Blog #9 – Back in Canada / a Progress Update…

It’s good to be home.

Home, where my thought’s escaping..

Home, where my music’s playing..

Home, where my love lies waiting..

Silently for me

Simon & Garfunkel (and Dorothy, for that matter) were on to something when they sang about Home. Life on the road is an adventure, and India was a series of experiences… but there’s no place like home…

Our kitties were glad to see us!  So were my parents – not only because we made it home in one piece – which is always a bonus – but because they kicked out the kitty sitter, Leigh, long before our return.  In her absence, Mum assumed double duty by twice daily visiting our place to feed our furry friends and make sure they were alive and meowing. Little did we know that our kitty sitter had gone AWOL the week before our return…

Before I launch into Leigh the Liability… first an update on our pregnancy situation.

We’re waiting.

Like the Twelve Days of Christmas (WATCH THIS – it’s funny… Indian-style Christmas Cheer), our new job is to wait twelve loooooong days from when they implanted the four little M & B embryos into lucky Surrogate #3, Leena.  We’re on about Day 9…. We should know on Tuesday or so (Dec 21), depending how long it takes them to do the blood test and get results. It’s India – we expect a delay.

Back to Leigh.

Mum kicked her out. Why? Because one day she came down to water the plants – that was her ‘cover job’, to keep an eye on our place … something didn’t feel right about Leigh before we left, but we couldn’t put our collective finger on it – and had to step over a person lying prostrate at the front entrance, fumbling through her bag for a key. Mum shook her head, asked if she was ok and continued on to our place. She’d pre-arranged to meet Leigh, so Leigh was expecting her. Mum knocked, no answer, knocked again – she finally let herself in. All the lights were on, TV blaring, fire on.. Leigh was nowhere to be seen. Ten minutes later, in stumbles Leigh – Sidewalk Exhibit A – with a fellow that mum could only describe as a “very credible Jesus look-alike” (long beard, long hair, loose baggy clothes) … you get the picture.

Leigh was plastered – stoned and/or drunk.

Mum doesn’t see Red often, but that night twelve shades of it exploded like a bomb..

She was SO kicked out. For the record, it wasn’t just that one incident, there had been others – but this was the icing on the Kitty Sitting cake.

FAST FORWARD –  Three days ago.

I was in the back alleyway behind our townhouse, about to take the garbage out. En route to the bins I stopped to fixed the wonky Christmas lights on our back fence.  Along came a street guy, pushing an old rickety bicycle, complete with a two-wheel cart.  The contraption was overflowing with bottles, pop cans, bags and stuff he kept as his “home”.

“Nice lights”, he said.

“Thanks very much”, I replied.

“I think you have a beautiful place”, he said.

“Oh… thank you”, I replied.

“I like your little kitties… hmmm.. what are their names… oh, Pogo and Penguin. Penguin can scratch, though..”

Pause, on my side. I stopped and turned to look at him full-on, “Oh, you know our cats?”

Big toothy smile on his face, genuine.. “Oh yes, I’ve come to visit them quite a bit. You’ve been away, in India I think it was – right?”

No words. Brain quickly scanned 40-years of word inventory for a response – no results found.

Pregnant pause.  I looked at this man… mid-forties, dressed in grubby jeans, soiled sneakers and a very old, well-worn blue Taiga jacket, “How do you know our cats..? What do you mean you ‘came to visit’?!”

“Oh yes”, he exclaimed with glee. “You see, I know your cat sitter… what’s her name… (“Leigh?” I whispered).. That’s right, Leigh.   Yes, I’m her boyfriend”.

Ok, we’ll end that episode there. Suffice it to say, I had to pick myself off the ground.

Apparently, Paul the Binner had been a regular house guest in our absence.

The good news is that the cats are fine… the bad news is that Leigh and Paul drank every bottle of Scotch, Whiskey, Gin, Vodka and Frangelico we had in our cupboards – averaging 1 bottle every 4.2 days – costing us about $300 on top of the $600 we already pre-paid Leigh for her ‘services’.

She also went through a lot of cat food.

Over a month, the cats should have had maybe 3 or 4 cans of the wet stuff. Nearly 2 dozen disappeared. Either the cats were mistakenly given WAY too much – or, we really hope the alternative isn’t true – they were consumed by humans..?

We’ve come to expect a little drama… but didn’t expect it to follow us from India..?!

It’s good to be home!

