Status report: I have now been bleeding, in a lady-like but not alas always discreet manner (see Boxing Day), for thirty-one days.
Anyway. I took this morning off work so I could take H by the hand and lead him to the Assisted Conception Unit at that good ol’ Hospital Out in the Countryside. I’m sure I’ll be barging back in here to shout ‘And another thing!’ and to rant at you all in great detail about every microsecond of what happened, or crucially did not happen, but the up-shot is, the ACU want to know why on bloody earth the gynaecologist released me to them without sorting out the endless bleeding thing? Because that’s not a fertility problem, that’s a gynaecological problem and one that needs to be made better. And while the nice nurse taking my history did not exactly jump out of her chair and kick the door down on her way out to throttle dismissive Mister Doctor, she did tighten her lips and go and ‘consult with her colleagues’. Which, in the NHS, comes much to the same thing.
So, I have to phone the gynae lot and ask for a follow-up appointment. And then somehow convince a gynaecologist to investigate and treat the endless bleeding. And then and only then, have an HSG. And somehow I have to convince the gynae lot to sort all this out before the end of March because I need to have had the HSG by then so the ACU can, er, AC. And can we remember the mad wrestling game I had to win against the Answering Phone Tag Team of Doom to get the first bloody buggering pointless appointment in the first place?
*Distant sounds of screaming, crying, and a rhythmic thumping that may or may not be May banging her head on the side of the bath.*
Oh, and H has to provide two more semen samples, six weeks apart. Sounds more fun than an HSG, any day.