Posts Tagged ‘ Failure ’

It’s Going To Hurt – Poem

Peering over the edge and all I see is dark,
Carefully I lean, trying to see the bottom,
It’s all black.

Deep down there, anything could be alive,
Or dead. All I need is to cross the small gap,
I can do it.

The grass doesn’t grow this close to the edge,
Nothing grows within the darkness despite the dank,
It’s just rock.

Crumbling rocks underneath my bare feet,
My toes grip around the dusty remnants,
Long since gone.

Deep slow breaths, building my courage tall,
Close my eyes and just have faith that I,
Will make it.

Flying over the edge, my wings make me soar,
Over the darkest hole and I can see freedom,
Almost touching it.

Burning like Icarus under the heat of the sun,
I plummet and fall, fingers wildly grasping out,
Hold on tight!

The grass is dead, the rocks are weathered,
They break and fall apart under my grip,
Falling down. Down.

Further and further into the dark, lower and lower,
There is no sun, there is no light, there is no life,
Except for me.

Rushing of air as I fall far too fast deeper down,
Soon enough I must reach the bottom, crashing,
Crunching flat.

Regularly on this journey I do travel, wandering,
On the past few, I’ve made it to the other side,
Without any harm.

Not for a while have I plummeted so far down,
To come out on the other side of the world,
And begin again.

Yearning to take flight with outspread wings,
The breeze against my face as I soar higher,
Not fall lower.

The fall is not so lifeless as body parts reach out,
Bloodied stumps point out, lifeless eyes search,
Looking down on me.

Disembodied voices laugh and cackle loudly,
Echoing in the barren air, bursting my drums,
All in my favour.

The Haves stare down, revealing their flights,
Parading it around without a care in the world,
For the Have Nots.

They made it across the voids, made it higher,
Fleeing their nests and becoming a Have,
I remain Not.

Just as the flower wilts without the water,
I, too, am losing my petals, my feathers,
For the Flight.

The darkest bottom is fast approaching,
This time is going to hurt,
I know it.

© 5th July 2011.

Advertisements

Nanny Won’t Mind

I got awoken this morning, not by the usual weekend shouts of two children who cannot possibly play quietly in a bedroom alone together. Nor did I get awoken by the semi-usual shouts of my mother as she calls for her foster children to get upstairs to get washed and dressed.

No this morning I got awoken by my husband informing me that the foster kiddies had trashed their bedroom.

So up I got to inspect the damage.

Yesterday, the three of us adults in the house (my mum, my husband and me) had rearranged their bedroom to give them more room to play and potentially keep all of their toys out of my mum’s living room. Not that they’re ever really here to play with their toys as they spend 5 out of every 7 days with Dog’s grandparents.

All they really do at our house is wake up (optional trashing of the bedroom), have breakfast, get washed and dressed and then over 8 hours later of playing and getting treated, they get dropped off, attempt to calm down, have a bath and then go to bed.

Not that trying to get Cat to go to bed is anything easy. Either Cat corrupts Dog, coercing the sibling into playing, or Cat just refuses and sits on the hall landing until finally someone carries them to bed.

After carefully planning their bedroom for a bit of nicer Feng Shui and with the vain attempt that by playing in their bedroom on a morning, they might not wake my mother up at 6am, we put them to bed in it last night without the usual problems from Cat.

That should have been the first warning sign.

Fair play to them, the toys leading to quieter play had kind of worked. Until they decided to fill their toy cups etc with water from the bathroom and near flooded their room. There were toys strewn across the room, the rug was soaked, the hand towel in the bathroom was soaked and the newly moved furniture had moved. And we’re talking chest of drawers here!

At least they had been playing quietly though.

Except one of them (we’re leaning towards Cat) had knocked/grabbed/I-don’t-know-what one of the many photo frames adorning the walls. These frames are simple clip frames (about 6 in total) and all filled with photos of my mum’s previous foster children. These frames have all been up for the past year and a half that the kids have been living with us with no problem whatsoever.

What my mum had initially seen was simply that the frame was missing from the wall and the photos strewn across the room. What I then quickly discovered that the entire sheet of glass from the frame was shattered into many sharp little pieces. Thankfully this was behind the chest of drawers.

Oh, wait, it was that chest of drawers that the children had attempted and succeeded in moving slightly.

It was a potential disaster waiting to happen.

