Creating lives - part 1: how it all began

 Since I can remember, I've always wanted to be a mother. As with almost everyone who aspires this dream, I hoped that life would bring someone to share it with me. Yes, life brought me some relationships, only one seemed to go in that direction but, unfortunately, we ended up following different paths. The years passed and no one else appeared. Then I decided to go on this journey alone.

My first instinct was to inform myself about adoption. There are so many children in the world in need of affection, love and attention, so why not try to give one of them a home? That's when I found out that the adoption process, here on Canadian lands, costs almost the full amount of my annual salary. And that covered only the beginning of the process, apart the bureaucracy in case I decided to adopt a child from a foreign country. Since adoption would not be financially possible, I informed myself about the remaining option: having a biological child.

This second stage brought good news: the provincial government covered the costs of some attempts at artificial insemination, on my part I would only need to pay for the donor's “sample”. Great! With the biological clock ticking, close to entering the "cougar age" - I was 38 then - I started the long path that would be the realization of this dream without any guarantee that it would work.

My first visit to the fertilization clinic was strange. I didn't like the doctor who was assigned to me, and on the second visit I had already switched to a much more friendly doctor. She asked me for several blood, urine, cytology and imaging exams, and even a consultation with the psychologist (mandatory, around here, when opting for assisted fertilization). Until all the exams were ready and a new appointment was made, a few months passed. The doctor and I decided the way forward and another step was taken towards possible motherhood. Now came the fun part of the process: looking for a donor that I liked.

Refining the search on the site by hair color, eyes, skin, ancestry, can even be fun if seeing it as a game, but the refinement of the search does not filter by personality, interests, etc., which are the most important traits in a person. For a week I was looking for the "sample" that I liked best. I was looking for someone with artistic tendencies and some interest in humanities. I found a profile that I immediately liked when I read the essay written by the donor about his reasons to join the sperm bank, and the fact that he was a yoga instructor and played the piano just made him even more attractive.

Having decided on the donor, I bought his "sample" and, following the doctor's advice, I waited the following month to begin the physical process that would culminate in the artificial insemination. Then the hormonal dance began: subcutaneous injections of estrogen to stimulate the maturation of my eggs and, on the exact day marked by the doctor, another injection to start ovulation. 48 hours later, insemination would take place. At home, on my own, I had been taking supplements for months to improve the quality of my eggs and thus try to help the process in a "natural" way.

The insemination itself takes a few seconds, and the whole process takes about ten minutes, but it is a rather strange experience. Everything happens in a medical room just like the ones where we women do our annual exams: only instruments around that table with leg supports that always remind me of those chicken skewers. The doctor enters, checks the patient's name, confirms with the patient the number of the donor and prepares the catheter. In seconds, the "specimen" is already inside the uterus and the doctor asks you to wait 10 minutes in bed, then you can leave and resume normal activities. Everything is very "romantic".

Procedure done, the excruciating two weeks of waiting to see if it worked, if the anxious egg and the thawed sperm met. Ah! And of course, hormones - now progesterone - are continued to prevent the menstrual cycle from continuing and to support an environment conducive to the embryo that, perhaps, started to develop from this encounter that, perhaps, happened, of the egg with the sperm. During these two weeks, progesterone causes effects that simulate a pregnancy: weight gain, nausea and super sensitive smell were my companions in the 14 days of waiting.

The day of the blood test to see if the procedure had been successful arrived and anxiety takes over. Test done, it was time to wait a few more hours to get the result. I left the clinic and went back to work. The day would go on as if nothing had happened. Only as if...

The nurse's call comes a few hours later and the result was negative. The process was not successful and now I would have to wait a few months before I could try again. And, of course, another appointment with the doctor needed to be scheduled.

This ritual was repeated 6 more times. With each procedure done, my reactions changed in the 14 days waiting. After the third attempt, I was not even anxious anymore in those two weeks, it was as if nothing had happened. The only thing that broke this illusion of "nothing happened" was the fact that I had to take hormones every day.

For personal reasons, I followed this path in silence, only two people knew that I was actively pursuing the dream of being a mother. So I decided to avoid any non-constructive criticism, because the process itself is already stressful, anguishing and difficult enough, I definitely didn't need extra stress coming from outside. My intention was to communicate only the good news when, or better said, if everything went well.

