being this bizarre driven-chick, wanting to bust through glass ceilings and take on the world but now? Not so important anymore. At the same time, I'm still young enough to do something with the CV, if I want, and while I've never wanted to be a CEO, Option A may me work on something I do care about-products oriented to the female market.

What do I want?

So what do you choose? Option A, Option B, or Option C?

-H.

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September 19, 2006

In Which I Get Cultured

As we do every year, this year Angus and I went to Proms in the Park, which is held in Hyde Park. We've been three years running now and we love Proms in the Park. It's a massive outdoor concert which is held alongside similar concerts in Cardiff, Glasgow, and Manchester, until at the end of the evening we link up with the Royal Albert Hall and party like we're sipping tea with the corgis.

Proms in the Park is always a bit of a mix for me-the music is great. The food we bring is great. We get drunk and sing at the top of our lungs, as everyone in the park does. There's much flag waving, because that's what you do when you're there. We even bring our ridiculous 48-starred flag (someday we'll get one with 50, and we'll pretend that we had Alaska and Hawaii all along).

This year we went with my friend Jim, who happened to be in town. He's the one who's wedding we're going to in November, and he's one of my closest friends. He was at Proms in the Park with us in 2004, too, so he knew the drill.


Helen and Jim


That's him. Nice looking guy, isn't he?

We went over the top on food for the day-we had risotto, mini quiches, sausage rolls, crudite, and I went to the shop that morning to get chicken wings.

It made me feel like I was on drugs.

Me at the Rotisserie counter: Do you have chicken wings?

Her working at the Rotisserie counter: But it's Saturday!

I blinked. What, chickens are allowed to fly on Saturday? The Bible has Saturdays as a holy chicken wing-free day? Am I being punk'd?

I went home with quartered chicken instead.

So we lug great quantities of food with us and settle on the grass. We brought two good friends with us and an incident occurred that I'd like to discuss later, but in general it was a good time had by all. It was, after all, a fabulous, warm sunny day and I got to wear my favorite sunglasses (Angus hates them).


My favorite sunglasses


There was a cover band for Madness (you know, of Our House fame? Our House, in the Middle of the Street? You know that one, right?)

We relaxed more than I thought we could. It felt ok to be outside in the sun, the mood high, the feelings ok. They'd given out free ponchos and rain hats, expecting Proms in the Park to be like last years. Lucky for us, it turned out well, but that didn't stop some of us from trying on the free rain hats.


Angus and the Rain


There was this ridiculous creature named Chico from some show I'd never heard of called X Factor. Our hatred for Chico was immense. Chico took the stage, describing himself as Chicolicious, welcome to Chico Time. Chico offended our ears and the English modesty of the mases-in fact, Chico got booed.

Through it all, despite not enjoying Chicolicious, we enjoyed our picnic blanket and our food.


Helen on the Picnic Blanket


There was a gorgeous soprano named Angela Gheorghiu that made us all stop what we were doing and wonder if perhaps fairies really did prance through the forest. There was a hot trumpeter named Alison Balsom that had all the men imagining her doing naughty things to them (men, blowing a trumpet is a skill. Blowing you off is what we do if we need you to cut the grass.) There were two tenors that made the hairs on the back of our necks stand up.

We were all having a great time.

Then the finale came.

It was dark, and the stage was lit up with light.


Proms in the Park Stage


We were well and truly tanked by then, drinking our boxed wine (no glass allowed in the park. Love you! And I thought of you every time I poured another glass from the carton, and when I did, I snapped my bra strap from beneath my tank top as an homage to your fabulousness!) Everyone around us was pissed, too. We were all singing and laughing and talking-all 40,000 of us taking up a park in central London, and when the finale came on, we forgot all our good taste and common sense and pissed it all away with the chardonnay we'd brought.

The finale had us all on our feet, singing and dancing.

The finale is not someone I would ever, ever listen to, but on a warm London evening with a lot of wine in my system? It had to be done.

We sang at the top of our lungs with Lionel Ritchie (oh my God, I can't believe I just typed those words).

