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On the face of things, my fertility specialist and hairdresser have very little in common. Their work involves distinctly different regions of the body. Their skills potentially contribute to vastly different outcomes.
Heartbreak on admittedly varying scales can often be the most obvious result of their desire to experiment or use creativity.
At this stage of my life, I need my hairdresser almost as much as I need my fertility specialist. It was never supposed to happen like this.
Today as my state and country observes a National Day of Mourning for the victims of the fires three weeks ago, I find myself launching head-long into a different kind of grief.
Perhaps it is something about disaster that makes us turn our thoughts to new life? However, here thoughts of a baby predated the fires, along with all of a dealings with fertility clinics. The fires helped me to feel that various daily concerns were petty and unimportant. Yet there is one unshakable truth. Our quest for a baby is an important.
This week has brought a stark reminder of how fraught with difficulty the desire to have a baby is for the aged and fertility challenged. With the arrival of every new calendar year comes that gaping sense of hope and possibilities, yet when you are in the midst of an infertility situation that no one (except an ever loving partner) see any chance of success, optimism is normally measured out in small doses.
This year is still in its infancy, yet so far it seems to be about endings.
Lifeslurper has a new home, the old run-down Camp Wobbles is no longer and the most enduring love of my life has gone. Both events coincided, as if to make what was always going to be a painful transition just that bit more straight forward. |
 
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