In all of the years that mum’s been fostering, never has she seen this sort of destruction. In the 18 months these two have been living with us, we’ve seen them destroy almost every single toy they’ve ever been given, but we’ve never seen this. We’ve seen them climb across everything to get to toys, or just because the sofa’s bouncy and “fun”.

It’s the confusion of visiting grandparents who don’t know them well enough at all for entire days, but who don’t act like the parental units they’re hoping to become. In the end it’ll bite them in the bum when they fail to control Cat and Dog if they get granted Special Guardianship. It’ll bite them in the bum when, in ten years, they have two unruly teenagers on their hands.

It’s difficult to not get angry and frustrated with these kids, but it isn’t their fault. They have no idea whatsoever what’s going on. But I can tell you one thing that’s for sure, it’d be easier if the Grandparents stopped acting like grandparents 5 days a week. Children need rules, restrictions, routine.

How do I know that the Grandparents aren’t instilling these three Rs into them? Because when being told off about the state of the bedroom one of the children responded with “Nanny won’t mind”.

What hurts most, other than the ruined photos of children we tried to help over the years, was that it was Dog that said it.

~ Persephone M

Still Going

With all my slacking on this blog, I’ve realised that there’s been nothing really on here about my attempts to conceive for over a week and that my TTC posts are pretty infrequent. But also possibly the most frequent element of this site.

Back in June I had an appointment with the Fertility Doctor to discuss my laparoscopy I had back in March and then what we would move forwards with. I’m of the right age to have IVF for free, or I can pay for IUI.

We decided and were waiting for hospital appointments. I might be going a bit silent on the TTC front for a while to “cover up” for when I have treatment (we decided on IUI). This is because people in the Real World that I consider friends and family read this blog and I couldn’t have them knowing everything as it was happening.

I’ll probably look through my back catalogue of TTC poems I wrote last year and post them along with other random posts.

Please stick with me during this journey. I might avoid discussing it for a bit, but I will blog and post after the event. I just can’t have my friends know what day I’m going for the insemination and them wondering alongside me during the amped up 2 week wait until I can take that test. I’d love for you to all be able to make the journey with me, but it’s going to have to be something that’s delayed for all you bloggers.

Needless to say, I’m still trying and failing every month, but hopefully science can help me pass.

~ Persephone M

Too Many Cooks

My last post on the foster kiddies we have was one written in frustration at social services who can’t seem to communicate or even make logical decisions. Until we discovered the true extent of the issues with the court hearing and how everyone involved had been mislead (because the grandparents, parents and us as the foster carers believed the case would be over and done with by now), the majority of my frustration on the matter was actually with the grandparents.

They are the prosepective soon-to-be special guardians of the two youngest children, the two that my family foster. Now, the children’s family is kinda complicated. There are three children, all under the age of 6 and each with different fathers. The eldest, 6 year’s old, is going to be allowed to move in with her father with whom increasing contact has been occurring in the past year and contact with the mother is agreed upon; I’m not privy to the frequency, but both parties (parents) have agreed. Nothing has been decided about contact between this eldest child and the two younger siblings. Which is something I find frankly disgusting of social services.

Meanwhile the two youngest, 5 and 3, are being considered to live with the youngest’s grandparents. Of course, them having different fathers means that the grandparents are not related to both children. I’m sure lots of you think that its fine because it happens a lot in step-families, but it’s not that simple at all.

For ease, I’m going to refer to the two kiddies as Cat and Dog. I mean nothing disrespectful to either, but Dog is cuddly and loyal, loves eating and has the biggest, wettest, soppiest kisses ever. Cat, on the other hand, can function fully on their own, doesn’t form attachments and can perform to the crowd to seem completely different and lovable, but will scratch you at the first chance. So, Cat’s older and the grandparents involved are not Cat’s, they are Dog’s. I repeat though, that it doesn’t necessarily matter that there’s no blood linking them because it happens all the time in the modern step-family. As long as everyone involved loves the children, that’s all that matters.

Until you realise that ever since Cat’s father arrived back on the scene (he’d been absent Cat’s whole life and Dog’s father was the active father for both), Dog’s father said he was only interested in Dog. Some might find this harsh, that for 3-4 years this man had been the one and only father both children knew and now he’s turning his back on the one that isn’t biologically his. In his favour, he knew that the biological father was on the scene and wanted to get to know Cat. He also knew that his chances of getting custody of his child was easier than custody of both. It may not have had anything to do with not loving Cat, at least that’s how I see it – he did it *for* Cat.