Our tree is up, the hearth is decorated, the presents are bought, and I’m getting more than my fill of my favourite Starbucks reduced-fat decaf eggnog lattes…

We never expect to hear from Leigh the Liability again…. and in the meantime, we patiently await the good news we KNOW is just around the corner….

#8, The Final Cut (musings from the Operating Room) – A Fond Farewell to India!

We leave India today.

What an amazing experience!

I would be remiss, and my blog would be incomplete, if I didn’t comment on the surgery. Having said that, it was a rather troublesome, raw experience…. So heed this warning now: if you’d prefer to retain a warm and fuzzy image of both India and myself, don’t read on.

It’s kind of like my “Massage” blog from Kerala last January – raw, slippery insight into the naked side of Ayurvedic treatment…

You’re about to be introduced to a visual of my private parts that you probably didn’t expect (nor want!).  But like Mark’s experience in the clinic’s famous “Semen Collection Room” – of which you’ll hear more today, if you read his latest entry – this is my reality.

So hang on to your hat if you’re interested in my ride…

Surgery is done.

I felt like a roasted, puffed marshmallow the days that followed, with a distended stomach and tender burnt bits. I’ve undergone a number of IVF procedures throughout the years –1 laparoscopy, 3 surgeries, 4 general anesthetics and a few dozen ultrasounds – to poke and prod my inner bits.  Each time I gain new respect for the pain and indignity women endure to give birth…

True to form, the procedure was as disorganized and chaotic as we’d anticipated.

To be honest, even though I’d been through it before, I was a bit nervous.  Why? Mainly because I felt alone, in a foreign land, where relatively few hospital support staff spoke English.  I had no idea what was going on.  ‘Bed side manner’ is an important byproduct of hospital care – ie: the time and attention nurses and doctors take to communicate, explain, and reassure patients throughout a procedure.  In this instance, it was painfully absent.

I cringed on arrival.

As usual, reception/treatment rooms were teeming with people.. at one point, Mark calculated about 100 – in a 600 square foot space.

I was shoved into a room with 3 other beds, told to sit on one and take off my clothes.

Before I could do so, a pink-clad nurse came along and pointed to my crotch.  I had no idea what she was asking. Then, because I didn’t get it, she bent down, opened the draw string of my pants, inserted a long skinny brown finger in the space between my tummy and the elastic of my Lululemon underwear, and pulled out the front.  She peered down into my hair.  I knew something was wrong when she wagged her head in disapproval and summoned two nearby nurses.  They came bounding over and peered down.

Who knew my bits were so interesting?

A scene from Dr. Seuss’ The Grinch Who Stole Christmas flashed through my mind.. perched on his snow-capped mountain, high above Whoville, the nasty green Grinch peered down expectantly.. anxiously waiting to hear the happy little Whos cry Boo Hoo once they saw their Christmas was gone…

Ok, so these nurses weren’t expecting a response from down below – but you get the visual.

Apparently I was supposed to have shaved my bits. Nobody told me?!  They mimed for me to undress, and out came the long, 3-inch barber shop razer. I kid you not, between the three of them, they pried open my legs, inserted the Business Section of the Hindustani Times newspaper under my backside, and shaved the entire area from top to bottom – front, under, inside – all dry, with no soap and water.

Through my disbelief, I tried to ask Why? Infection, I was told.

No such belief in North America. All bits were status quo, before and after my previous operations. Perhaps these Indian hospitals and clinics see their fair share of creepy crawly bugs and lice in local bits, especially from the poor, or those who live off the streets.  Fair enough, it’s a precaution – but would have been nice to know!

As the razor repeatedly scraped the raw, parched surface, imagine the sound… nails, drawn down a chalkboard… REPEAT… nails, drawn down a chalkboard… REPEAT…

That bit hurt as much – on my ears and skin – as the operation to follow…

Once naked, I was given a horrid green gown, an ill-fitting cap and a hospital bed sheet (to wrap around me). I was marched through the lobby – for all to see – towards the elevator. Next to it was Mark, sitting on a high-backed chair, looking a little worse for wear. In passing, I leaned down to quickly whisper of my bruised and battered Brazilian Beetle Bonnet; he countered that he was as light as a feather… his “donation” was made.  My, what an adventure he’d had ..

On that note, all will be revealed in Mark’s next episode of As the Door Knob Turns..

