Monthly Archives: February 2008

Because irony is the very air I breathe

Occasionally, my fertility charting site tries to coax me into buying a more premium membership by allowing me a free taster of all those cute features it could offer if only, if only, I’d let them have a peek at my credit card. I shan’t, of course. I don’t care for baby-dust (and ignorance) infested chat-rooms and message-boards. When I ovulate I don’t wish to be told, gleefully, what day the Infant Prodigy would be due if it was due, which it isn’t, dammit. Count-downs to Test Day are irritating – what am I, twelve and need reminding remorselessly what day my period is due? I know the day. I know the very hour. I have the gin. I have the tampons. H knows to provide the chocolate.

However, the free taster has out-done itself this time. The Test! Test! Test! Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! day for this cycle is… Mothering Sunday.

Ah, decisions

We’re going to try the clomid.

But you knew this already.

I nevertheless insist on my prerogative not to like it.

Meanwhile, day seven of the not-quite-two-week-wait. Waiting waiting waiting bored bored bored – well, the bizarre part being I have nothing to be bored about. I have far too much course-work and paid work to do to flollop about being bored. Also, remember the possible Job of Dreams opportunity? The person who would be my boss if I did get it has firmly encouraged me to apply and also firmly believes ‘something’ can be worked out around study etc. So much firmness is quite promising. Also, ARGH job applications ARGH ARGH.

Narrative imperative dictates that this would be the most bloody perfect moment to get pregnant and screw my promotion up. Therefore naturally I shan’t, as the Fates are too clever to fall for that.

Several matters arising from the arising

Why, do you suppose, have I started ovulating spontaneously? Well, yes, erratically, to be sure, but I am the Girl Who Does Not Ovulate. Was the Girl Who Does Not Ovulate (and, ha ha, probably will soon go back to being the Girl Who Does Not Ovulate).

Do you think it might be the exercise after all? For the past three months or so, three to five times a week, I have been walking from work or uni right across town to the Big Train Station, instead of taking the bus or the tube. This walk took about 45 minutes the first time, now takes 35 minutes, and will no doubt take 30 minutes by Easter. And, I have lost, well, not much weight at all, to be honest – I still tip the scales at Moby Dick’s Terrifying Little Sister. But my clothes are hanging off me, trousers that were tight are now loose, my bras fit weird (yes, I know, must go buy more bras – I hate buying bras, by the way, so very very few bra cups seem to be the same shape as my bosom these days. Overflowing at the top of the cup while there are folds and folds of loose fabric over my nipples is not a happy look, whatever the tom-fool flat-chested lingerie assistant may say. But I digress). If it is the exercise, and I suppose it must be, I shall have to go and trample flat every single person who ever recommended that I exercise more because if a single one of them says ‘I told you so,’ I will burst into flame; it will be for their own good really.

Which begs the question, do I take Clomid next cycle? Should I take Clomid? I am very aware the ACU thinks I should and are just waiting breathlessly for a chance see my undercarriage again. I am very aware that my luteal phase is short. I am very aware that Queen Satsuma could go on strike again at any moment – I miss a week’s walking because of rain, I eat a leeeetle to much chocolate, wham, she lies very much down and plays possum. For any given unspecified length of time from a week to a year. More than a year. Years on end. Whyever not. Spectacular little underachiever that she always has been.

I am also aware that my irritatingly melodramatic body likes to make a big deal of ovulating now. Ye gods and little fishes know what it’ll do when kicked into stupefied cooperation with a chemical cosh. Is this scaring anyone else but me (and H – oh, it is very much so scaring H)?

I am also also aware that Clomid is not magic special pixie baby-dust and has been known to Not Work. And sometimes, to Not Work And Make It WORSE. And blow ovary up with bicycle pump.

I have, let me see, until Tuesday week to decide what to do about this.


And the Satsuma totally owes H £6.75 for the prescription fee for the Provera we didn’t need.

P.S. Dear blogspot blogging people who chat to me – I am having real trouble signing in with OpenID. I think I have signed in, it says no I haven’t, and promptly deletes my comment for insubordination into the bargain, and after three rounds of this I do just give the heck up. I do love you really, and am reading, but if there’s no option to comment with just name and url, then I can’t comment. I am trying to work out what kind of a raging clutzathonic eejit I am being and what perfectly obvious step I am failing to take, and I’ll be back as soon as I’ve got it.