Yet Dog’s grandparents are still seeking Special Guardian status of Cat. Every other day the grandparents get both kiddies for 7 to 8 hours where all they seem to do is take them out and visit cousins and other family members. There are two main problems I can see with this. Firstly, there’s no guarentee that the grandparents will get guardianship, so all these people they’re spending days with, they might net ever see again. Obviously, they’re also not even related to Cat and most of them aren’t biologically related to Dog because grandmother is his step-grandmother and the “cousins” are hers biologically. This just leads to complete confusion and exhaustion for the kiddies, being paraded around 101 people every other day.

The second main problem with this is that the grandparents are spending the days acting as grandparents and having fun with the kiddies. How are they getting to know them in normal circumstances, mundane day-to-day routines if the grandparents are being fun? As Special Guardians, they cannot be grandparents, they have to be parents and at some point they have to face this reality and not just spend 8 hours a day treating them to family day trips.

Last week, Cat was finally able to have a second visit with their father, because social services keep failing to arrange the meetings which is awful given that Dog’s dad no longer “wants” Cat (I say “want” because I honestly believe he’s doing it for virtuous reasons and if Cat’s father were not on the scene, he’d still “want” her). We informed the grandparents of this and they were totally shocked. They had no idea that Cat’s father was involved, that if they get Guardianship he’ll be involved along with the mother. They had no idea that their own son did not “want” Cat. Will they still want Cat if their own son doesn’t? Why should they try and keep their son’s family together by having both of his children when, as far as he’s concerned, his family is only Dog?

And his new child that Dog isn’t even allowed to know about as per the Word of Social Service Gods, yet they can be introduced to a different “cousin” every day, but not Dog’s own half-sibling. I have no idea how the grandparents are keeping that to themselves, perhaps because they have nothing to do with their son (there’s clearly little communication) and maybe the only reason they want Guardianship of Dog (and Cat) is to get one over on their son.

I fear that if they decide they don’t “want” Cat, because their son doesn’t, that Cat will be heartbroken upon losing Grandmother, Pop and all the new cousins. Especially if the grandparents are successful in getting Guardianship of Dog because then Cat will lose Dog, too.

The Social Service Gods should really have placed more rules and guidelines on everyone involved so that even more people didn’t get involved. These two kiddies are going to become even more scarred by all of this.

~ Persephone M

A Realisation of Peace

I read a post a few weeks back by the Stork Whisperer and it really stuck in my mind. She’s on over 30 cycles, 33 she said, and she questioned how for all of those cycles she had questioned God and asked him to answer her prayers. It has become clear to her that He has been responding. Every cycle. And she seemed, in her blog, a bit despondent but perhaps realistic. She had no idea what the next step really is or how move on, maybe.

What I have taken from that, being on about 33 cycles (mine are all unassisted so far), is a realisation. Now it may only be a realisation until the inevitable hormonal drop, but right now it’s as if that blog helped me have an epiphany of sorts. It may not have been her intention, it may bring her no relief, but nonetheless her blog has helped me

I’m not overtly religious. I like to think that there’s something out there, but I have no idea what. I don’t pray. I like to think that,if there is someone in control, he’s already made the plan so there’s nothing to pray for. I guess it’s what others call fate.

My life and my future is all already decided and it hasn’t yet been time for me to have a child. Maybe it just is not in my future. Or maybe it is but it’s all already decided. The Stork’s realisation that God has been answering her pleas, just not with the answer she wanted, has made me realise that there is nothing I can do any differently; my fate and future is already decided.

So right now I feel calm, all epiphanised and relaxed, living my life without the overhanging feeling of failure and expectations.

But whether that feeling and peace will last, only the hormones can decide!

~ Persephone M

And the day starts…

Oh my gods, old and new, today is starting as bad as yesterday ended. Let’s catch you up a bit. I’m off away for the weekend to have tea at the ritz with friends for our 30th year. It was all fine even after spending ages searching for my camera cable to clear off a memory card.

Until I tried on the dress I bought especially for it. It was a bit too tight. It’s all my own fault: my lethargy in the weeks following my surgery let me eat a whole bunch of junk. I thought it would be ok until my husband then pointed out that the security tag was still in it. By was I mean is ‘cos there’s no way of removing it myself.