The rest of my procedure was just as entertaining … including wheeling me up to O.R., only for staff to forget I was there.  Saline drip hooked to the horridly painful IV needle in my hand, I waited.. thinking they’d be back any minute to start. 10 mins, 20, 30.. 1 hour, 1 hour 30 mins – the clock on the wall ticked on.  My sheet gave cover – but I shivered. I was both nervous and cold.  No heat, the room was about 12 degrees.  Bad Bollywood music blasted from an iPod in the nearby “Embryologist” room. How they focus on accurately mixing and monitoring the all-sacred egg and sperm concoction, with that racket blaring in the background, is anybody’s guess. Unbelievable!

After the procedure, it was deja vu – all over again – from my Blog #7.

Remember the woman who was wheeled into reception.. half drugged, while everybody stared and attendants didn’t know what to do with her?  Couldn’t believe it, it happened to me as well… !  That’s karma nipping me in the ass – should have kept my mouth shut after witnessing the bullfrog’s grand guerney entrance.

It’s been 2 and a half days since surgery…

They bagged 14 of the little guys.. 10 made it after 1 day, with 8 surviving by today (2.5 days later) – pretty good so far!  Perhaps they’re grooving away to Bollywood tunes and having a grand old time …!  We’re hoping at least six make India’s Got Talent’s Final Cut.

Only one drama left – the good Dr.Banerjee is sick. Really sick. She hasn’t been able to speak, text or email us since Saturday… so we’re really hoping it passes quickly, or she’s got a terrific #2 Designate, because the next surgery is slated for tomorrow.  The Best of the Bunch (top 4 embryo candidates) will be chomping at the bit to settle in to Leena’s welcoming womb.

Tonight is our long flight back – a 24-hour journey via Shanghai. We’ve had a colourful experience and fully expect, with anticipation, to being back for Round Two in nine months time!

A fond farewell to India… Namaste.

PS. NO PICTURES  THIS TIME … WE’RE DASHING FOR THE AIRPORT AND WE’RE LATE. HERE’S A LINK TO MY FLICKR ACCOUNT, PLENTY THERE:> http://www.flickr.com/photos/britacloghesy/

#7 – A Trip to the Zoo.. (I mean Clinic)

One of my favourite lines from a Jewel song: “There’s a big man wearing a white suit and patent leather shoes.. he wants to take his monkeys to see the kids at the zoo..”

Reversal of roles – monkeys, entertained by human foibles.

In this case, we felt like monkeys, watching a crazy scene unfold.

Today is Day 13 of treatment, we’re at the tail-end – 2 days left – with surgery slated for Saturday (10 days behind schedule.. but who’s counting..?)

For the past few days, our daily ass-jabs have been paired with a complementary tummy poke… we’re now onto two needles a day.. culminating in today’s delightful hat trick of three teeth-gnashing injections.  Tomorrow at 7am, la pièce de résistance: the paramount “Trigger Shot”. It’s the final one – woohoo! – meant to cease this hormonal madness coursing through my raging system and prepare my body for Saturday’s “egg extraction”. They expect 15 or so eggs.. an inflated bakers dozen.  Can you say battery chicken?

But I digress, back to the monkey-business.

We arrived at Adiva (the clinic) for our normal evening appointment. As usual, the place was utter mayhem. Masses of bodies.. standing, sitting and squatting in every conceivable spot.  Fluttering saris, flowing robes and tightly-wound turbans mingled harmoniously with designer jeans and Gucci bags.

Reception was overrun by loud speaking, attention-seeking patients wishing to check in, collect medicine or pay bills in cash – he who spoke the loudest, was heard. Large wads of rupees deftly changed hands.  Plenty of smartly dressed pink-uniformed staff stood idling about in the aforementioned (Blog #6) door frames, chatting companionably, occasionally dipping into the recently-filled sweetie bowl, surely intended for customers.. ?! It was a feast for the eyes!

Then came the drama.

Patient X – a large woman, possibly 300 pounds – was wheeled into reception.

Dressed in the requisite puke-green hospital-issued gown, escaping strands of hair haphazardly tucked under her ill-fitting green-mesh cap, Patient X was confused and dazed.  Recent anesthesia was slow to subside. CRACK!! The guerney groaned and buckled under her sizeable weight.

