Rhubarb cake and a pilgrim

 

Last night W and I had dinner early so that we could take Lily for a walk on the beach by Oostvornse Meer, a nearby lake. As we drove out of the gate, a young woman came up to us and asked us whether she could stay in our garden - she had walked, she said, from Edinburgh. She was French, from near Versailles. 

Feeling slightly nervous, but also thinking of the times when we have camped around Europe, we said yes, and showed her places she could put her tent up. We went off to the beach wondering whether we were crazy to trust her. However, we have comparatively little worth stealing, no valuable jewellery or electronics. My stereo is 12 years old, and do people even steal stereos any more? My iPad is a second generation one, and incredibly slow. Still, people will steal anything. I was most scared she would take Lily! 

However, we felt we were probably ok. When we came back from the walk, we asked her whether she wanted to come and have a cup of tea. 

This is where the cake comes in. W hates rhubarb, and I like it. I've not had much in the last 10 years because I rarely cook things he's going to turn his nose up at. But this spring I've decided twice to cook with it, because the stalks on sale in the supermarket have been so temptingly, lusciously pink-and-green. The first recipe was a bit of a disaster, but the second was this one for Danish rhubarb cake with cardamom and custard. 

It took longer than expected to cook, and the custard definitely didn't float, it ended up in streaks through the cake, but it tastes great. It may be the first time I've properly creamed butter and sugar to light and fluffiness as well, as usually I'm a bit slap-happy with that. This cake makes me think that really I should do it properly more often. 

I offered our pilgrim a piece of cake to go with her tea and she accepted - in the end she had three! So I feel fully justified in making cake and fairly pleased with myself. We talked about her trip, and it turns out that she is a genuine pilgrim, taking the different paths through England, the Netherlands, Belgium, then going onto the Compostela way through France and Spain. After that, she will travel back and perhaps head onto Greece and Jerusalem, she was unsure. I asked what she would do afterwards and she said she thought about becoming a priest, having converted to Protestantism. 

She was 23 and very happy that on the trip thus far she has rediscovered her faith. She fairly glows with it, almost enough to rekindle mine, but I struggle too much with the historicity of the Bible at present. 

This morning, I waved her off after breakfast with an apple and a tracker bar, and coming back into the garden saw a single poppy. Now, there are poppies alongside the Erasmus hospital where I've been having the fertility treatment, and on Monday I walked past them feeling so sad and wishing that I could be pregnant with poppies in my garden. I put too much faith in signs and portents, so I'm trying not to go overboard, but perhaps this is a little nod in my direction. Maybe a 'hey, things will be ok. You will have poppies'. 

It was good too to help someone a little, to give them shelter and food, to hear their story and to wish them 'bonne chance' on their journey. Perhaps there's also a lesson there to learn about how helping others feels good, and how I can take care of something as a substitute for taking care of a child. I don't know, of course, but I hope so. This chance encounter has left me feeling slightly more hopeful. 

IVF again

I've just spent the last two weeks going through the stimulation process for IVF. I'm on the point of turning 43, which is the latest point at which insurance in the Netherlands will pay for IVF, so this was the last opportunity to do that.

When I've done this before, I learned that I over-react to the hormones. My ovaries produce lots of eggs - probably of low quality - rather than a few eggs of good quality. So I ended up taking on masses of fluid, feeling like a beached whale, and producing 18 eggs, which is really unusual for someone my age.

It all feels like a mean trick my body is playing on me. Of those 18, only 4 good embryos were produced. Because I had over-reacted and felt so bad, I was at risk of ovarian hyper-stimulation syndrome, and they were unwilling to put any back into me, so the embryos were given an extra day and then frozen. And only one made it. When I found out, I cried.

18 eggs to one embryo. I know that some people go through IVF to even less effect, but I had hoped for better. To lose 3 out of 4 almost overnight was almost physically painful. I am mourning those little chances at life.

I am trying to look on the bright side - we have one little embryo left, and in a couple of months we will go ahead and roll the dice again with that one. And maybe, just maybe, this will be our chance. I don't know whether I believe in prayer, but it you do and you read this, please pray for that success. We need all the help we can get.

So I'm back in limbo, trying to be grateful for the things I have: my wonderful W, who has been like a rock over the past weeks; my beautiful Lily-dog, who is lying with her head on my foot as I write; my lovely house and garden; the security of a good job and a good brain. I we don't have children, these are the things I will focus on, and continue to be grateful for. So many people have so much less than me.

But I still wish I could have a child.

Our girl, Lily

 

I'm writing this in the garden, after having it confirmed that we won't be doing an embryo transfer today. My ovaries are still too large (7 x 8 x 10 cms to be precise) and I don't feel well enough to do this anyway. So we're freezing our four little embryos tomorrow (fingers crossed that they do ok) and I am focussing on chilling out.

The weather is helping. It is warm and sunny and will be for the next few days, and our beautiful garden is giving me chills. I may not have babies (yet) but I have all this green. Plus our Lily under the table.

Lily has now been with us for about 3 months. She is a chocolate brown Portuguese Water Dog and she has become such a focus for us. It may not be altogether healthy for her to be the centre of attention, but I see that both W and I had love left over to give from giving to each other - we needed a dog. And I knew this deep inside the whole time.

Persuading W to get a dog took time, basically about 3 months. In the end, I think he decided that it was non-negotiable, so I flew out to Budapest and picked her up. PWD breeders aren't exactly thick on the ground. She was then just over 10 kilos, and is now 19, and I struggle to remember how small she was. But she certainly fit in my lap, whereas now (although she thinks she can) she can't.