So I decided I’d pop to the shop before getting my train and try and convince them I’m not a shop lifter. No, I don’t still have the receipt.

And then I woke up this morning to take my temperature. For anyone who doesn’t know, recording your basal body temperature first thing on a morning can help indicate once your body has ovulated. It took me ages to find a thermometer I liked and this morning I dropped it, creating an irremoveable air bubble. Perhaps it could have been fixed except I became hysterical and then…

Then I dropped the damn thing in my cup of tea and essentially tried to poison myself.

So the hysterical tears continued.

I alter my diet to conceive. I wake up early to take my temperature to conceive. I book amazing holidays, days away and sights to see to hide the fact that I’m lacking the one thing I want. I basically overcompensate in other areas of my life to try and be less of a failure, less useless and irrelevant. When those things start to wrong, I falter.

I can’t do this anymore. My own overcompensation, high standards, and methods to cope simply make it worse when it goes wrong and proves that there is absolutely nothing within my control. I desperately want to go back to bed and ignore the celebrations for my 30th birthday, hide in a hole.

But I can’t.

But I have found another new dress in my wardrobe so as long as I can lose the desire to cry everything will be fine.

For now.

~ Persephone M

Coming Clean

I had an email from a friend today about general stuff and they mentioned that they hoped I was okay, they’d seen some stuff on facebook. Taking it to mean the whole hospital stay, I found myself having to explain by email, to a guy, about my fertility issues.

I think there have only been two other males that I had to tell – both at work. One I mumbled something about “Because I want to know why I can’t have children” which isn’t fully accurate, the word can’t should perhaps include at the moment. He did actually say the sin of: You can have mine, I smiled and continued working because he didn’t mean it like that. He had no idea what to say and, unless he’s ever spoken to someone with medical problems in that area, he’s not going to know how silly it was of him to say what he did.

I’m quite an odd person and truly wanted to email my friend: I had surgery to determine if my girlie bits/baby making bits are okay.

I didn’t because I wasn’t sure how that would sound in an email. I’ve said those words out loud to certain people but have always made a little laugh or changed subject afterwards. It’s kind of enough that people know there’s a problem (or we have concerns) and I don’t neccesarily need to talk about it with everyone. I don’t need to go into detail with everyone that every single pregnancy announcement I hear hurts. Most of my female friends would possibly assume that, but would my male friends? Especially as the friend in question is quite a few years younger than me so really should never have experienced anyone having infertility around him.

I have to say, though, that it does feel really good Coming Clean. It was how I described it in the email and it’s true. It’s like I was hiding this terrible secret, that there was something so shameful about me that I had to hide it from everyone. Is that how other people dealing (or not dealing) with infertility feel? Is it because it’s about womanly bits? Is it because most people know what’s associated with cancers, with diabetes, with eczema, but not many know what comes with infertility?

But it shouldn’t be something that people feel wrong, bad or ashamed to talk about. Despite all that I try to do to within my lifestyle to increase my fertility (diet, drinking, etc), I have not done anything to be infertile. Some people have to make up the smaller percentage that take the 3, the 4, the 5 or the more years to conceive. Just because the majority of people fall into the first three years, somebody has to take longer. So if I did nothing wrong, why keep it a secret, why feel ashamed?

Because, quite simply, it’s failing. My body, somehow, is failing me. Or my husband’s is failing his, but it doesn’t really matter: Our bodies are failing us. And aren’t most people geared to keeping their failures a secret? To being ashamed because they failed? Except infertility isn’t a test where revision can help you pass. Sure, there are things that I can do to help me succeed, but I think I’m pretty much doing them.

And unless people start discussing it without being ashamed of their dirty little secret, other people will never know about it. If most people conceive within two years of trying and however many of them never question their ability to conceive before that point, what would they know about infertility?

So, that morning I was rudely awoken in the hospital after my laparoscopy (because I hadn’t been to the toilet, when I had), I decided to stop hiding, to stop keeping secrets and being ashamed. If it makes people feel awkward when they ask me “Where were you last week?” “Having surgery to see if my baby making bits are okay”, then I’m sorry, but I’m not hiding my dreadful secret from everyone anymore.

My body’s still failing, but it’s not a secret anymore.

~ Persephone M