Oh My! Having little or no contact with amphibious creatures, I’m afraid this poor specimen of a green-clad women reminded me of the pickled toad I dissected in Grade 12 Biology…

Accompanied by 4 or 5 able-bodied hospital staff, they stopped in the middle of Reception. Confounded by the over-flowing Recovery Room nearby – where she was meant to be wheeled – they weren’t sure how to proceed.  They stopped, scratched their collective noggins – and frankly, some, their crotch.. it’s done here, who am I to say?! – and stood there.. thinking, searching for inspiration.

Curious reception onlookers watched. Nobody moved.

How many Indian staff does it take to transfer a post-op patient? Apparently, five aren’t enough.  Perhaps they should try screwing in a light bulb, might have more success…

Seconds morphed into minutes; Patient X realized her predicament. Haze began to fade.  She started yelling at her baffled Boys in Green: WHAT AM I DOING IN RECEPTION..? GET ME OUT OF HERE!!… then burst into tears.  Oh my. I sat there watching in disbelief – thinking ‘Poor soul’…  closely followed by a reality-check idea … ‘This had better not happen to me!’

What does Mark do?  Of course, he pulls out his iPhone to record the unhappy incident… Nice!!

Eventually they realize the trauma they have on their hands.  In care-giving concert, they move towards the recovery room, then back to the lift, then back to the recuperation room – like a bad version of an ER/Old Spice ad – then opt for the escape lift. Whisked skyward, we could hear her croaking, plaintive wail..

Ok, this is where I provide the disclaimer.

Medically-speaking, both Dr. B and the clinic are excellent!  Administratively, it’s a different story.  One senses that internal operations closely resemble the chaotic nature of the world lurking beyond this up-market, highly polished clinic’s neatly-stenciled sliding glass doors.

India: diverse, rich, varied, vibrant, colourful and complex. Efficiency, an occasional yet reluctant by-product of the infernal disarray.  The country is disorganized and fragmented, but somehow it works.

Speaking of administrative mayhem and clerical mishaps, I think we’ll know if the Embryologist confuses my bits with those from the woman’s on the stretcher…

Ribbit … ribbit ..

The baby will come out singing Kermit’s Muppet Movie theme song: “Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what’s on the other side…” Have a listen

On a completely unrelated non-fertile note, we’ve had an amazing time in Delhi – thanks in no small part to Percy’s unbridled hospitality! We’ve been wined and dined at one of Delhi’s most recent “it” spots, Shiro:

Invited to a chi-chi launch party – and entertained by colourful stories of infidelity by one of Europe’s foremost ambassador’s to India:

Adopted a damaged, but beautiful abandoned dog from one of Delhi’s many Animal Rescue Shelters:

Escaped to one of India’s oldest heritage resorts – built in 1464 – surrounded by a picturesque Rajasthani village full of colourfully-clad sari-wearing women:

We’ve also dealt with a shoddy lawyer who insisted on knowing English better than Mark…. and more infuriatingly, after Mark spent hours reading, reviewing and redrafting said lawyer’s grammatically inept agreement to a basic, acceptable standard… asked us to cover fees for his pompous, shabby effort.  You’ve got to be kidding?  He even insisted we sign the contracts with a thumb print, a process usually reserved for the illiterate – WTF?  From under which rock did this man crawl? Perhaps his turban was on too tight, causing restrictive reasoning and impaired judgment…?

If nothing else, it adds to our idiosyncratic, multi-layered, multi-coloured and often-wacky experience called India.

So, with four days remaining in India, our treatment is nearly done.  Surrogate Leena’s ready to roll – she’ll be removing the shingle from her rental womb in a week’s time.

The pregnancy test: December 21^st….  Here’s to hoping we receive happy news and an early Christmas present from St.Nick!

If all goes according to plan, we’ll have further zoo trips in our future. Next time, however, we’ll be out to see Lions and Tigers and Bears, not prostrate gurgling bullfrogs.

#6 – Disappearing Cooks.. How to be a Princess.. The delicate Art of Ass-Injections..

I’m rather annoyed by the inconvenience of it all.

It just goes to show, you can’t find reliable servants these days..

Spent from an exhausting trip to a trendy over-priced Delhi district called Greater Kalesh… frequented by diplomat’s wives with an equal measure of time and rupees on their henna’d hands… our fragile bodies weren’t prepared to deal with an obstacle of this magnitude.

Bogged down by our bountiful bags of Bollywood booty, we felt disproportionately burdened by the immense weightlessness of our recently lightened wallets.

And then this?

The pressure was too much!