I heard from a friend that I needed to relax for things to work out. It's easy to say, difficult to do. When trying to get pregnant with a partner, it is easy to relax because the whole process is fun, even if you don't get pregnant, the "procedure" was enjoyable. In the case of assisted fertilization, there is no way to relax simply because there is no way to forget, there is a time for everything: the exact time of the estrogen injections, the exact time of the injection to stimulate ovulation, the exact time of the insemination itself (not to mention how "romantic and pleasant" it is to be lying down in a cold office for 10 minutes), the exact time to take the progesterone pills, the exact time to do the blood test, etc. To relax? Impossible.

A few days before traveling with my mother, on an adventure we talked about for years and only recently had the opportunity to make it happen, I went through the 7th insemination. While we were visiting the Big Apple, my period came, which meant that the last procedure once again didn't work. That's when I decided to tell my mom about my decision and what was going on.

Her reaction was more neutral than I could ever imagine, which, in fact, did me good, as I expected bad criticism and more bad criticism, but no, she was calm and neutral. Maybe she understood how important that was to me.

Back in Montreal, I decided to try in-vitro fertilization. However, this procedure was not covered by the province and I had to resort to a bank loan to be able to pay for the first attempt.

Unlike insemination, in-vitro fertilization uses heavier drugs for a longer period of time. After a few months had passed for the body to recover and all the necessary blood and physical tests were redone, I started again with subcutaneous injections of estrogen, this time in higher doses. Along with them, I was given aspirin 80mg daily. Supplements to improve eggs continued to be taken every day, without fail.

A few weeks and several injections later, the day to harvest my eggs arrived. That day, I had to go to the clinic with a companion because I would be medicated so as not to feel pain at the time of retrieval, I would need help to return home safely. I took the day off from work, because I knew I wouldn't be able to return. My father, who was visiting in Montreal, accompanied me and stayed by my side until they called me into the operating room. I didn't fall asleep with the medication as they said it could happen. I was awake throughout the procedure but I did not feel any pain. I watched, on a screen inside the operating room, each egg being removed. Each carried a small piece of hope with them. Right there, the doctor gave me the result of the number of eggs retrieved, in my case there were 30. They would call me later to say how many eggs were ripe and then how many had been fertilized.

The next day, I received the call from the clinic: of the 30 eggs, 15 were mature but the "donor specimens" were not swimming enough and the team needed my authorization to do the fertilization manually in a process called ICSI (intracytoplasmic sperm injection), I obviously agreed and, at the end of the day, received the news that the 15 had been successfully fertilized. They also said that they would call in 5 days to inform how many embryos have developed successfully. At the end of that week, news came that 10 out of 15 embryos were developing very well and would be frozen. The last phase was now beginning - or at least that was what I expected.

During the week following the retrieval of the eggs, I felt really ill. Doctors say that you can get back to your normal activities, with the exception of exercising, the day after the harvest, but I couldn't go back to work for a week. I felt bloated, nauseated, had headaches, tired... calling the nurse at the clinic, she asked me to go in and get checked. As it could happen when trying IVF, my ovaries were overstimulated and that was the reason I was feeling so sick all the time. In my case, they were "mildly overstimulated", thank goodness because when they are "highly overstimulated" one has the risk of dying!

A month after the eggs were removed and fertilized, the injections started again to prepare the uterus to receive the embryo, but this time with something new: intramuscular progesterone injections that should be given every day at the same time for a month. And the courage to inject me with something intramuscular? I had to look for super desire and hope, now almost erased. Firm and strong, endowed with an enormous desire to be a mother, every day at 8 pm, there I went to the front of the mirror to calculate the first outer upper quadrant of the butt, take a deep breath and inject myself.

The day of embryo transfer finally arrived. Unlike the insemination that is done in an examination room, the transfer takes place in the same operating room where the eggs were removed. On the screen that I saw the eggs being removed, this time I was presented with the embryo that would be transferred and I was able to follow the entire procedure. Again, I had to lie down for 10 minutes, before I could leave and go on with the day. And, again, the wait to know the result, only this time, it would take only a week.

With this new procedure, I was not able to be as calm as in the others. There was, again, a certain expectation. The day of the blood test came, the hope was there, hidden, timid, already tired of so many frustrations. At the end of the afternoon the news: the procedure was unsuccessful. This time I cried, perhaps more due of the tiredness of so many medications, exams, comings and goings from medical appointments than because of the unfulfilled dream.