SHUT UP-you'd totally do it too, if you were there.

And if you were drunk.

And if every other single person around you was singing at the top of their lungs, too.

We sang along with his old hits-Dancing on the Ceiling, Hello, and All Night Long. He then sang two of his new albums and pimped his daughter Nicole's new album, and the audience in general was more or less: Fuck your new stuff, if you're going to do that, bring Chico Time back!

So it's true. We got drunk and sang to Lionel Ritchie. We then of course sang the standards-Land of Hope and Glory, Rule Brittania, Jerusalem, Danny Boy, All Through the Night, and the finale, the National Anthem (which Jim and I sang as My Country Tis of Thee really, really quietly, as it's the same tune and there's only so much we can do in those situations without feeling like Benedict.)

We'd felt a bit strange about it at first-we were still raw, and I wasn't very party-mood like, but in the end we came round.


Proms in the Park People


Somehow, we just do.

-H.

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September 18, 2006

My Eyes Are Square

Something that has been keeping me going through all of the past month of hell is sobbing in a fetal position while hideously drunk television. Good, old-fashioned, TV. TV-known here as the "telly", which is a term that I can't bring myself to say-has saved me in many ways.

They have an expression here for kids, in which they tell them that too much TV makes your eyes square. If that's the case, then I'm going to go by "Rubik's" from now on, because the TV has become my soulmate. Books I've been avoiding, because they involve thoughts (but I have some major thanks going out to some people soon for them, I promise, as I'm getting back to bookland now.)

Of course, I kept watching Wedding TV, and Extreme Home Makeover was a good one to stick by, but my choices started running out. I went through all my DVD collections-Firefly, Dead Like Me, Wonderfalls, and 24. I watched the sweet film that Caltech Girl sent me (back in the good days of Steve Martin, before he became the creepy guy in Shopgirl).

But then I ran out of options, and was left to think.

Thinking is bad. Very bad.

So I resorted to regular TV.

First I discovered Scrubs, the ridiculous show with manic characters that has got to be the single biggest brain check-out known to mankind. It was perfect. I watched three whole seasons of it in the space of a weekend. I don't remember a single fucking episode but at least I wasn't sobbing, so hey-win/win situation.

I also discovered the English show here called How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?, a show started up by Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber when the would-be star of his West End November launch of The Sound of Music, Scarlett Johansson, dropped out last minute. He then decided he wanted to cast an unknown and held auditions all across the UK. This show was about exactly that-auditioning who would play Maria in his production. Now, in general, I can't stand reality shows. I could give a shit who America's Next Top Model is. I hope the raft sinks on Survivor. They should nail the door shut on the Big Brother house.

But I fucking loved the Maria TV show.

Two shows every Saturday night in which they would destroy a woman's West End dream-this was the one thing I would be guaranteed to watch. I even became a bit like a sports fan, I would scream and swear and cheer at the TV. They had a hideously haughty Romanian chick that I couldn't stand and when she finally got voted off I screamed and danced with Gorby, singing "Ding Dong, The Romanian Bitch Is Gone" (which both doesn't work and sounds horribly anti-Romanian, which I guarantee you I am absolutely not, I just hated her.) The show ended Saturday night, unfortunately, but I loved it while it lasted.

I have started watching a quirky little show that I really love called A Town Called Eureka (which I think is called in the rest of the world Eureka). It's weird, it's different, and for reasons I can't articulate, I like it even more than I like Pop-Tarts.

It doesn't mean everything I watched was a success. I saw the first episode of Out of Practice and nearly hung myself in the garden after it, it was that terrible. Same goes for Hope and Faith, or Faith and Hope, or Jesus Christ What a Fucking Annoying Show, whatever it was called. I learnt that some TV is so unbelievably desperate it would lead one to yearning for old-fashioned radio TV programmes again (The Shadow Knows!)

We watch Life Begins (but only because we like to imitate Alexander Armstrong and walk around going: "MAG-gaaaaaaay.") We watch the new season of Extras (always rely on Ricky Gervais for the uncomfortable). CSIs got watched, including the Miami one, which makes me feel like I need a shower.