Beset with hunger pangs the likes of which we’d never felt, we gingerly stepped onto the musty earth beneath our chauffeur-driven Mercedes and made for the house.  We weren’t prepared for the calamity that was to unfold…

Cook wasn’t ready.

The least a weary shopper can expect is for Cook to eagerly anticipate our return, and be ready – in a flash – with freshly-cooked chapatis and dhal.  Lunch was meant to be an hour ago.  All the more reason he should be standing ramrod straight, at attention, patiently waiting to please Mark Sahib (boss) & Brita Memsahib (woman boss) after a long, weary shopping expedition.

He massages feet too, but first things first..

Such a Tamasha – and after such a satisfying morning, too!

Driver had ferried us about town with uncomplaining aplomb; Guard had rushed with eager step to welcome us back through the gated fence; Cleaner had left our room in tip top shape; Washing guy had taken our clothes to be pressed.. a good morning’s work (by all), I’d say. All except Cook, the missing hired-help piece. He’d buggered off.  We called out, he was no where to be seen.  Perhaps Professor Plum would find him lurking in the pantry with a candlestick (board game ‘Cluedo’, for those with no clue :>)..

What were we to do… serve ourselves?

Being the youngest of three sisters, my elder siblings claimed I was the “Princess” of the Cloghesy household. Why? Because my parents ran out of steam by the time they got to me – 6.5 and 9 years later – and by default, they let me get away with near-murder (call me Miss Scarlett – watch out for the spanner..), things my sisters could only dream of.  Sometimes I could see the burning fire of indignation exploding from their ears, as they screamed “Mum, that’s NOT fair – how come SHE’S allowed to do that when we never got to, and we’re older?!?” – and I’d sit there, batting my eyelashes, smiling sweetly…

To be fair – I’ll admit this only once..  they’d better be reading this blog! – there may have been a grain of truth to their collective declaration… (gulp, may need to go to therapy now that’s out..)

SO, on the note of Princesses, I’m pleased to say the fertility clinic does not treat us like royalty. We’re the same as all the other couples in the waiting area. Adiva has some of the best marketing I’ve ever seen, and their doctors are world-renowned, foreign-trained medical experts.

Our doctor, Dr. Banerjee, is excellent!

The ‘experience’, however, is very Indian.

Appointments take place in the evening here – usually between 6-9pm.  As we arrive for our standard 7.30pm slot, the waiting room teems with patients from around the globe (Indian, African, Danish, N. American) – there are far more bodies than chairs.

Support staff multiply like rabbits. Mark and I reckon there must be seven staff to complete the jobs of two.

Waiting to be called for our appointment, we watch these neatly-dressed pink uniformed bodies scurry purposely about.  On completing their task – there’s time between each – one might assume they’d disappear “behind the scenes”.  Not in India.  Staff congregate in the already crowded reception, chat amongst themselves, lean against a door frame and openly scrutinize the waiting masses. It’s rather disarming, to be stared at in stereo – but it’s very typically Indian.

I’m practicing my I-can’t-see-you-and-am-trying-to-ignore-you skills.

We’re constantly reminded of the dichotomy between the professional face of Adiva, and the reality that we’re in India. Things are done differently here. Case in point:

CANADA: the Vancouver clinic held our figurative hands through the entire injection process.  Set in a sterile office, an ice-cold table between the nurse, Mark and I, we meticulously reviewed the injection process for the better part of an hour. We discussed the part of my belly into which the needle would plunge and practiced many times over on a soft foamy sponge ball. IU amounts, times and dates were methodically documented on a templated form, handed to us, and referenced during the course of our 12-day treatment.

INDIA: Dr.B calls one of the reception guys on his Blackberry, he strolls over to Mark and I, and hands me the phone. Doctor says she’s running late, will be down shortly and suggests I go with nurse for training. Neatly-clad nurse (she who was recently standing in the doorway, just feet away, staring..) now had a job to do! We followed her down the corridor, she led us to a room where she proceeded to carry out ‘training’ on a bumpy bed where the saline vial kept falling over.  A flat-surfaced desk was feet from the bed, might have been an idea to use it .. just a thought?!  Training consisted of a 10-minute FSH (follicle stimulating hormone) powder/saline mix-and-match demonstration, followed by a real person injection directly INTO MY BACKSIDE. No squishy red sponge balls here; no tummy tickles.. no messing about. Let’s get right to it!

Whether I like it or not, these pointy metal rods are destined for a daily dance with my backside flesh.