Queen Satsuma rises to the occasion

Look at that. She only went and damn well did it again. I think. Maybe. (Oh, come on now, certainty is for suckers). On day 23 this time. Something of an improvement on day 85. I shall buy her a corsage.

So that’s it. When I ovulate, I am damn’ near incapacitated by dizzy spells, nausea, and migraines. For four days.

Fuckin’ A.

This is the 2ww again. 2ww. Oh, the cuteness, it’s nearly as bad as baby-dust. And nothing is as bad as baby-dust except the phrase ‘baby-dancing’, which, oh, jeez, ewwww. Considering what you know of my double knock-out man-attracting technique of snarling ‘yes, tonight, I’ve got a bloody headache, so get over here or I’ll bite you, and stop whimpering,’ could anything be less bone-jarringly inappropriate than ‘baby-dancing’? Definitely more of a drunken morris dance in a pub car-park with sticks. Oh yes.

I’ve been drinking gin. Can you tell?

One gin. I have my standards.

Mostly this is me drunk on bewildered triumph. I did it! I ovulated! I am woman, hear me, umm, hear me whinge!

Being me, I am on a 1.5ww. Tuesday the 4th of March, we await the final confirmation of yesterday’s activity, if it was activity, because, really, me shake the haunting doubt it’s all a great con and there is no and never will be an ovulation? Ah hah hah hah.

Down here under the radar

I was writing an essay. This took far longer than necessary because I am feeling rather burned out and sick to the back teeth of libraries and everything in them. And this is partly because I always get burned out after Christmas – I have done it every school term and university term and in every job and in every damn thing ever. January and February, I am mere wreckage on the railroad of life. I will perk up in March, or when I get to see some more flowering trees. Either. Both.

But it is also because A Big Thing is happening at work – did I mention a dear colleague is retiring and I want her job, but am being danced through the many many hoops of dickheadery bureaucracy, also, have degree to finish, oh, and now my beloved line manager is moving away and argh argh argh argh argh? So sick of library. So sick of office politics. I only go to work now on the off-chance someone has brought cake. Ah hah hah hah.

And then, of course, I am hiding. Shhh. Who am I hiding from? Oh, Hope, of course. I am so not on speaking terms with that bitch.

For example, I may have ovulated (again! It’ll be a habit at this rate) either yesterday afternoon or this morning. And H and I have been so very, very, text-book good about the horizontal folk-dancing this week. Of course, there will be no proof for another few days, charting-wise, so Hope is acting like a demented spaniel on a leash, haring off, dragging me after her, haring back, tripping me up, stopping dead by a hedge and trying to dig under it to escape into new fields of wild conjecture, finding fox-shit to roll in… No, wait, scratch the last one.

I am being jumped up at and drooled on by Hope because there seems to be a Distinct Pattern, that distinguishes me actually ovulating from Queen Satsuma mucking about. That goes like this:

  1. Start producing EWCM.
  2. Stop producing anything at all.
  3. Start producing EWCM.
  4. Do this on and off for weeks, while cervix is on her grand tour of the upper torso.
  5. Randomly ache, ping, twinge and cramp in the lower right-hand abdominal area, just about where logic would dictate Queen Satsuma has her throne.
  6. Rinse. Repeat.

The ‘good’ version goes exactly like that, until suddenly, one day, it goes:

  1. Feel sick all day. Feel dizzy on and off, sometimes very (occasionally, liven it all up by fainting in a coffee shop). Develop splitting headache, decide you are having a migraine, go home.
  2. Day two, feel sick, feel dizzy, have headache. Also, feel very irritable and unreasonable and pick fights with husband. Note sudden and wolvish increase in sex drive on top of everything else.
  3. Day three, and again, if rather less sicky. Alternate bewilderingly between attempts to jump husband’s bones and attempts to rip his head off. Ovary is increasingly subject to bouts of stabbing pain and colicky aches. Basal temperature drops so low it’s a medical mystery you don’t need wrapping in a tin-foil blanket and intravenous warm saline. EWCM, cervix so high you wonder if it actually has migrated to your brain and turned you into a genuine hysteric.
  4. Day four, by now the ovary very sore, sex painful as a result, sex-drive still voracious, desire to bloody murder every annoying person in South-East England acute. Temperature back up. A bit. Cervix back down.
  5. Body settles down into no EWCM, or indeed anything much, and plans its sore nipples campaign for next week.
  6. After three days, the charting software draws a big red cross on day 4.