Yesterday, Angus was away and I got a blissful and peaceful day to myself, which I spent watching 9 episodes of Gilmore Girls on our SkyPlus (the English TiVo). It was nice but I have to say-at the end of it, I really hated that whiny little Rory so much it was unbelievable. I usually don't mind Rory. I generally think Rory is ok. But after 9 episodes you really hate that Plato-reading bitch, and have thus promised to limit myself and never have a Gilmour Girls marathon again.

And then the worst thing in the world happened.

I was out of TV again.

Even after my dad came, delivering Desperate Housewives, Lost, and more. I was getting confronted by my thoughts, which is never a good thing, it only leads to endless Googling and more chablis bad thoughts.

But then J came through. She sent me Arrested Development, which came just in time. I breathed a sobbing sigh of relief upon sight of it, I've never heard of the show but it sounds just like my kind of thing.

It came in the nick of time.

I was so desperate I was nearly ready to move on to 7th Heaven*, and we all know what kind of nightmare depression that would've led to.

-H.

PS-this may be the last time I talk about the Bad Times for a while. In our house, we're trying to move on now. Thanks to a plan, more DVDs, and a bracelet, we're doing a good job of it. If you've sent me an email, I'm sorry I've been a shit in responding-I'm nearly back to normal most of the time now. Let's see if we can keep that going?

*If I ever reach the stage where I am so depressed I watch 7th Heaven, Touched By an Angel, or Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, please send intervention immediately.

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September 15, 2006

Today You're Four Years Old

Dear Egg and Bacon,

Today you're four years old. Four years old! This is the last year you get to stay home with me (all giggling faces and sticky fingers) as you start school next year, complete with requisite ties and cardigans. The school is just up the road, and was built over 100 years ago. Gorby and I would walk you both to school in the morning and see you when you come home, where you'd chatter and fill the evening with light.

Four years seems so long ago, and yet I remember much of it like it was last month. Your mommy has had a rough month this month, and I've thought of you often. I've learnt a lot about you, too-you had the shortest maybe life and yet you were a big part of me. I wanted you two more than you will ever be able to imagine-just picture how much you think I wanted you and multiply it by ten million, and you're still nowhere near.

So you're not here, but somewhere you're four years old, and I picture you finger painting. I see Christmas lights reflecting in the expanse of your wide open faces. I smell the corner of your necks and imagine chubby knuckles of hands still learning the fine arts of operating. I open yogurt pots for your pudding, I tell you to be careful with Gorby, who loves you two so much he can't stop following you around to make sure you're ok.

Mommy is beginning to move on now, but in the center of her heart in the place she holds things super tightly? That's where you live. That's where you'll always be.

Today you are four. Today your grandpa is 54. Your grandpa was just here visiting with Mommy, and his visit was so important to her. He took her to Westminster Abbey, where we stood before the nave and didn't say anything. He put coins into a box and handed me candles. I lit three of them, closing my eyes and talking to myself:

To my little Egg, who I never knew.

To tiny Bacon, who never got to be here.

And, for the first time, but never the last:

To Dr. Seuss baby, who nearly was.

I miss you guys so much, and I love you dearly.

When I finished I looked over at Grandpa to see that he was lighting a candle, too.

To my little Egg and Bacon-pull up your socks. Would you like an apple? Let's think about what we shall do today. Maybe we should go wash your hands.

I am not religious but in my mind I see you look like angels.

Wherever you are, I hope it's full of laughter and light.

Wherever you are, I hope you see your little sibling and hold on to them, loving them as fiercely as I love all three of you.

Wherever you are, I hope it's wonderful.

Wherever you are, wait there. I will be there someday. I promise you that.

And when I get there, I will never let you go again.

Love,
Mommy


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September 11, 2006

Never Mind What God Said

Today has been ok.


Gorby and Helen


Still getting there.

-H.