And the “sharpie” container for disposing needles – looks like something out of a 1930’s Hitchcock film – you be the judge..?!

Given the awkward location, I’m afraid this squeamish poking business falls to Mark. After 5 of 12 days, he’s become quite a target-practice expert at it really…

Oh and injections aside… did I mention that we’re on our THIRD surrogate? Pinki Baby has been has been cast aside – apparently we were cyclically un-symbiotic (who knew?) – we’re  now on to Leena. Wow, unlike the other two delicate 100lb carrier frames, this woman is built like an ox! As my mum rightly pointed out, she has “excellent child bearing hips”…

So, at risk of repetition, “Third time lucky” not only applies to our number of IVF attempts, but it’s also the number of surrogates with whom we’ve been matched.

I feel good about Leena, I hope she stays. Besides, it’s a bonus that her name has nothing to do with a tuneless rendition of Santa Baby..

And lastly, it goes without saying that the beginning of this post was a bit tongue-in-cheek.

It’s true that we have a mass of servants at our disposal.. and it’s also true that the Princess in me is loving every bit of this privileged, domestic-help environment. But it’s NOT true that Cook – who’se name is Ahmed – is a slacker, nor can I claim an ounce of dissatisfaction with the fantastic, spicy meals he tirelessly prepares.

Even better, he’s made of stern stuff, and didn’t blink an eye when I squawked about the 6-inch long, hairy rat I spied in the kitchen.

“Ah” he chirped in broken English, rolling up his sleeves to expose his large bare knuckly hands, “we catch & throw”.

Hope it’s not making a guest appearance in tonight’s masala chicken curry pot…?!

A few other pictures – pls.click on image to enlarge (Flickr link to follow soon..):

#5 – Hurry Up & Wait!

I have nothing to say.

Well, I have lots to say, actually, but nothing much regarding the reason we’re here – surrogacy.

We’re in a bit of a holding pattern. Figuratively tapping our fingers – we wait.

If all had gone according to plan, today we’d be starting our treatment. But of course it hasn’t gone to plan.  It’s India, where all goes sideways at the drop of a turban. We have a new fancy surrogate, with an even fancier fantastical name: “Pinki Baby”.  I’m sorry – but who names their kid that??

Even worse, Mark has taken to singing Santa Baby, we can’t get that blasted song out of our minds: “.. Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight…”

Pinki Baby has no last name either. She’s just known as Pinki Baby, or PB for short.

Which brings me to another thought. For those brainy chemists out there, you may think Lead (PB symbol); hard-core athletes envision “Personal Best” (race time – a run, marathon or triathlon); corporate types may think Pitney Bowes.. or for the more dicey minds, Playboy.  For me, however, it’s all about images of thick, chunky peanut butter.

So here I am, trying to seriously accept another human being carrying our child, and all I can think of is a big fat jolly guy dressed in red, or inch-thick waves of brown goo smothered on a door-stop hunk of German rye. It doesn’t do much for my confidence.

But I digress… back to The Wait.

We wait until her body is in synch with mine.

Really, we have to synch our cycles.. similar to when I plug my iPhone into the laptop and mesh my calendar, music and apps.  Once done, they’re all singing from the same Apple hymnbook. In this instance, it’s a Team Ovulation songbook.

We’re delayed by about a week, maybe more. Uttered in a heavy Indian accent: “What to do?!” Our flights may have to change too…

So, we wait.  Seems crazy, we have SO much time on our hands – we’re confounded. How to fill it..?!

Exercise?  Excellent idea – need to keep those little follicles in tip-top shape!

Running – no chance.  Pig-headed as I am, even I recognize I’d be a freak to attempt these roads – squashed by a bullock, clipped by a 3-wheeler, bitten by a rat.  Besides, lungs aren’t designed to filter dense pollution thick enough to be cut with last night’s Tandoori chicken dinner knife. To the rescue, Percy has a fantastic home-gym. Even better, he’s hired three “professional bowlers” (by definition, they’re always cute) to come to his home for 1:1 lessons tomorrow morning. A brush with young, raw cricket talent… yes please!  Besides, that will take up at least an hour or two of time.  I’m considering my ball-girl strategy…

While we’re waiting for Godot .. or St.Nick – actually, the chances of a sari-clad Snuffleupagus are just as good! – some images from the past few weeks (click on photo to enlarge) ..

#4. The Drama Continues: Good News & Bad..