I am now on day 4, exactly as described above, and this would be the third time in a row my body has done exactly this before ovulating – the three days of feeling wretched, that is, though luckily I am nowhere near as dizzy as last time, and the headache was probably worse because of the bloody buggering essay from hell thing.

Anyway, as I said, we are Not Speaking to Hope. Thing with feathers my arse. She only has feathers because she mugged a passing duck.

Progress comes in very small boxes

Over there, on top of the refrigerator, next to the bottles of vitamins and the tub of fish-oil and the fruit-bowl, is a small white box, not much bigger than a match-box. It has a label with my name on it. It contains fifteen small boring pills. I am surprised it hasn’t crushed the fridge to the floor with the mere weight of its portentousness.

Clomiphene Citrate.

Oh yes.

H and I both took the afternoon off and hauled ass to the Hospital Out In The Countryside today, arriving beautifully on time for our appointment at the Assisted Conception Unit. Which was a pointless waste of energy, this being the NHS and what with everyone’s time being so very valuable, it was an hour before the consultant saw us.

The waiting room is also the Ear Nose and Throat waiting room, and the Gerontology waiting room, at least one of which will explain why there was a blond toddler sucking plastic bricks in the play corner – incidentally, there’s such a thing as Novovirus going around at the moment, and I’d’ve thought letting my infant suck foot-lotion from my socks was marginally more hygenic than letting him suck anything at all in an NHS play corner, but who am I to judge, not being a parent at all or anything – at whom I saw every single woman in the room stare with slightly rabid intensity. Unlike their husbands, who preferred the floor, the walls, their shoes, ‘Builder’s Weekly’ and occasionally even the ceiling. Blond toddler offered H his brick, at one point. Oy vey, the cuteness. Me, I was reading my book and refusing to take any notice at all. I’ve often wondered at people who take their infants to private RE clinics and so on. But not in the NHS. We don’t get to make nice distinctions between clinics, and we don’t get to glare at baby-bringers either. No, we get to wonder about the sort of administation that puts the sans-baby coterie in with the avec-deeply-snotty-and-repellent-baby coterie for an hour or so and lets the whole lot marinade in central heating cranked up to ‘polar expedition’ while outside the sealed windows the sun beats on the glass and all the trees burst into flower.

Anyway. The exceptionally brief and perfunctory chat with the specialist, who, for once, was actually the specialist named on the referral letter and also the woman who added such neat scars to my abdominal geography back in the summer, and who had yet another adolescent medical student in tow, went exactly as expected. Losing weight? Good for you. Not ovulating much? Here’s the clomid. And here is the provera in case you can’t be bothered to ovulate before Easter. Here are the instructions, call us when you get your period so we can poke you with a dildo-cam, we’ll have another little chat in June, get the nurse to weigh you on your way out. Throughout which the medical student sat in his corner and looked, well, bored out of his leafy little tree, really. I did get another glimpse of my pre-surgical innardly polyp collection, as my notes were all laid out on the desk – H was severely unamused by this as he has the greatest difficulty with anything at all of the sort, despite extensive desensitization training on CSI.

And then we went to the pharmacy, to collect our drugs, and then we went home.

Which was anticlimactic. As is, ah, so very much of life.

And I was in a good mood all afternoon, to H’s chagrin, as he’d been bracing himself to be all supportive and strong and of course if you present yourself to be leaned on and the leanee declines and skips happily off down the street, you fall flat on your face, like as not. Then later on, his parents called to ask complicated technical questions about email and also to find out how the clinic visit went, and as I sat there knitting and listening to H’s attempt at Clomid 101 for the Lay Person, I heard him say that the main side effects would be headaches and irritability, which might interfere with – at which point he stopped dead, realising what he was saying to his own father, and I shrieked, and I am told the parental unit said something flustered about having got H’s drift, and jeez, but I have to look these people in the face at some point.

I think it’s the result of excessive but unnecessary bracing. Poor H. He’s been in an odd mood all day.

Also, it interests me strangely that I am not in the least bothered that H’s parents know I am about to jump-start Queen Satsuma by chemical means (if however slightly bothered at the idea of them getting any kind of drift at all about the likelyhood or not of my willingness to lie back and think of England; I mean, I have standards), but am feeling decidely private about it when it comes to telling my own parents. Which will become very awkward in about seventeen minutes time as H’s parents do actually talk to my parents, and then my parents will talk to me, and I will feel like I have just been strapped to a chair with the kommandant’s belt while his second in command goes looking for a working desk-lamp with a 100-watt bulb.

