Item – I finally spoke to my mother and Trouble is OK. She’ll be out in a week. It was absolutely Trouble’s choice to go to this clinic and I am so proud of her for admitting she needed help and going and accepting that help I could burst.
Item – My mother on the other hand is being a tad crazy-making (hah!) with the ‘think positive’ attitude. I don’t want to think bloody positive. I’m 37, I’m in pain three weeks out of five, I’ve been trying to get pregnant for seven years, I’ve had seven miscarriages that I know of, I’ve had surgery twice, and endless ultrasounds and HSGs and blood-tests and positive is just not in my repertoire. The best I can do you is bloody-minded. Because, to quote Macbeth, I am in blood Stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er.
Item – HR at work are sending me to interview with an Occupational Health Agency, whatever the fuck that is, because I have exceeded my ‘allowable’ allowance of sick leave this year, thanks to Cute Ute the Despoiler and her Monthly Rampage. As far as I can tell, I now have to convince a random stranger who may or may not have a medical qualification that I can be a productive member of the work-force, that I am not skiving, that a wrist support for my computer and a fancy work-light aren’t going to cut it, and that they really can’t recommend I be fired, please. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Item – The interview of fuckfuckfuckfuck is on a day I am fairly sure I will be entrenched in the glory days of Shark Week. I am trying to see if I can get it moved, or rerouted, or even cancelled altogether and never referred to again. My boss (who knows about Shark Week), said, unhelpfully, ‘but you’re not usually off on a Monday, are you?’ I have no idea what to say to that.
Item – The list of things to talk to my GP about tomorrow morning therefore grows exponentially. Occu-health third degree forms, prescriptions for private treatment (tricky!), the weeks of pain thing, metformin (again), possibly a waily fit about not being able to cope, my emmin-effin thyroid, what else? What else? Anyone? Beuller?
Item – And I’m not quite sure if I have ovulated yet (it may have been Saturday. It may have been the third blue moon in November), and I’m supposed to be calling the Expensive Clinic when I’m sure so they can fit me in for a quick uterine lining biopsy during my luteal phase, to see if it’s swarming with psychotic Natural Killer Cells, or if it’s more like London during the Olympics, a haven of functional public transport and very happy people ever so pleased to be there.
Item – Long straightened version of Dr Expensive’s Better Living By Chemistry Plan still in the works, I haven’t forgotten. I’m just being outnumbered by AAAAAAAAUGH at the moment.
Item – Apropos of which, H is more pro LIT than I am, especially as Dr Expensive said he was a good donor candidate. Given that he’s the one who’s donating the pints of blood and all I’m doing is the itchy bit, I’m inclined to let him have this one even though I read the science behind LIT and think ‘Where the feckin’ Lady Elspeth is the double-blind randomized control trial? Eh? EH?’