“There’s good news and bad – which would you like first?”, asks Mark, furtively glancing my way.

Constantly connected to his global Tweeps, Twitter and Facebook feeds, I’m forever amazed at how Mark is motivated, 24/7, to be online, keeping abreast of the Jones’ whereabouts.

Wednesday Morning: Perched by the ocean, our listless bodies were bravely attempting to battle the 36-degree heat and oppressive 96% humidity-laden air … a scorching ball of fire burned relentlessly overhead; fine, powdery white sand aggressively bit our newly-exposed pink toes.

My concentration was shot.   It was all I could do to listen to Mark’s recently received email, struggling to vanquish taunting images of an imminent cool sea dip dangling deliriously before my eyes.   Judging by the low-grumble, “hmmmmm” that proceeded his aforementioned question, I suspected it was serious.

Something was afoot, he had news.

In that split-second, I pondered the absurdity of his being absorbed by a message on his handheld device, surrounded by the most magnificent, breath-taking setting imaginable – and concluded this:  Mark’s pretty accomplished at multi-tasking with technology, AND being present and ‘in the moment’.  A contradiction for most, but he pulls it off.  Not sure how..?  He switches between work, play, stress and life’s small irritations (such as my inevitable flighty hormonal fluctuations, courtesy of our fine fertility fiesta) like a fickle teenager in love.  He adjusts in a milli-second.  Guess technology reassures him there’s a world of non-hormonal happiness out there…!?

Back to the email. I’m glad he read it

It was a ‘moment’ we could have done without – but we needed to know.  It was from Dr.Banerjee, our fearless Delhi doctor.

Mark started with the good news – the hospital found our money. WOOHOO! Nearly $8,000 miraculously materialized after playing 4-weeks of hide-and-seek in some bank’s clearing house.  No idea where it went – given an electronic transfer is instantaneous? – perhaps it needed a holiday…

A big sigh of relief, the procedure would continue as planned.

Or so we thought. Which brings us to the bad news. Our surrogate, Neha – whom we meticulously selected from a choice of three options, weeks back – has come down with Dengue Fever.  She’s in bad shape, and won’t be able to carry our child.

Thanks to the recent Commonwealth Games, we were exposed to stories and information about Delhi that we may not have otherwise read.  One such story was a BBC article about how the late monsoon rains had created a magnificent breeding ground for these nasty carrier mosquitoes, thereby initiating a severe Dengue outbreak (in and around Delhi) considered the worst in a century. We read the article in September, thinking the worst would pass by November.  Millions of people were infected.  In a country with a billion+ population, what are the chances our intended surrogate would be one? Slim – we thought – but not None.

At least it happened BEFORE we underwent the procedure. Dengue can be fatal, there’s no treatment.

Most importantly, we wish Neha well.

On our end, it’s not the end of the world… but it’s a bit of a set back. We’ve been told the screening agency has found another woman who has the ‘same cycle’ as me.  Not sure what that means, but no time to question. We’re on tender hooks – OK, I am… Mark’s dialoguing with the Universe, as usual.. – waiting for confirmation.

We’re also waiting for her profile.

Call me a worry-wart, but if a woman is going to carry our little Indiana Jones for nine months, I’d like some background. We don’t have a choice – she’s the only one available – hope she’s a super star!

In the meantime, as we bide our time, bite our tongues and borrow patience… we can’t but revel in the shear beauty of Malaysia and our lush island resort, Berjaya.

We’re staying in a rainforest studio that’s surrounded by a canopy of rich green foliage.  A deafening cacophony of constantly chattering crickets compete with large families of 10, 15 sometimes 20 tree-swinging monkeys.

And the people?  I swear they are on happy pills.  Seriously, I’ve never met a more friendly bunch than this – from airport staff, to taxi drivers, to resort gardeners… toothy grins all round!

I’ve momentarily banished thoughts of Dengue Fevered Delhi-ites and just hope to heck our new surrogate is fighting strong and is made of tougher stuff than those man (and woman)-eating killer mosquitoes.

CTV SEGMENT – Airing on the 6pm news, Tuesday, Nov 9^th (not Nov 8^th).  Mark and I will be on a plane to Calcutta, you’ll see it before us. Let us know how it goes!

#3. Introducing CTV… An Interview with Mi-Jung Lee

We have nobody to blame but ourselves.

What utter madness! We agreed to take our admittedly ‘already-out-there-by-way-of-our-blogs’ story one step further, and consented to local/national TV. Why? Simple, if we can help demystify the fertility process for other couples, mission accomplished.