I think I can speak of this without spitting now

My sister Trouble tried to call me this afternoon. When I saw her number on my mobile phone screen, I didn’t answer. I simply put the phone back down and stared at it until it stopped ringing. And again, when she tried a few hours later. Alas, poor Trouble, for all I know she wanted to tell me something ragingly important, that our mother has finally run away to join a commune or our father had been kidnapped by squirrels. Or maybe she merely wanted to chat in a nice sisterly way. But I, bitch that I am, will never know, because, at the moment, I simply can’t spare the emotional energy required to speak to Trouble in a calm and cheerful tone of voice.

You see, nearly a month ago, we had a family birthday party, and after it, H and I accompanied the slightly tipsy Trouble to the station, to see her on the right train and so on. We were having, or so I thought, a rather jolly conversation about breasts, in that, I have great big ones, and Trouble has teeny little ones, and we therefore have highly divergent ideas of what constitutes a Good Bra. Unfortunately, this veered into the territory of The Damage Breastfeeding Did To Trouble’s Perkiness – me, I was perky for approximately seventeen minutes at the age of sixteen, so like the fuck I care, and note, I did not say this out loud – and while this I could cope with, it rapidly descended to the Finer Details of Trouble’s Perfect Pregnancy, and all its attendant corollaries of People Who Get Double Chins When Pregnant Are Deluded Over-Eaters, Most Pregnancy Problems Are Caused By Laziness And A Bad Attitude and Morning Sickness Is Imaginary.

I was not tipsy. I had fainted earlier that day and was therefore staying very cautiously sober. Now, I had not told anyone at the party about the faint, as my family’s reaction to me being unwell invariably freaks me out, so my desire to sink my teeth into Trouble’s leg at this point was probably not entirely rational or explainable, certainly not to a tipsy tactless Trouble. So I went into stealth mode. I said ‘ummmm,’ a lot. I think I made an abortive attempt at one point to explain the whole, ‘not everyone has such polite hormones as you’ thing, but accidentally added fuel to the nuclear reactor of Bloody Stupid Things Trouble Was Saying. To put it bluntly, I wimped the hell out. I bore it. I may have muttered a few grouchy remarks to H at sundry points later in the evening, when we had ladled the offending baggage onto her train. And I have born it in silence for nearly a month.

For why, you might well ask? Well. I don’t know. Every time I tried to think about that night it was as if my super-ego was quietly taking my arm and leading away to a nice meadow with bluebells to contemplate. Perhaps if I tried to process it and thought too hard, what with The Fainting and The Ovulating and The Essays, I would have burnt out some precious and irreparable neural net or other, used mostly for coping, and been found lying on the mud of the river-bank the next day singing ‘Who’s that trip-trapping over my briii-iidge?’

Anyway. Here we are. And here is my list of things that still (still! To this day!) bug the ever-loving shit out of me about that conversation. Lecture. Drunken rant. Whatever.

  1. What’s with the gibberish about how perfectly perfect your perfect pregnancy was? Also, the whole, and it was perfect because you have such a great attitude and amazing depths of common sense and inner strength shit? Bollocks. Bol. Locks. You got knocked up by a complete loser you’d known for three months, and then, oh God, and then, you married him, and THEN, for it gets worse, you moved his loser ass and your own into your mother’s home and got her to look after all bloody three of you. And she still is. Getting mummy to cook you dinner and pay for a private midwife in no way counts as inner strength. Cunning, yes, I’ll grant you. And being lucky enough to avoid morning sickness, bloating, heartburn, piles and backache is just that. Luck. Also, I know you are lying about the backache, because I was there. You drunken idiot.
  2. I am infertile. Why are we having this conversation at all? What exactly can I contribute, having never been pregnant in my life? And what am I going to learn from it, being exceedingly unlikely to ever get pregnant in my life? What am I getting out of it, beyond a good face-rubbing in the superiority of your reproductive capabilities? More to the point what are you getting out of it? Huh? Huh? HUH?
  3. And it’s all such foaming arrant nonsense. Nausea is not a moral issue. Women do not end up on bedrest for three months because they are jellyfish at heart. Some of us have royally fucked up hormones. Some of us have less than a full and working set of girl-parts to start with. Putting on weight during pregnancy is not a sign of self-indulgent idiocy.
  4. That last one about weight-gain? A little close to the bone for your dumpy PCOS-afflicted sister with the big bazongas.