In consultation with the doctor, to review the options and the path I would take - whether I would give up or try again - I decided to make one last attempt, as I would no longer be able to afford the costs. If it didn't work, I would have to give up on my biggest dream. After so many years and attempts, I told the doctor that I would like to transfer two embryos and not just one. The chances of one embryo developing are already so small, that transferring two would slightly increase the chance of one staying and triumphing. She agreed, and after a few months, I started all the treatments again, but now, there was no need to remove eggs since 9 embryos, from the previous attempt, were still frozen.

This time, I asked for two days of vacation at work. My plan was to do the procedure and, the next day, relax on a quick trip to New York where I would watch an artist I love, Sasha Velor, on her solo show: Smoke and Mirrors. And, in addition, get a new Art Nouveau tattoo with a German tattoo artist residing in the Big Apple.

On the day of the transfer, oddly enough, I had no expectations. I was taken to the preparation room and, a few minutes later, I was in the surgery room waiting patiently for the doctor to start the procedure.

For the first time since the beginning of this saga, in addition to the consultation with my doctor, the ultrasound exam to see if the uterus was ready and the transfer were all performed by women. I felt protected, supported, understood and blessed. There is a certain bond, an unexplained connection between us women, something that I have never felt before and that I cannot explain, but it is as if there was a complicity because we know exactly what this quest, this desire means, and how much only we, women, really understand, deep down, the delicacy and strength of our bodies. I can't explain it, but the feeling of being cared for by women from the beginning to the end of this last transfer was magical.

In the operating room, that same small television that accompanied the removal of my eggs and the unsuccessful transfer of the previous embryo now showed me two little embryos. I remember finding it interesting that, although both were 5-day embryos from the same harvest, one was very white and the other grey. I also remember thinking "hi little ones, I am your mommy".

Procedure performed, I went home in peace, quiet. Something inside me seemed to have settled down and everything that crossed my mind was "if it works, it worked, otherwise, then it wasn't meant to be". I came home looking forward to the next day's trip.

I went to New York without thinking about transfers, treatments, frustrations, nothing that reminded me of several years of trying. I just thought I would enjoy those three days before going back to reality. No sooner said than done, I arrived in the city that never sleeps and went straight to the studio to meet the tattoo artist. 5 and a half hours later, I left there happy and carrying a new art in me. I looked forward to the performance I would see the next day.

I woke up with an excruciating hunger, which never happens to me in the morning. In general, it takes me about two hours after waking up to feel hungry. I went out for breakfast, walked around town, went back to rest before the show, got ready and went to watch Sasha Velour.

Smoke and Mirrors was a masterpiece that I had the opportunity and the happiness to watch. Sasha makes us laugh, cry, think, reflect ... I haven't seen something so good and powerful in years! The three-day run to "New York, New York" was well worth it. I left the theater hungry again. I ate a large pizza, alone, in the hotel room in just a few minutes. I went to bed exhausted, and the next day, I took one last walk around town before heading home.

Back in Montreal, I just had to wait another 3 days to do the blood test and see if, this time, the transfer had been successful. I continued as I was during the trip: at peace, quiet, without anxiety, without expectation and very hungry.

Blood test done, the end of the day reserved a surprise in the clinic's call: the test was positive. I held on the celebration, as I was supposed to return to the clinic the next day to do a new test and see if the hormones had doubled in volume in the next 24 hours. Until then, no celebration.

I arrived at the clinic with that little bit of hope that insists on showing up even when we don't want it around. Test done, hours of waiting, call from the nurse congratulating me because I was pregnant! Now I had to wait 6 weeks to do the viability ultrasound, but the dream was feeling a bit closer.



(To be continued in the next chapter ...)

When the world stopped

For some time the world has been going through a scenario that seems those of science fiction. Just as the images of the twin towers falling seemed like scenes from Hollywood films, watching, not only on television, but on a daily basis, deserted cities all over the world is something very strange.

The day before yesterday I ventured to the bank branch, as I needed to go to the ATM. Seeing one of the city's main avenues completely empty, without a single soul, reminded me of that Brasilia from 30 years ago when everyone left the city as soon as the school holidays started and, consequently, the city looked like a ghost town.

Visits to the pharmacy and supermarket also seem surreal. At the same time that everyone is in solidarity with each other because of the situation in which we find ourselves, these same sympathetic looks have fear behind them. People greet each other on the streets, remain polite to each other, but their eyes seem to see each other as a potential host for this invisible enemy.

