I don’t really know what to do with myself now.
Obviously, there is the Next Step, and the Next Step is IVF, but I have at least a stone to lose, a stone-and-a-half, say, before the NHS will agree to do it. Enter hiatus of, I hope, merely several months, while I wrestle a) my love-handles, b) my lazy arse, c) my demons and d) my thing about chocolate when peeved, into submission.
What the hell am I supposed to do with myself for months on end, waiting to be treated? I was going to be doing clomid cycles, about which Miss Consultant wasn’t hugely optimistic, but clearly she thought, and I agreed, that they’d keep me busy. And clomid has shat on me and flown away.
H, who very much wishes to do or say something helpful, has suggested acupuncture. Hell, I’ll do acupuncture. I was raised by credulous hippies, and therefore am very keen on scientific method, double blind trials, results reproduceable under laboratory conditions, and, umm, the placebo effect. I may not have much faith in being stabbed, but I do have a lot of faith in having somebody prepared to take me and my failing, battered, ornery blob of a body seriously, and dedicating time and sympathetic attention to it (and me). This is not something the NHS has the money to do. It will treat me when I meet its checklist. When I don’t meet its checklist, it will turf me gently out until I do. How I get to meet the checklist is no concern of theirs.
(H was also raised by credulous hippies. In is case, he is still three eights credulous hippy, bless him).
I am actually losing weight, so I am not sure why I am having helpless hopeless wailfest moment here.
Except that I am 34. And if it does take me months to lose the weight, which no doubt it will, as PCOS makes your fat cells cling oh so determinedly to every damn ounce, well, then it will be months and months before I do IVF. I could be 35. My sodding lazy eggs could be withering away inside my sodding lazy ovary, week by week. Yes, my mother got pregnant at 38, so I should have no trouble on that score, or so family members have reassured me, and yes, but, this being the kicker, my mother never had PCOS. I should imagine that has a much greater effect on my fertility than whatever Catholic-Jewish Rabbit genes I inherited from either side of the family.
Anyway, I was bollixed from birth, so clearly didn’t inherit any of them. I had a dermoid cyst that destroyed an ovary – you’re born with those. I have an arcuate uterus – not a problem as such, but something clearly went slightly awry in the growing of me. And look at my hands. My ring fingers are longer than my index fingers, a sure sign of raised testosterone levels in utero, and does that sound good for a woman’s fertility to you? (though it also apparantly means I will be athletic, mathematically and spatially gifted and not so good with words. Yeah, athletic, haha, and I still can’t do primary-school level mental arithmetic without a pencil and the back of an envelope, regularly walk into tables and door-frames, and write sestinas for fun, so either I am an anomaly or the finger thing is drivel). Where was I going with this?
Oh yes. I feel that as I am reproductively botched, I don’t have the time to faff about eating lettuce and ‘concentrating on my career’ until next year.
I agree, written down this all sounds stupidly neurotic and vapouring. It’s only a few months. It’s fine.
It’s not fine. I’m panicking. It’s not fine at all. On with the needles.