And that is why I am not answering the phone to Trouble. Not, at least, until after Wednesday’s appointment.

Yours tensely,

When I was a young and very silly teenager, in the ‘and I’ll show YOU, so bloody there’ phase of existence (which, to be frank, I never quite grew out of), I spent a few, a very few, months playing rugby at school. Mostly because my Dad expressed a general desire that I stop wearing Doc Martens and buy some ‘pretty shoes’.

Anyway, as a result of this tom-fool foray into the brutal world of contact sports, I injured my back. In fact, I actually managed to misplace a vertebra smack between my shoulder-blades (well, I say ‘I’, but I mean the stupid enormous bitch on the opposite team who tackled me around the neck, and by ‘misplaced’ I don’t think I mean it ended up under the stands or any such drama. It merely slipped very slightly out of alignment. But still). I ended up with a severe pinched nerve, pain ran all the way down to my little finger, I couldn’t grasp things properly with my right hand and if anyone tried to get me to turn my head I would cry with pain, because when I am not being ridiculously brave and bloody-minded, I am a Big Baby. Panic not, it took over a year, but it eventually got better and by and large stopped bothering me. Ah, the resiliance of youth.

There is a legacy, alas – I get very tense, my right shoulder seizes up. If it stays seized for too long, the nerve running down my arm gets pinched. If the nerve gets pinched, I get unbelievably foul-tempered. The more tense and pinched I get, the more it hurts, the tenser I get, and wouldn’t you know, it’s getting to the sleep-deprived and grouchy stage now, also, my elbow hurst and my little fingers are tingly, and it makes knitting difficult. As I use knitting as therapy (as in, ‘I knit so I don’t kill people’), this is very unclever all round.

Reasons I am tense:

  1. I have so. Much. Work.
  2. I have so. Much. Studying to do (mea culpa as I elected to do both my optional modules this term, instead of one in each term like a girl with a clue. Still, what can I do if both the modules I longed for were in term two?).
  3. A vacancy for the Job of My Dreams came up at work, as Dear Colleague is retiring. I can’t take the chance, as I am studying full-time, and can’t take on another role because it would make my job full-time, and any attempt to commingle the two would involve some serious violations of the laws of physics. I had hoped DC would not retire until August, as she had previously planned to do. Then I would have stopped, or, nearly stopped, studying, and it would be feasible. I had hoped also that I would be elegible to apply, but, suddenly, hey, they only want people on the same grade (say, Hearth-Rug, in the grand scheme of pay and status) as DC to apply, and as I am still on Grade Carpet Underlay, this, oh, argh, grr, because to be frank (may I be frank?) I could do DC’s job on my head in a copper wash-tub in a thunderstorm while being scrubbed down by a porcupine. Her job is easier than my current job. Also, I nearly have the qualifications, and the other people on Grade Hearth-Rug fucking don’t. But enough on this matter. I will be Speaking to my managers on Monday. I must speak calmly to my managers and I must not cry or throw things, so I shall now adopt a very zen attitude to the whole thing and Not Give a Monkeys.
  4. On Wednesday afternoon H and I go back to the ACU and see severely about this getting me pregnant matter, and I get to say ‘well, I did lose a little weight and I have ovulated (err, twice since September) and err, now what?’ and if they say Clomid, which they probably will want to say, I will be signing over ever-so-much of that time I DO NOT HAVE to the dildo-cam.
  5. I don’t know what scares and upsets me more, the prospect of getting pregnant or the the prospect of NOT getting pregnant.

My shoulder says, you amazingly stupid female. My shoulder says, all together now, squeeze.

I say, if you want me, I shall be drinking gin and reading knitting magazines in bed.

Reasons to dance a little

Funnily enough, the teetering tsunami of work at work did indeed fall on me on Monday. After a nice weekend spent doing Very Little and Feeling Much Better, Thank You, this probably served me right. Ah well. I have dug myself out from under it, and my To Do list has been corralled onto only the one sheet of paper, and I got to most of my lectures on time. All is well, and the sun has been shining, and here we are in a fresh! New! Improved! cycle.

More than that, I got some course-work back, and no matter which way I turn it up and squint at it, my tutor has still written ‘A’ on it.