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September 06, 2006

The Up Side of Down

I haven't been very productive, every little thing seems exhausting. There is much to do as well-work continues to hop and we have guests staying with us this weekend and next week so there is much to do along the lines of "good lord, we have to finally get rid of that spider web at the top of the stairs and hide all of our empty wine bottles and where the hell do I stash all the IVF drugs?" in order to get ready. Luckily, on the advice of my couch man, I told two of my closest project managers and friends, and they are helping cover for me until I get my feet back under me, which is ever so slowly beginning to happen now.

My usual sense of awareness has gone as well-I don't notice the details of anything, there hasn't been any texture to anything I think or feel or come across. Everything feels the same, a matte lining draped over every surface. I do remember a few small things-a drop of blood on the skirting board in the gynae ER. The feel of my hand on my stomach as I fell asleep each night, the last night with false hope and lost dreams. Gorby's nose on the side of my neck as he tries to figure out why, day after day, I'm on the couch.

And then there was blankness. I think I drifted in and out of each day, living in a bubble where no one could get in, nothing reached me. I watched a lot of Wedding TV, as Wedding TV was the one area that I was sure to not be confronted with babies and pregnant women. Even my favorite shows were to be avoided-"Grey's Anatomy" has picked up again here (we're behind the States with it) and last week's episode had two heavily pregnant women go into labor. I had to fast forward through those scenes, I just couldn't stick it out. "Lost" has a pregnant Sun. "Scrubs" has Jordan knocked up. I even tried "The 40 Year Old Virgin" as mindless TV until I came across the scene of a sonogram of a giggling baby broadcast throughout a TV shop, which necessitated a hasty switch-off of the TV. It's all too complicated to face, any show can be a minefield, so I'll stick to the Wedding Channel for a while.

I always thought that 5 stages of grief business was a bunch of bullshit, I thought grief is something less tangible, something that couldn't possibly be held within the confines of a simple diagnostic explanation. What is grief? Loss? Pain? Mourning? Recovery? All I know is grief is bad, a specter that stands against the wall and thumps you in the stomach again and again and again.

But lo and behold, for the first time in my life, this 5 stages nonsense has applied. I had the denial, the anger, the bargaining, and the deep depression. I whirled through those stages like a hurricane, dredging and churning and losing every single fucking round to Grief. I fought and I screamed and I ached more than I ever knew I could do, and then I realized my tornado didn't make a dent and I acceded that Grief was the better man. I made him a cup of coffee and he sat next to me, watching endless episodes of Wedding TV, and when one of us adjusted ourselves on the couch the other one made sure that the division of blanket sharing was still equal.

And then yesterday something happened. While watching "Extreme Makeover-Home Edition", Grief and I had a conversation over Ty Fucking Pennington.

Grief: Budge up, your legs are taking up too much space.
Me: I'm feeling cramped. I don't know if there's room enough on the couch for us both.
Grief: I'm only here because you won't let me go.
Me: If I let you go, it'll mean I've moved on. I can't do that.
Grief: Helen, babe-moving on isn't the same thing as forgetting.
Me: I KNOW THAT. I can't forget, I'll never forget. Forgetting is not an option.
Grief: Then what is the issue?
Me: I don't know, ok? I don't know. I don't think it's about how long I've had you here-I don't think grieving is a time-related activity, that in order to show I've really meant it I have to feel this way for x amount of days. Sometimes I feel up only to feel down ten seconds later. I just...I don't know. I just don't know how to move on.
Grief: It's not about choosing how to move on. It's just life, and you find ways to keep living.

I don't know how to respond to this. And then I do.

Me: I think of grieving as a cello case. I've got this cello case, and I'm carrying it around. When the cello case first turns up, I don't know how to carry it, I can't keep it from hitting those around me. But after time, I get the hang of it. I carry the case with ease and people don't even realize it, it's a smooth transition.
Grief: And where are you with the cello case now?
Me: It's in the corner, I'm not walking anywhere with it, I'm avoiding the fucking thing.
Grief: Do you really think that's the case? Aren't you already moving on, planning holidays, next treatment cycles? Aren't you thinking about what to do next?