This same bleak scenario creates tragicomic situations. The other day, at the bakery, everyone respected the distance of 2 meters between each customer until an old gentleman came in and coughed once, only once. Immediately everyone, absolutely everyone, jumped back at the same time. If a choreographer had tried to achieve such synchronicity in a rehersal, they would not have succeeded.

It is strange to see the military in special yellow clothes like those in the 1995 film Outbreak disinfecting Brasília's bus station. It is weird to look out the window and see the block completely empty.

Here at home the human population comes down to my mother, me, my little ones, and Maria, our beloved helper. We are lucky to have company. I think of those who are alone at home. I think about what it would be like if I were in Montreal alone with my babies. I would have to go to the supermarket and pharmacy with them and thus expose them even more. At that moment, I think it was good to decide to spend some time of my maternity leave in Brasília with my parents. On the other hand, now that I am close to my friends, it is only possible to meet them virtually as if I were still in Canada. Yes, it is great to have the technology we have to communicate with everyone we love and who are far from us, but virtual contact is not and will never be the same as personal contact. In fact, that's the worst part of it all: not being able to meet, hug and laugh with friends.

When all of this is over, I just hope that we all realize how much time we spend looking at mobile screens and not at a friend's face. How much time we spend looking at social networks on devices that take our whole attention even when we are in the presence of others. I sincerely hope that we will relearn to value personal contact, leave the screens aside and enjoy each other's physical presence.

I must have had very bad luck

These last months of tension, apprehension and fear, made me think a lot about my life, everything I have learned and I continue to learn, and those who have crossed my path. When I was born, my parents didn't know if I would be a boy or a girl, white, black, Indian, Asian. That didn't matter to them. They were there, open-hearted to receive that little one, whoever it was. The same thing happened to the rest of my family: grandparents, grandfathers, great-grandmother, uncles and aunts, all with open arms to welcome me. My parents taught me to respect the life of living beings regardless of Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus or Species. I grew up with friends of all ethnicities and social classes. I studied in public and in private schools, and I never underestimated those that studied in one or the other. I learned from my parents, grandparents and uncles that violence is no solution and only leads to even more violence. They also taught me that knowledge is the greatest and best weapon to: understand where we came from and why things are the way they are today; to analyze and discern paths that will lead to a good future for all and not just for some; not to repeat sad stories of our or other countries; that is, learn from history.

They taught me to respect and appreciate freedom, among them that of coming and going, opinions, being who you are. My parents always made it clear when they don't agree with the decisions I make, but even then, they always stood by me, they've always supported me. Just imagine that with this and other attitudes, my parents taught me to love unconditionally. What an appalling absurd! I was taken to the Scout Movement by my aunt. There I met people from all walks of life. In the movement I learned that we are not alone in the world and that it does not revolve around our bellybutton or our wants, but that we need each other to survive and live. That together we can do more than divided. I grew up learning that differences are not threatening, but enriching. Differences are what make this world amazing. I learned to love people for being people, not for their skin color, for the gender with which they were born, for the country they came from, for sexual orientation, for religion, because that does not define them. No one is better or worse than anyone, we are all the same. What defines a person is their character, not their religion, their ethnicity, their sexual orientation, or gender. They taught me not to be hypocritical and to be honest, and so, I never got carried away by that famous "Brazilian way". I learned that we are all one with the planet and that we need more of him than he does us, so we have to defend him, love him, care for him. I was also taught that the true meaning of family is not in the connection of blood but in the bond of love that we share. Getting out of the closet was easy because I was always sure of their love for me. They never wanted anything but my happiness. They never scorned me for being who I am. To this day my family - without blood ties - never let me down. They were always present, always supportive, always showed unconditional love during each adversity and in every good moment. Yeah... I must have been very unlucky, for it seems that what is lately considered "of good morals" is exactly the opposite of everything they have ever taught me. For if it is so, I prefer to continue being "imoral."

Like a butterfly

In the course of these past six years, I have written and re-written about a variety of things. About being in silence, about loss, about history, about love. Suddenly, the flow of writing stops. It stopped at the same time as life seemed to have stopped too.

For years life seems to have stagnated. The days pass, the lines on the skin grow stronger, birthdays come and go, and still everything seems to be the same.

It's so weird how life changes without us even noticing. After years of feeling numb, deprived of friends and flirts, it seems that the dormant period is finally coming to an end.

