Sharing

The in laws are here and we really didn't want to tell them about the IVF, or at least I didn't want to tell them about it. Seb doesn't really mind if they know, but then he doesn't resent the probing as much as I do. I don't even tell my own mother about the IVF's and I like to keep a low profile during the whole procedure, at least where real life friends and family are concerned.

The last few times we've done ART crap Seb's parents have tended to hang on to each event like it's a really good soap opera that they're dying to see the last episode of. I know from experience that they share details about our personal lives with friends and family and I hate that our news is travelling in circles of people we will one day come across at a wedding or Christmas meal where I'll be the focus of a sympathetic aunt or the fodder for comparison between a cousin who couldn't have a baby for a whole year but finally gave birth because she just relaxed and stopped worrying. Probably the worst thing is that they tend to call a lot with the probing demand of "soooooo...what's the news?" and when the news is bad, we really don't want to share it. When the news is good we don't want to share it either because we know they'll all say "oh that's great!" and it makes me nervous to hear people becoming overly excited about what we see as a fragile success in the venture, and to be honest I feel like it jinxes the whole thing worse than if we'd gone out and bought a lace covered baby bassinette and half a dozen pink onsies with "Angel" scrolled across the chest.

This weekend though there was little way to get around the IVF news what with our tiny living quarters and the fridge being the focal point of all these French stomachs, because whenever something comes out of the fridge all eyes turn toward it like it's some kind of totem god. And so I had to admit that the ziplock baggie was not full of some kind of lavish little imported snack, but was quite simply an antiovulatory cocktail that I'd soon be plunging into my flabby gut, exteriorment. After that admission it didn't even seem worth the effort to mount the dark stairs to mix the drugs in my son's cramped bedroom, so I simply laid it all out and mixed on the dining room table like I do each night while curious eyes followed my every step, darting and saying nothing. I hid in the wc for the actual injection, but when I came out I had injected badly and blood was pooling on the little cotton ball at a somewhat alarming rate so it looked as if every night must be as painful and messy as this. Mother-in-law said nothing and changed the subject to something sunny and cheery and father-in-law started another solitaire game on the computer while I cleaned up the debris of needles, syringes and bloody cotton and tucked all the products back in the fridge.

It's always hard sharing IVF with family and friends who haven't been there already, explaining the details and losing them in the jargon, conveying emotions and dodging the hurtful but apparently well-meant comments of the "I hope you don't end up with quadruplets!" genre. I've heard them all, glossed over them all and decided in the end that it's probably best not to share the news with anyone at all except a select few who have been down the road before. Sometimes though it's unavoidable and I know next week we'll get the same question "sooo...what's going on with the IVF?"

Maybe mother-in-law should just start reading my blog.