Isolation and the Curtains
It was around the year 2000, we had ventured into the world of home ownership and a mortgage. The neighbourhood we moved into had a mix of established families and new families, just like us.
We became quite a tight bunch with parties, BBQs and weekend drinks on various driveways or swimming pools. Many a headache was shared by all. It was only a matter of time before us young one’s would start to grow our families. Some might say there was something in the water, within the space of a year, every young family had their first child, except us.
The atmosphere changed as these young mothers and fathers came to grips with their new roles. Mothers finding comfort in each other as they muddled through caring for their first born. Fathers contemplating with each other the change to their lives and wives, over a beer on the drive way, except us.
Our time was spent on the IVF treatment roller coaster, buoyed by the Dr’s ‘You have an 80%’ chance, of success at your current age’.
Little did we know of the toll it would demand, financially, emotionally and of our time. But enthused by our 80% chance, we structured our holiday time around the treatment. Simulating drugs administered at a specific time, to grow those valuable eggs. Regular ultra sounds to track the growth of the follicles in which those egg resided, waiting for the magic measurement to be achieved so the trigger shot can be administered. Regular blood tests checking hormone levels to ensure over stimulation has not occurred. All this time believing we had that 80% chance.
Meanwhile, the babies have grown, the mothers are bonding whilst pushing prams around the park.
Its trigger day, the follicles are mature, it’s time to harvest, so I administer the last injection. From those multitude of follicles we end up with 2 viable eggs.
I can remember coming home after the implantation, feeling numb, I should have been on top of the world, we were going to be one of the 80%. We hunkered down, battened the hatches and closed the curtains to protect and ensure we didn’t take risks. From our protective bunker, we watched the world go by, we watched the mothers strolling with their prams, we watched the fathers struggling to fit the baby capsule in the car.
It was no secret what we were doing, we live an overt type of life. Our neighbours waves developed an apprehensive shudder, almost like they knew we were on tender hooks.
It didn’t work, our neighbours waves became even more hesitant, eye contact began to wane and we kept the curtains closed as we dealt with our pain.
As more failed attempts occurred the divide between us and the neighbourhood widen, through the gap in the curtains we watched parents begin trying to control their children as they chased them around the street.
It is obvious now that as our despair became deeper and deeper, it had an effect on our thinking. Through that hazed filter, that we didn’t realise was there, we can’t help but think why are we being treated differently, we are still the same people, what have we done?
Obviously we have done nothing but highlighted to our neighbours how lucky they were, through our despair. I like to think the poor souls didn’t know how to behave and so retreated to a comfortable place as they themselves dealt with how to navigate their lives around us as we kept the curtains closed.
It is true, this journey is a lonely one, but it’s important to remember that there is good in most people and how you perceive their behaviour is not necessarily what they are thinking.
We constantly had to remind ourselves of this as we waded through our despair and it is one of the lessons I give to you.
We no longer keep the curtains closed.
