A very wise woman once sang: “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.”
Well. So it was Maria von Trapp who sang that and it was probably the film’s producers who came up with that song, not the real person. But for all intents and purposes, that was a very good song. Tea, a drink with jam and bread!
Anyway, off we go!
Ahh, I was reading through my past writing (yes, I love re-reading my own words, am v narcissistic like that) when I came across this one, written before we were married.
I still remember that day well: I was literally sick to my stomach and miserable as hell. I mean, I was puking my guts out the entire night and day! As I slept the day away, he sat quietly at the foot of my bed, doing the geeky things that he is wont to do. Although really, he could be surfing pr0n for all I know. (Kidding! Love you, darling husband of mine) But it doesn’t matter, it felt really good knowing that someone has got my back covered.
This may not be the worst “worse” that we will encounter in our future but right now, his unflinching support while I’m bent over the loo takes the cake.
I wrote that at the end of the post and reading that now, I am sitting here shaking my head at how accurate I was. Really, an upset stomach has nothing on this infertility shit. NOTHING. As in the infertility shit would deliver a killer suckerpunch to an upset stomach in, oh, a milisecond.
I remember reading this study (it’s my Type A personality emerging, I started reading up on IVF as soon as I realised we might be there. That’s also when I received my PhD in Googling). Anyway, back to the study. Apparently, the study results showed that women plagued with infertility show the same stress levels as those battling cancer and HIV. And I thought, NO SHIT, SHERLOCK.
It’s been tough, really really tough. Some days, I don’t want to be around people because I feel like I am existing in a void which nobody can understand. The anxiety, the intense sadness, the money woes, the pain…it’s like the world is spinning and I am left standing there alone.
But I am not. He’s there with me. Sometimes, he can be an arsehole. But then again, he makes me laugh like nobody else can and he picks up after my slack when I feel down in the dumps. In the past few months, he’s really bucked up and done good.
So yes, these times are hard. But we are not giving up on each other.
Oh, hullo there!
Don’t worry, all is fine. I took a little break over the Good Friday weekend and jetted off to exotic Hong Kong. Yes, I am calling Hong Kong ‘exotic’ just because it sounds better.
Anyway, am v v v fat after downing enough siu yuk and siu ngor for a year. But man, those were some delicious fatty meats. Mmm. May no longer be svelte but am definitely still Fabulously Gorgeous. Have also made several bank-breaking Fabulously Gorgeous purchases which leaves me alternating between throes of ecstasy and mind-chomping guilt.
Let me go unpack and I will be back soon.
In my very limited Cantonese, I shall leave you with this gem: ho leng ah!
If you have been following my angsty tweets (poor you), you would have known that I was having the SHITTIEST. WEEK. EVER. at work.
It was BAD. I would go to work reluctantly, switch on my computer and get really mad at all the email I was receiving and then be royally pissed off for the rest of the day. There are days when I enjoy my work but that week was truly testing the limits of my tolerance.
But it all turned sweet on Wednesday afternoon. I got a call from my receptionist, who asked if it was my birthday. Obviously not! Am at ripe ‘ol age of 30, ain’t no spring chicken. Oh and my birthday is in January (hint, hint). So anyway, I said into the phone, Are you sure it’s for me? And my receptionist said, without a hint of amusement in her voice, No, maybe I just can’t read the alphabets.
I love her, she’s really quite funny and sweet.
Off I went to the reception area and lo and behold! A gorgeous bouquet of lilies – my favourite – was sitting there singing my name. After a quick, cursory glance at the accompanying card, yes, the flowers WERE for ME! And they were, contrary to popular notion, not from Mr Thick but from the Squirts! Just because they knew I was feeling bummed about everything.
It melted my sad, cynical heart and I was all ready for a sniffle or two. But of course, my friend the Squirt doesn’t pick up her mobile phone and the sniffles went right back into the back of my eyes.
But that was not all.
During my angriest and most royally pissed off moments, I decided that I was not going to let myself get into such a state during my IVF. After paying through the nose to try and make a petrie dish baby, I was going to make sure that I give it my best shot. I don’t want to have any regrets.
I would take the entire month off from work.
Now, of course there teeny tiny problem of getting my boss’ approval. And I was really hesitant about doing it. Not because she is a tyrant or anything like that, but because I felt awfully guilty about abandoning her. We are a pretty tight two-woman team and she’s already covered my minuscule ass during my recovery from the laparoscopy.
But she was an absolute angel. She smiled and said if this was what I wanted, then I should go right on ahead. There was no hint of irritation that she would have to cover me for the month, no sign of unhappiness. Best part was, she had my back covered and said that all that I had been dealing with was in no way my fault, and that I was doing everything right.
And just like that, the week went from hell to, well, okay. It’s not heaven but with friends and bosses like that, I might as well be on heaven on earth.
Someone made a comment to me recently, that I’ve been posting scandalous things on the blog. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I was being scandalous.
Nekkid bodehs? Don’t have.
Peekaboo cleavage? Ha. HAHAHAHA! Was that a joke? (Note to self: add ‘boob job’ to list of things to do when I turn 40)
Sexy ass? Nope. More like no ass.
And then it hit me: it was all those references to SHAGGING!
But you know, we are MARRIED adults. Goodness, of course we do not engage in frivolous activities like sex! I mean, why shag when you can file your taxes, water the plants, paint your toenails or feed the cats? There are a lot of things that you can do with your time. We are ADULTS after all. Tsk.
We are sensible people with great responsibilities.
Married people don’t have sex, for goodness’ sake.
Don’t believe me? Here is a conversation that Mr Thick and I had recently.
Me: Here, look at this. Are the two lines equally dark?