This makes me pause.

Me: Yes, I am.
Grief: Then what, Helen? What?
Me: I hate telling you this, I really do. I feel so selfish and I strive so hard to never be selfish-my mother used to scream at me that I was selfish when I was a little girl, and to this day I can't bear the term. But I feel so selfish when I tell you that part of my greatest fear is that this was it-this brief pregnancy, what if it's all I ever know? What if it never happens again, and this was my one chance? How can I bear it, how can I let it go, this short time that I knew what it was like to be a mother? If I let it go and I never know it again, the time, it would've been too short. It wasn't enough.

Grief reaches out across the blanket and holds my hand. We sit there quietly.

Grief: I am not the future, I can't tell you if it will ever work.
Me: Gee, thanks.
Grief: I know. I'm unpopular. But I can tell you this-you'll never forget this time. Never. Someday, you will even treasure it. But you can only do that once you move on.
Me: If I'm ready to move on, how will the baby know that I miss it? That I wish the pregnancy worked? That I will never let go in my heart?
Grief: It just knows, Helen. It just knows. You don't have to feel guilty for moving on-it doesn't mean you've forgotten, it doesn't mean you don't care. It's just life. Life has to happen.

I look up at Ty Fucking Pennington and start to cry as I realize: It is ok. I am clear on what happened now. I miscarried and it's all over now. The bleeding has, after 11 days, finally gone. My body is nearly back to normal now, my body has recovered. And my heart? I look around the vast hallways of my file cabinets of emotions and realize that it's beginning to recover too. It's true I lost what I wanted most in life. It doesn't feel like it will ever be ok that this has happened, but I accept that it has happened, and I accept that what happened wasn't my fault and can't be changed.

It's ok.

I keep crying but somehow feel lighter. I stretch out on the couch, which now holds only me. Grief has left and he thoughtfully turned off the TV on his way out. I tell Angus that I have accepted what's happened, that while it's still not ok, will never be ok, it's time to go on. He joins me on the couch and we fall into each other, something we haven't done for weeks as the miscarriage threatened and then as the aftershocks and depression and bleeding came. We are so intense our lips are bruised afterwards but that too was what we needed.

I still prefer Wedding TV, but over time I am hopeful it will get better.

I am still quiet and still don't want to talk to most people (my friend, I missed you terribly and I'm getting there and thank you so much for understanding), but at least I am beginning to see colors and depths again.

I await my bracelet in the mail any day now, and when I get it I will never take it off.

We will keep trying on our IVF journey, for as long as we are willing.

And I will always, always remember the brief little life I held, the one I called Dr. Seuss Baby, and I will love it forever and treasure the short time we had.

But for now life beckons and I have to try to do it, mostly because what other choice is there, but also because Grief takes up too much space on the couch.

-H.

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September 03, 2006

Back Where I Was

When I was 6 years old I heard the term "lost the baby" for the first time. The Grown-Ups were talking in hushed tones that the Strodabacks-our neighbors, she of the big smile-had been pregnant, and then she lost the baby.

My first thought was: How careless of her.

My second was: Maybe it's just in her shoulder. She only thinks she lost it, she just hasn't looked hard enough for it. She'll realize where it went in a few months, when her shoulder gets enormous. Then it'll be ok.

The Strodabacks went on to have two children, one of them a Down's baby.

I don't think anyone corrected me about my theories of losing a baby, it's just something I cottoned on to what losing a baby really meant. 26 years later, I know what losing a baby really means.

I really do.

It's not in my shoulder. It's not because I've been careless. Chances are there was something genetically wrong with the child, and my body took care of the housekeeping itself. Surprisingly, even though I lost Egg and Bacon years ago, this has been harder.

In fact, it has been the single hardest thing I have ever gone through in my life so far, ever.

I haven't been able to sleep without the aid of little blue pills. I have been drinking. A lot. I haven't been eating. The idea of going outside makes me tired, yet I've had to do it.