And H is cooking me dinner.

I am whining. Please don’t hate me.

I am not at work. I should be at work, there is work to do at work, there are, in fact, appalling amounts of work at work, and on Monday I will be panicking and taking regular breaks just so I can kick my arse in private, what with the teetering tsunami of work threatening to crush me to my desk.

I am not at work because I am crampy.

Isn’t that the most pathetic thing? Here I am, TOTALLY taking advantage of the fact my work-place is cuddly and indulgent about sick-days, and lets you take ever-so-many before even beginning to give you the suspicious stink-eye. I know I could have gone to work. I could have even done some. I would have been unbelievably foul-tempered and inclined to screw up people’s lending records in new and increasingly daft ways, but I could have gone.

The truth is, what is really wrong with me is raging self-pity.

Back before the surgery, back in the time I can’t stop myself thinking of as The Bleedening (which is sad. Sorry), my cramps were worse. They were so very obviously worse. I used to cramp from solar-plexus to mid-thigh, I couldn’t pee, I’d get pale and dizzy and sick with pain, my back would hurt so much I’d thrash about all night like a beached fish, desperately trying to find a position I could lie in without feeling I was being driven over by a train. Not so fun, huh? Then the nice doctors went in and picked all the tethers of scar-tissue out and lo and behold! I could pee! And my back didn’t hurt so badly! It was amazing! I was so pleased at all this that I was rather chirpy about the fact I was still having bad cramps. And I went to the gynae/ACU/whichever they are people for a post-surgery check up and alas the consensus seemed to be, ‘you cramp. Sorry. Suck it up’. But hey. I then ‘conveniently’ didn’t have another period for three months and my mind was on Higher Things.

The cramps now, well, this is day five of cramps, as I had preliminary ones to go with the two days of spotting (and this is day three of heavy bleeding, though it is only heavy bleeding, not torrential Victoria Falls of Gore, and the most annoying thing about it really is the having to wear pads (with wings!) as well as a tampon the size of a guinea pig). This basically means I haven’t slept that well in five days, what with The Essay Crisis That Lasted Until Dawn, and the pain, which wakes me up, especially in the early morning when my bladder decides to get in on the act for old times sake.

This morning I just went, well, nowhere, really. I sat in a horrible little heap by the computer in my jim-jams, feeling guilty and embarrassed and arguing that I should get dressed right now and go to work right now and who cares that the ibuprofen hadn’t even taken the edge off? I could stand without falling down again. Go to work. Go to work. Go to work. And this went on right up until I was well past the ‘leaving on time’ zone and well into the ‘this excuse had better be good’ zone. And then I called in sick and took my aching pyjama-clad pelvis back to bed.

I wanted the surgery to fix, well, all sorts of things, but the bleeding and the pain would do for starters. As it is, I think it might be within reason to say I am bleeding heavily today because my uterus spent three happy months laying down the Lining to End All Linings, and I am very glad I ovulated and am having a clear-out before the whole thing started leaking helplessly, unstoppably, all over again. Or, possibly, women with heart-shaped or arcuate uterii bleed more because they have more room to grow endometrium on. Or, possibly, I was cursed at birth. (By a MAAAAANNNN. For not being a proper Catholic, no doubt). The pain thing, I am not so happy about. But I think I am doomed. I had painful periods as a teenager, painful periods on the pill, painful periods off the pill, painful bleeding whenever the bleeding got heavy – the fact I was a bit of a medical mess and therefore had things to blame the pain on was probably obscuring the fact that I was *sigh* cursed at birth.

Anyway. Enough whining. I am boring myself now.

Matters arising: Deanna and Geodhe’s comments in my last post, about Clomid, made me realise I had raised being wilfully obscurantist to a new height. Sorry. I am not on Clomid at the moment. This ovulation was entirely spontaneous (if you can call Mad Women Bellowing Daily At Her Lower-Right Quandrant To Just Get The Hell On With It spontaneous). I am going back to the ACU in less than two weeks, and then they will probably put me on Clomid, as that was the plan, wait and see, does it work by itself? Not really, bring on the Mood-Enhancers. My main worry is that they’ll say ‘but you ovulated!’ and throw me out, while I wail and plead because twice since the summer, and also, three months apart, and also, who say’s Queen Satsuma will ever do anything ever again? and also, the Luteal Phase, for crap’s sake!


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