Him: Hmm. Looks like it.
Me: Okay, I’m ovulating then. We need to have sex. Tonight.
Him: Oh. (pause) Can we have durian first?
Me: Are you mad. Of course not.
Him: Oh. (pause) Can we have durian after then?
So yes, married people DO NOT HAVE SEX.
Now that we have got that cleared up, run along now. Shoo.
Photo by the v awesome Alywin
So despite the fact that it was pissing with rain yesterday, we had a brilliant time at the concert.
Hucks picked me up at 6pm promptly and we were bemoaning the downpour in the car. Bah. Thankfully, the rain subsided after dinner, although we were pelted with rain during the 45-minute queue to get into the grounds.
Of waiting in the drizzle!
Am v patient.
Or not. Apparently I was grumbling at everything and anything during the wait. Well, you would too, if you had to put up with over-enthusiastic singing from kiddies behind you in the queue and intermittent buckets of water droplets from the skies above.
But it was all worth it. The moment we made our way into the grounds, we headed straight to the bar and grabbed a beer each. And you know what, that was actually one of the best things about being at an outdoor gig. Swigging beer, screaming the lyrics along with the band, jumping into the air, sloshing about in the mud and just being generally unglamorous.
There’s just no comparison when it comes to live concerts. The Script was marvelous live: they said the right things, had just the right amount of banter and were absolutely funny to boot. And Danny O’Donoghue was a livewire on stage, he was electrifying and bloody awesome.
We were a bit gutted that The Man Who Can’t be Moved wasn’t the last song as expected but the band did a fab job with Breakeven so it was still good.
Ahh. Fab night after a long day at work.
Next up: Sara Bareilles at the Esplanade!
All photos stolen off of his Facebook.
The past few days have been really, really rough but I am riding it out. Please don’t tell me to think positive, to appreciate what I have in life – I know all that. Sometimes, when you are free falling, you just got to hit rock bottom before you are able to claw your way back up into the fresh air.
I’m fine. I will be fine.
You can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be playing these songs on repeat mode today until Hucksy picks me up. I’m so excited, I can’t wait!
Cos if one day you wake up and find that you’re missing me
And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be
Thinkin maybe you’ll come back here to the place that we’d meet
And you’ll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street
So I’m not moving, I’m not moving
What am I supposed to do
When the best part of me was always you and
What am I supposed to say
When I’m all choked up and you’re okay
You won’t find faith or hope down a telescope
You won’t find heart and soul in the stars
You can break everything down to the chemicals
But you can’t explain a love like ours
Hurrah, I am no longer blue!
The annoying problem with this infertility shit is that it’s full of ups and downs. Well, it’s really down and downer most of the time, the ups are far and few. But anyway, it’s all good. I’m as happy as a lark now.
Oh! And there were those glasses of wine on Saturday night too.
And since I was alone at home, I decided to strut around in my new heels. Yes, even though I was dressed in my sleepwear. Which was Mr Thick’s cotton ribbed wifebeater. See, he’s an XL and I am an XS and when I wear those shirts, they transform miraculously into my nighties. And they are super comfy to snooze in.
So picture this. Me in a ginormous wifebeater. Putting my legs up on the coffee table with a glass of wine in hand and a pair of super sexy heels. With the footy match on the telly. Really, really glamourous.
It’s my secret single behaviour.
Then on Friday, I made Miss Vivaglammed bring up her new blinged out Miu Miu heels for me to see. I love them! They are absolutely obnoxious and crazy comfortable. Methinks I will get a similar pair too.
My legs look v praying mantis-ish here. (Yes, that’s my little foot stool under the table.)
I know, what a terrible way to start a letter to You, right? But honestly? This SUCKS.
First, the Universe decides through some random cosmic lottery that I am not able to simply shag and reproduce. Then, this black, misty Loneliness bitch sets up shop in my heart and refuses to go away. And if that is not enough, I see babies everywhere, the way the poor kid in The Sixth Sense sees dead people. And we know how well that went.
Yes, rub it in, will you? Do you know that this Loneliness fellow is such a frigging drag? He is so elusive, so difficult to weed out. I try to stuff him in some dark and damp crevice of my heart and yet he manages to stealthily escape the confines. He’s also a nasty nasty fellow, that Loneliness, appearing at the most inopportune of moments. I could be looking into the mirror and feeling all wretched about my appearance when suddenly, the door bursts open and he pirouettes in, singing, WHY HELLO THERE! HAVE YOU SEEN MY PRETTY SHOES? I tell him to fuck off but NO, he sticks persistently by my side. ALL THE FRIGGING TIME.
I am beginning to think that You don’t like me one bit.
Some days, I just want to be by myself with a glass of wine. And then I would look up into the sky and think, So how? Tell me? But I don’t get any answer from you. Oh, it’s okay, I’ve just been going through 12 months of hell, THAT IS ALL.
Erm, yes, I might be a tad angry.
I’m tired of this endless routine of cycles. Of waiting. Of clinics. Of vajayjay cams. Of being a hormonal GM cow. Of being angry. Of pretending to be happy. Of bloody Loneliness being my constant companion. Of the regular wrenches you throw into my life.
And more importantly, I am frigging tired of being sad. Of tears springing into my eyes on the bus. When someone texts me something heartfelt and warm. When I am sitting at the hospital by myself. When a sad song plays on my iPod.
Just when I have reached the stage where I am comfortable with myself and confident of who I am, I have to deal with this infertility shit. Is this some sort of mental Herculean test? Cos if it is, I ain’t wanting no part of it.
Also, please, can I have my money back?
I need it for the IVFs and Botox.
I have no idea what I am doing or where I am going. I need to see the light soon. I need some answers.