Yesterday I went to my therapist. It was a rainy Saturday, and Fall has come-sycamore leaves fell to the ground and I pulled my sweater against the chill. There in his Autumn-darkened office I cried like a child. Remarkably, he cried too. I let it all out to the only person besides Angus that I can talk about it with. We went through every detail-from the blood clot the size of my palm that fell out of me, to the afternoon when I curled up on Angus' lap crying that I am simply not strong enough to handle this.

I'm not strong enough to handle this, this is just life, and there is no choice but to keep going.

In my own ways, I am making my way forward. We will try again but unlike the average couple that can try again as soon as the last of the blood dries up, our attempts involve months of planning, endless injections, and surgery. Our babies come to us via IVF, something that makes it all so much more expensive, financially, physically, and time-wise. As a couple, this failure is that much more acute-we had beaten the odds and gotten pregnant on what is called an FET, or frozen embryo transfer. The odds of pregnancy on an FET in England are 16%. We beat those 16% odds, only to trip and fall on another statistic-there was an 80% chance this pregnancy wouldn't miscarry, and that's the hurdle we failed to leap.

It is also what makes it feel one million times more unfair, but the single most important thing I have learnt is that babies don't grace your life on the basis of fair.

To know more of what it feels like to be someone going through IVF, and the best way to know how to handle someone going through infertility, please watch this.

Be careful-it makes me cry every time.

I am handling things in my own way. I have good moments and bad moments. The day of the loss it was so important to me to do something in remembrance, and I really can't explain why it was so urgent, it just was. I have ordered a bracelet that I will never take off once it arrives-it's a silver bracelet with a tiny angel, an angel whose heart is a little diamond. The diamond is the birthstone of April.

April-my birthday. Angus' birthday. The would-be birthday of the little one we lost.

I also appeal to my Asian background and plan on honoring Jizo. Jizo is a Buddhist god who serves as a guardian to limit your time in hell. Jizo is also a protector of the unborn, a protector of expectant mothers but, more than that, he cares for the miscarried and aborted, ferreting them into his voluminous sleeves when the demons creep up the sides of the riverbank. He looks like a happy God, and I entrust the twinkling soul of our child to him.

It's as I told my therapist-I don't need something to remind me of my loss, I will have that for the rest of my life.

I need our embryo-who we saw on an ultrasound monitor a little over a week ago looking healthy and fine-to know that I honor and remember it.

After my session I meet Angus in Foyle's, the greatest bookstore in the world. I find a copy of this book and I read it from cover to cover. Somehow it helped, a salve to an open wound.

I wish I could be back where I was a week and a half ago, a healthy pregnancy and a brilliant outlook.

Instead, I still cry a lot. It still hasn't sunk in and maybe never will. I can't visit the websites of people I know and love. I can't watch anything involving babies or children. We were invited to a barbecue today with a couple we know. It would've been with their little girl, who was conceived via IVF and born when Egg and Bacon would've been, and so we gave our regrets.

I just couldn't do it.

But I am getting there. Believe it or not I am surprisingly optimistic about our next cycles. I may have a hole in the middle of my heart but I do see that there's a future.

I can't talk about what happened but my therapist says I need to let others know. Angus is going to tell our friends what happened, and I told my father and my good friend Jim about it, too. Jim will be here this coming weekend and he's promised that I don't have to talk about it, but how about a drink? My father, I hope, respects my wishes that I don't want to talk about it, as my dad? He's also going to be here in a week, and I haven't seen him since I lost my job at the end of 2003.

You might be tired about me talking about this subject, but it's something I am trying to work through. My blog is the training ground for my thoughts. I need this space, and soon I will need to stop talking about this topic out loud.

I have passed through the grief stages of disbelief (maybe it didn't really miscarry) and anger (I fucking hate everything and everyone). I've done the bargaining with god part. I'm currently still in the sorrow part. My therapist says I'll be up and down for a while, but something that will help me is when my next period finally comes, which after miscarrying can be some time away. I agreed with him, and I have something else to look forward to.

I'm trying.

God knows, I'm trying.

-H.

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