Severe unworthiness and an achy back passage

If you’re wondering why I sound so lackluster when you call me, I thought you might like to hear about the side effects of the drugs I’m on. (Actually, Geohde, who is much cleverer and funnier than I, has already blogged about this, so skip straight to her account if you like. And Geohde, sorry for the copy-cattery, but for my nearest & etc – i.e the one subscriber to my blog – it may be edifying.) IVFers will be able to pinpoint my place in the cycle with, well, pinpoint accuracy, and we all know it’s a dreary and interminable place to dwell.

Anyway. The side effects are divided into very common side effects and merely common side effects:

Very common side effects

  • cramps, abdominal pain, perineal pain (around the genit*ls and back passage)
  • headache
  • breast enlargement or breast pain
  • feelings of severe sadness and unworthiness, decreased se.xual drive, sleepiness, feeling emotional
  • constipation, nausea
  • passing urine at night
  • Common side effects

  • bloating, pain
  • dizziness
  • va/ginal discharge, itching of the va/ginal area, va/ginal thrush
  • diarrhoea, vomiting
  • painful se/xual intercourse
  • The don’t have “Occassional side effects”, although I would suggest:

  • invisible doctors replacing all muscles with lead rods during night
  • completely rigid neck muscles combined with a certainty that something sinister is hovering directly behind head
  • overwhelming desire to cuddle labrador, indeed to feel lousy except when cuddling labrador, and not just any labrador, but this particular labrodor*
  • hickstongue350.jpg

  • complete lack of interest in the result of a long-anticipated election, because all politicians seem to be snarling at each other from the boundaries of things, and it’s very depressing to searching like a desperado for points of difference
  • a sudden overwhelming revalation that one’s most excellent partner has made entirely the wrong choice in his romantic life. (Actually, I guess “unworthiness” kind of covers that.)
  • And on that, it’s “feelings of severe sadness and unworthiness” that’s my favourite. So specific. Not feelings of “severe sadness and Satrean alienation” or “feelings of severe sadness and moral confusion” or “feelings of severe sadness and conviction that the lack of democracy in selecting the UN Security Council has long been the organisation’s death warrant”? No, none of that. Unworthiness.

    And, really, how many of these symptoms could simply be replaced with, “Shagging? I don’t think so, little lady”? Actually, the fact that I have to squeeze this medication up my clacker right before bedtime had already dampened my enthusiasm in the frilly knickers department. Considerably.

    ______________________________________________________________________________
    *Which is sad symptom for people without access to this particular labrador to suffer.

    Published in:  on 2 November 2007 at 10:33 am Comments (5)

    “Freud was out of his fucking mind. He was as nutty as could be.”

    Dr Albert Ellis on, well, Freud obviously.

    Albert Ellis was my first therapeutic love. He was an American psychiatrist who invented rational emotive behavioral therapy (REBT) – basically the psychological process we now call cognitive behavioral therapy, or CBT. My parents, cleverly spotting a brewing nuttiness (Dad is a psychiatrist and Mum a GP), gave me his Guide to Rational Living when I was about eighteen, and jolly helpful I found it too. I made a fist of my 20s, but I think the whole debacle would have been far worse without Albert Ellis.

    I also admired Antony Kidman, an Australian Ellis disciple, who wrote an excellent series of workbooks that they used to sell in ABC shops. Tony is Nicole’s dad. I always thought he must’ve found Tom Cruise’s incendiary ideas about psychiatry particularly distasteful. Cause, you know, they are.

    Dr Ellis started out as a psychoanalyst in the 1940s, but later decided childhood trauma has “nothing to do with the price of spinach,” and came to the conclusion that headlines this post. So he thrust off Freudian chicanery, and, by 1955, he’d outlined his ABC method, where A is the Activating Event, B is the beliefs we hold about that event, and C are the Emotional Consequences of our idiotic and delusional Bs. So, for example, A is the fact that our first IVF cycle was cancelled*, B is me extrapolating from that that my second cycle will be identical, and C is a debilitating, self-pitying despondency.

    = my bad.

    Alternatively, A is the fact that our first IVF cycle was cancelled, B is me thinking that was a weird-arse aberration given my general excellence in all matters and complete inability to fail, and C is me feeling expectant and ecstatic standing in a freshly painted nursery gleefully throwing baby clothes in the air.

    Also = my bad. But see how different Bs create different Cs? Obviously, as Sir James Chettam can confirm, the proper way of thinking is the reasonable way.

    I wrote to him once. (Albert Ellis, not Sir James, who’s fictional.) I wrote him an email, and he answered it immediately, probably because it was about 1992 and there were only, like, four emails produced that year worldwide. I was going through my Sartre phase (yeah, whatever) and it struck me that in fact it was pretty much the same reasoning. Something happens in the world, and we must intellectually and emotionally position it somewhere, and because we are free, we are free to position it where we will. As that most famous of all nutters, Hamlet, says, “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” It’s always puzzled me that people find this nihilistic, when I think it is the very opposite – it’s the very foundation of real virtue. Anyway, I wrote to ask him what the difference was between REBT and existentialism, and he wrote back and said good question, very little, and I was chuffed. I kept that email for ages, but I’ve lost it now.

    These days, in the US, more than two-thirds of therapists follow some kind of variant on REBT.