Somehow new friends started to come along, laughter and happiness seem to be making themselves present as they haven't been for a long time.

A few things still need to change, but these are practical things, meaningless everyday things. The meaningful ones, the important ones, these are finally starting to show their colors. A new trusted friend, a night of good company and laughter, smiles, a hug, a look.

Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon , it's good to feel alive again.

The crowd

 Every day, on my way to work, I see all those people on the bus, in the subway and I feel like a number. Just another number. A sad number. Just another one in a group of people that repeat the same day over and over: wake up at the same time, have the same (or almost the same) breakfast, get dressed, and head to work where the same endless tasks will be repeated hour after hour while dreaming of the time they get to go home again and of the weekend ahead unaware that each and every one of those tediously unhappy days is a day in life that will never come back.

I’m part of this crowd with tired and sad eyes on a Monday morning, but my mind never stops wondering about how can people go on repeating endlessly something that doesn’t make them happy? How and what can I do to change my days and not fall into this same sad path my entire life? 

Source: BBC

The crowd moves slowly, in the same pace, even their breaths seem to follow the same anxious and hopeless rhythm. No smiles board the morning train, only serious sleepy faces staring into the void. I don't want to follow the crowd.

We grow up being told to do what we love, but what if what we love doesn’t open doors? What if all the time, effort, tears and joy you put on your dreams, didn't unlock any doors? Eventually you end up in the crowd, this sad Monday crowd. 

How did we get here? How and when did society become this pleasure-less repetition of boring tasks? When did we forget to enjoy ourselves? To enjoy each day? But most importantly, how do we get out of this meaningless existence?

The longer we stay in a job position, the harder it is to get out of it. Not because we don’t want to, but because others will only see the last and longest experience we had. What do to do when you fall into a field you never even thought of, in a job that for you is meaningless? It pays the bills, ok, but is that what life is all about? I, for one, refuse to accept that. But how to change it when you don't know what to do, where to go and how to get there? When you feel completely lost knowing that your career dreams can no longer be? How to change directions when all connections you've been making in this field don't know your potential, don't know your background or even your level of education to be able to refer you to something else, to something better suited to you? 

Source: DeviantArt - Amandine Van Ray

If anyone out there knows the answer for these questions, don't feel shy to come forward, to give tips, to pass along your knowledge on how we can change things. Everyone deserves the chance to wake up to a life that they love, to work in something that fulfills them, to be happy. Sometimes all we need is an outside look to see different perspectives, different paths. It's never too late to climb that mountain and sometimes, all we need is a little push.

When life makes no sense

 

I have no idea where my life went wrong. I grew up being encouraged to do what I love, to follow my heart and be happy. And so I did.

I kept looking for "normal" jobs and either never heard back from sending resumes, or got interviews where the reason not to be hired was "oh, but you're over qualified for this job". That's what bad paying jobs used to give as an excuse not to hire me. Funny enough, those positions with a reasonable pay used to say "oh, but you don't have experience". How in hell is someone expected to gain experience if they're never given a chance to start with? Tragic funny, but it was like that since my first interview when I was 17 years old. 

Meanwhile, for 18 years I pursued acting, my biggest passion, the only thing I ever wanted to do in life career wise. As for the great majority of actors out there, it didn't come out as expected. One of the worse decisions in my life was when it finally sank in that I would need a plan B.

A plan B. I never had a plan B. So I studied to be a tour guide. What could be more interesting than to have together history and traveling, two of my biggest interests? Got a job as soon as I graduated from the course and did pretty well as an international tour guide specialized in the Orlando amusement parks. The only downside, it didn't pay enough and the work was seasonal. So, no chances of paying my bills there.

So, in my early thirties I went to college, got a degree in History, which is something I really enjoy (and made my father super happy).

At this point in my life I was dating the most incredible person I have met so far. We had a pretty good relationship that had some down moments and, for some reason that even today I can't really understand, I didn't fight for the relationship and gave in to my darkest thoughts and we broke up. So, yeah, another feeling of failure when "the one" got away and it was all my fault. 

I got so lost after the breakup that I spent months being someone completely different. I would go out and get wasted (and I was never a big drinker), went out partying from Monday to Monday and I even smoke cigarettes (which I hate!). I was feeling completely lost, as if the ground had fallen under my feet. I knew the rational reasons for the breakup but couldn't understand why I didn't fight to stay together. To this day I regret it, but well, time passes, people move on, and I remained alone.