I was amazed and confounded by the lack of resources and information available to Canadians looking at fertility options. They don’t exist. For example, there’s a local adoption agency on the North Shore, no local surrogacy agencies, but two in Toronto (to which couples pay $6500 for ‘support and advice’, yet don’t get matched with a carrier.. sorry, where’s the value?), and soul-less, difficult-to-navigate, government websites.

No single, central source exits for all things fertility – local and international options, costs, risks, considerations, legalities, support groups etc – specifically in Vancouver. Part of the problem is that we, as a society, are still too scared to talk about fertility issues. Honestly, it’s unbelievable. When people ask why Mark and I are going to India, I mentally judge my victim, and sometimes reply with a half-baked response “part vacation; part medical procedure”. Some probe further, I tell them – within seconds, the throat clearing and discomfort kicks in … it’s astonishing how quickly the crimson explosion of embarrassment spreads from ear to ear. Well, they asked…?!

Back to CTV.

Early Tuesday morning we received an email from our fertility doc, Dr. Roberts, at PCRM. We’ve known each other three years now.  Given his physiological specialty, he knows us better (and more intimately) than most. Apparently he’d received a call from CTV asking if the clinic could recommend a couple for an on-camera interview. He took a flier and contacted us.

Fast forward to Wednesday morning – Mi-Jung Lee and camera guy, Steve, arrived on our doorstep. Can I tell you how nervous I was? Lordy, it’s one thing to be all altruistic and well- intentioned to help others, but it’s another story to have a big-ass camera two feet from your face, and a foot-long, furry microphone pointing phallically at your talking organ. I choked!

Verbally, that is.. on words (for clarity). It got better after the initial few questions.

The interview took place outside on our back patio – birds chirping, sun peaking through the clouds, beautiful golden leaves drifting down around us – situationally, it was idyllic! I expected Mi-Jung would be gentle at first by asking a few ‘lead in’ questions, such as ‘so, you were born here, tell us about that..’ or ‘how long have you been married..’ – but was sadly mistaken, she went right for the jugular: ‘So, Brita, tell me about your fertility issues’. WHAT?

I spluttered, desperately scanned the trees for inspiration, and was momentarily lost in a vacuum where all I registered was the sonic roar of an overhead passenger plane – I suspect my face did an excellent rendition of Spin the Colour Wheel too.  I can’t remember what I said,  I just hope I didn’t Thank God and every member of my extended family… as some do when they’re stuck for words and experiencing a deer-in-the-headlight moment …

It got better.

I blocked out the camera and began to relax. At one point, I found myself forgetting the camera altogether – doh! – crap, did I say something I shouldn’t have? A dangerous level of comfort crept in. It must be noted that Mark was brilliant!  Honest, I’m not just saying that because he’s my forever-patient-always-willing-to-try-new-technology husband, but he was bright, articulate and GREAT at responding to some really difficult, pointed questions concerning the ethics of surrogacy, cultural expectations on Indian women, political limitations to the current Assisted Human Reproduction Act etc.  He’s missed his calling in life.

Interview done, they finished off by following us around for another hour, taking ‘positioning shots’.

We were told to ‘act natural’, so, we pretended to blog at our computers… packed our bags for the 30 degree heat of India (in a fluster, Mark ended up putting a bunch of big sweaters in his suitcase.. opps!)…. walked hand-in-hand down 4^th Avenue, chatting companionably and gazing wistfully at the trees… and – for me – they suggested I garden. Ok, I can garden, but given the circumstances, it was a bad idea at best.

I should have changed into jeans, but they assured me it would be fine.

Steve the camera guy zoomed in and out. SWISH went the broom from right to left… SWISH went the small reserve of my green-thumb credibility.

I ask you.  How often does one cultivate plants sporting freshly-painted nails, a little black dress, and 3-inch heels..?!  We should have had Mark out there ‘gardening’ – the exercise had nothing to do with talent and everything to do with believability – THAT would have appeared more authentic than my home-grown episode of Desperate Housewives gone bad!… (cringe..)

We leave in 48 hours. There was talk of setting us up with the CTV crew in Delhi. Hmmm… you’ll find me in a head-to-toe burqa…

The story airs the week of November 8^th. It’s part of a series. Ours will likely be the ‘kick off’ segment on the 8^th, 6pm news. We’ll let you know.