    Ellis

    Did everyone really notice that collar and tie? And how come genius crackpots always have greasy hair? Cause it makes their brains juicier?

    Hmph.

    Anyway, I was thinking about Albert Ellis today, because, fearing I was going out of my fucking mind, I went to see one of the counsellors at the IVF clinic. What a goddamn waste of time. It’s not that the conseller wasn’t lovely; to be sure, she was sweet and chockers with empathy. But – and perhaps I’m too demanding – but there was no stretch or challenge to it. Everything I’m feeling is entirely normal, apparently. In fact I knew that, but I wanted to talk about it all the same.

    Anyway, it was futile. What helps me is the hilarious, sophisticated types on the IVF blog network. What helps me is hearing Melvyn Bragg explain about Socrates had to say about virtue. What helps me is imagining Albert Ellis, at four, in hospital with nephritis, saying, “If I die, I die. Fuck it, it’s not the end of the world.”

    ____________________________________________________________
    Heavily referenced in this post: A New Yorker article about Ellis on his 90th birthday. There is much more to be said about Ellis. He was a brilliant practitioner, but he got the sack from, ironically, the Albert Ellis Institute. He married his assistant, who was Australian, and who they say controlled him, although people who knew him well seem to find that unlikely. Seriously, you should google him.

    *I haven’t mentioned this before, but, yeah, didn’t work out. That was a bad week – more on all that later.

    Published in:  on 20 October 2007 at 12:02 am Comments (6)

    Actually, we don’t have world enough and time.

    Years ago, my boyfriend got in trouble with his then-girlfriend for an Insensitive Joke. It was Valentine’s Day, he was on a radio panel on ABC local radio, and the question was: “What price love?”

    “$6.90,” Simon volunteered. “That’s what I paid for a single stem rose earlier. Should get me off the hook.”

    On the other end of the ether, Simon’s girlfriend got hopping mad. She felt that it underrepresented Simon’s regard for her. She knew most of the other panel members. Basically it just gave her the shits.

    Life moves on. They broked up, we got it on, not least because we both regard $6.90 for a single stem rose as a bit of a bargain, frankly. Within a year, I was finally ready to shrug off the I’ve-got-heaps-of-time-might-just-go-travelling-even-though-I’m-nearly-30 me, and the I-would-think-about-kids-but-I’m-a-still-a-kid-myself-despite-being-slighty-over-30 me, and the ok-sure-I’m-34-now-but-oops!-I-don’t-have-a-boyfriend me, and – true to my sex and demographic – DEMANDED we try to get pregnant right away. I was, by then, 36 (geriatric, in obstetric terms). Simon agreed, understanding enough to seem empathetic and dishy but grumpy enough to seem take-charge and manly.

    We never did get pregant, though, and after about two years I started wondering why. (Simon had, by then, forgotten about it.) My wondering led to all sorts of tests. Which led Simon to all sorts of other tests, some of which he would have happily been marked “absent”, even if it meant failure, which says something, because he’s very conscientious.

    Which leads us to the question, what price baby?

    $2,527. Plus the anesthetist’s fee.

    It appears Simon and I can’t conceive naturally, so we going to do IVF – to be precise, a particular type of IVF called ICSI. Our problem is Simon’s sperm is really quite retarded and fairly solitary in nature. (Those chips off the old block.) With ICSI, they find one particularly athletic sperm and inject it straight in to the egg, which they have – the idea is – previously extracted from me. We hope to get pregnant this way. We have a few things going for us and a few things not going for us. On the plus side, male infertility is easier to deal with than female infertility. I’ve had every test known to womankind and my insides look ok. On the minus-sign side, I have just turned 39. These are old crone eggs, well past retirement age. Frankly, they were thinking about a nice little unit in Noosa. A little back from the beach, where prices are better. Now I’ve come barging in, expecting them to don hotpants and act 25 again. “Oy vey!” they say. (My eggs are Jewish, for some reason.)

    Our plan is to give it a red hot go, then in true Aussie fashion give up if it doesn’t work. In which case we fully plan to go on and have a ball doing other stuff. Really, I don’t want to make it in to a big thing – I know this happens all the time: the infertility bit, and the IVF bit, and the potential pregnant bit and the potential childlessness bit. Everyone is at least one of those things. I’m just telling you.

    Anyway. Fingers crossed for us. It starts soon. End of the monthish.

    MESSAGE TO MY MATES
    In posting this information, I rely on you to NEVER ASK ME ABOUT IT UNLESS I BRING IT UP. (Simon may feel differently. Ask him.) I will let you know if there’s any developments. I don’t mind talking about it but I’m thingy about people asking. Not that I blame them/you/whatever. I’d ask; I’d totally ask. But I’ve learnt how it feels from my side, and from my side, it’s like, if I had something for you, I’d give it up. It’s a slow and difficult process – and there’s really no interesting development except “Would you believe it? I’m pregnant”.

    I say all this knowing that YOUR [think of yourself here] sensitivity and enormous insight would preclude YOU [ditto] from any vulgar behaviour, but just explaining my thingyness.

    And thanks in arrears and in advance to those who’ve answered a call from me just to hear shuddering sobs, or have listened or will listen to much medical and emotional detail. Preciate it.

    Published in:  on 7 August 2007 at 11:18 pm Comments (2)