Feeling lost and a loser, I finally graduated from college at 34. Now I had a degree and was sure that no one would use that as an excuse not to hire me. Again came the "you don't have experience" crap when the competition was 18 and didn't even have life experience.

Already in my mid thirties and freaking out as I was still unable to pay my bills and my father was still supporting me 100%. I have had always the will to get out of his shoulders and did my best to, but somehow it never worked out. I always had temporary or sporadic jobs, which always paid badly and weren't even enough to support one month of bills. At this point, my feeling of failure in life was already high.

Speaking two languages fluently and a third one in advanced stage of learning, I decided to give life abroad a try. I learned a new language, enough to get by but not enough to work. Followed my heart and went to live near the person I thought I had fallen for but in the end, it was just a physical representation of a dream that I had: meeting a foreigner, getting married and start a family abroad. Needless to say that it not only didn't work out, but it turned out to be a nightmare. A nightmare that took me over two years to recuperate from. The things I went through with that person were so heavy that left very deep scars.

I moved away again to pursue a Masters of Arts in History in a very well regarded university. But I was still dark inside. During those two dark years, I closed myself up. I didn't want to meet anyone, I was scared. I had social anxiety. I forced myself to go to McGill gathers to make friends and open up, see if I stopped feeling so lonely. Needless to say that it didn't work out very well. Thank goodness I made two good friends there with whom I keep in touch and it's always so great when we can get together. Here I also learned another language, my fifth, not yet fluent but working on improving it.

After the Masters I finally got a job. The only job that hired me even though I sent tons of cover letters and resumes. I'm way over qualified for this job, that's for sure. It pays really badly, but for the first time in my life even with a low wage job, I've managed to pay my bills without needing to ask my father for help. That makes me extremely happy! The other good thing that this job brought was the colleagues. Every single person that works there is so nice, warm and loving, and they are the sole reason to stay there. It took me a while to open up to them too, I admit. I was still trying to get out of the dark place I was in.

When I'm finally opening up and going out with people from work, having fun with them and trying to make deeper connections, Petruchio (my furry baby) is diagnosed with an incurable disease and his health declines very quickly. For over 4 years Petruchio and Sophia have been my only company, and now he's on his way to become a little star.

However, as life insists in make no sense, since 2012 I've been alone (when it comes to human company). During these past 4 (almost 5) years, I have seen basically 99,9% of my friends getting married and starting families. I see my nieces and nephews growing up. See "the one" happily married (and how she deserves to be happy!). And I look in the mirror and only see lines in my face getting stronger, grey hair appearing, the passing of time in its most recognizable way. And I remember that I did not make a pact with life to grow old alone.

I see my cousin with the life I always dreamed of. I see friends with successful careers and well structured lives where everything seems to come into place without so much effort or so much pain. And I can't help but think that there must be something wrong with me. I'm a good person, with a big heart and so much love to give, but I'm knocking on 40's door and still alone. Completely alone for over 4 years right at the age when everyone is getting married or already have their families. I'm extremely capable, I learn fast and every job I had all my superiors only had good things to say about me, I speak 2 languages fluently and can make myself understood in other 3, I'm intelligent, I have the socially requested university degrees, and yet, I don't get a decent paying job nor a not-so-decent-paying-job in my areas of biggest interest.

It is very hard not to feel as a loser, not to think that I'm a failure and a disappointment to those around me. It's been so many years that I started losing hope of someday things working out well. It is extremely hard to accept that the most romantic of all the cousins, I'm the one still single, childless and alone.

I still follow my heart and I've been trying to find meaning in all of it, trying to understand, but nothing makes sense. It makes no sense why I haven't achieved any sort of financial stability at 39, it makes no sense that I'm alone for so long when I have and still am putting myself out there. And as Murphy seems to have taken me for his bride, when I need them the most, my furry baby is going through his last weeks of life.

Definitely life makes absolutely no sense.

Singletonshire after 30

Navigating the streets of Singletonshire is not an easy task. Doing that for years, to be honest, is tiring and boring. Everybody knows that love does not wait in every corner and as we grow older, we realize that things need more effort to work out well. What no one ever tells us is how much more effort it takes! I've always had the impression that in our Balzac-years it would be easier to find someone since one of the good things of growing older is knowing exactly what we don't want in a relationship. But I've never thought that we would construct so many barriers: be it age, tiny appearance details, finances, kids from previous relationships, geographic distance, you name it.

I was never someone who connects easily with others. Few people have interested me and I find really hard to find someone with whom to connect in a deeper level, someone that I can talk about anything, who makes me laugh, who's got a witty (and sometimes sarcastic) kind of humor. When someone like that finally appears, I do not measure efforts to be with that person. In my mind and heart there are no obstacles to keep me from being with that hard to come by special person.

Being an old fashioned romantic, I'm predisposed to overcome lots of seemingly difficult obstacles in the name of love and I have no problem in being the only one making the effort when the other person is incapable of for whatever reason. Sometimes it does not come out as planned, but other times it is better than expected. All I know is that I'm willing to take the next step, to put myself out there and make all the effort necessary for things to work out for the best. I have always been self-giving with my friends, it's no wonder I would go even further out for that special someone.

Love life for a single women in her late thirties is already difficult, for a gay woman it seems to be even harder. The stereotype of a lesbian relationship is that the women involved move in together on the second date. Of course, just like all stereotypes it's not that accurate, but in this case it's also not so far from the truth. What I mean is: as a group we women tend to want long term relationships and we dream of marriage/living together. So, it's only natural that when two women come together, that next step is taken a bit faster than with a guy. What makes things even trickier for a single lesbian in her late 30's is that most women in this age group are already in a committed relationship. But why am I saying all this? It's just another way of illustrating the difficulties of "Singletonshire" for women over 30.

It is very easy to start wondering if you're the last single person on Earth when all your friends are either married or in long-term relationships. Of course, it doesn't make things easier to have friends and family asking those dreadful questions such as "how's love life?", or making those even worse comparisons "you know Jane Doe was in the same situation as you and found her other half in the supermarket aisle". What about those comments about "a friend" who's in her late thirties and haven't got married yet that come with the sentence (and it's variations) "she's our age but she's still single, there must be something wrong with her." With pressure from family and friends who have already found their "someone", you might even get caught up in the terrible thought that something may be wrong with you when you know, in fact, that there isn't. It's just life.

As I navigate these waters, I find that the size of the difficulties are just as big as we make them. For some the geographic distance seems impossible, a huge deal, for others it can be an exciting challenge. But these "difficulties" are only as big and heavy as the size and weight we put on them. If you finally found someone with whom you feel good with, shouldn't you just take the next step and allow yourself to experience what could be the relationship you were always looking for?

Remember teenage years? It used to be so easy to find someone and let that new person in, but life was much simpler. We were still figuring out who we were. Near my forties, I feel like the older we get, the more of a world we become with our ways, likes and dislikes. It's difficult to open up completely to someone and let them into our world, our private space, so we focus on small "setbacks" instead of looking to the big picture. Seriously, take time to really think about the big picture and you will see that these "difficulties" are, actually, tiny.

Finding someone with whom to really connect is hard enough and we shouldn't create even more obstacles in our minds when we finally meet the person who will interest both our mind and heart. We shouldn't create even more difficulties to keep us from being with that special someone. In our late thirties we all have had good and bad experiences, easy and difficult closures, we all have scars, anxieties, fears. All things that can block us from finding happiness with someone new. But we also have lots of love, tenderness, and kindness to share with that one person who will bring a smile to our days, who will make our days even better. We are all longing for a chance to love and to be loved. So, why do we create stupid obstacles? We are not teenagers anymore which means that only physical attraction does not suffice, sometimes it comes after you got to know someone better instead of being the first thing that pops out when meet them.

Bottom line is: why don't we just allow ourselves to follow our hearts, take all those self-created obstacles out of the way and embrace the opportunity to be happy? What are we waiting for? Life rarely (if ever!) brings us exactly what we are looking for, so why do we keep on looking for someone who will fit perfectly the image we made of our ideal partner? Remember, none of us is perfect and we never will be. As hard as it is for a single woman approaching forty, I still have the strength to face the prejudice and the hardship of being alone in an age group where everyone else seems to come in pairs, and I will keep navigating the streets of Singletonshire with an open heart, ready to follow it as soon as butterflies start to tickle my stomach.

Bridget Jones' Diary - Universal Studios 2001

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PS: To all those "happily married/living together/in a long-term relationship reading this, do us singles a favor and stop asking when we will settle down  with someone. These things do not depend on only one person. If one doesn't want it, two don't get together, or have you forgotten all your years of being single just because you found someone earlier than we did? ;)