So. Today we went to see the gynaecology consultant, the appointment that took so much wrestling to extract from the claws of the Choose and Book system the NHS is so rightly proud of (providing, of course, that they pride themselves on the more baroque arcana of modern labyrinth creation rather than on providing a health service). We arrived, control-freakily as ever, very, very, early. And of course, the waiting room for the gynaecology clinic is also the waiting room for phlebotomy, ante-natal and post-natal check-ups. H and I hadn’t had time yet to go through our notes and work out whether we had written evidence of every question we did want to ask. So, an interesting cross-section of the population to discuss cervical mucus and excess facial hair in-front of. And yes, there was a gloriously, delightedly pregnant lady, and a lady with a perfectly beautiful if rather grouchy babe-in-arms. Apparantly, in the States, they think this sort of thing (the barren dumped in to wait with the splendidly reproductive) should Not Happen, but in Britain, protesting because you’re feeling bitter and infertile that morning is regarded as Silly. And Making a Scene. Which we Brits Do Not Do.
Besides, the baby was seriously cute.
Not that that stopped me snivelling just a tiny weeny bit while watching A Child Against All Odds this evening.
H had even took the afternoon off work so he could come with me to the Country Hospital and make intelligent noises while a doctor who has earned the right to call himself ‘Mister’ trotted briskly through my paperwork and made notes all over it in unexpectedly legible handwriting. And it was quite easy for him to be brisk with the paperwork, as my GP, good ol’ Doc Tashless, had failed to send any.
Yep, that’s indeed right, my precious (and slightly mysterious) blood test results from way back in October did not make the bus trip and short walk from GP to hospital. I had hoped to finally find out what was really truly in them. I was much more disappointed than Mister Doctor. Mister Doctor simply ordered more blood tests.
And nowhere on any of this paperwork did it mention that I am one ovary down on normal and have been since I was eighteen. Mister Doctor sighed, and ordered an ultra-sound as well. It dawned on me that I wasn’t going to be having one today after all. Oh, well. And I had been so looking forward to seeing what the malignant satsuma was up to. Judging from the twingeing, pinging, cramping and whining, it was hosting a pyjama party for fifteen pre-adolescent cheerleaders.
And then I sat, patiently, meekly, nodding and looking sensible, through the Fat Lecture. *shudder*
I did know I was going to get one, because I always do, and I do know Mister Doctor is perfectly right, I need, need, need, must, need, to lose weight and if I do I may get some semblance of normal behaviour out of the sulky satsuma all by myself without recourse to Metformin or Clomid or Progesterone or any other items from the Infertility Bag-o’-Fun. It just sucks to be told it by a male doctor who weighs less than I do. And also, apparantly, I need a dietician. Well, yes, but all the nagging all my other doctors have done in the past have singularly failed to include referrals to dieticians. And I hate, nay, loathe, with venom, being told to do something that I have been TRYING to do, unsuccessfully, for years. Which goes for the whole experience of the Fat Lecture in the first place. H nobly tried to interpose his person between me and the slings and arrows of outrageous nagging by pointing out that PCOS, in fact, one of the main points about PCOS, as it were, is that it makes you save every calorie and keep it stored for ever and ever. Mister Doctor agreed that this was so, but it was still my responsibility to lose weight. And that he wanted to keep Metformin in reserve, as it were, for if being dieticianed and forced at gun-point to go to a gym didn’t work (remind me to post about Games Lessons Trauma one of these days).
We wandered out into reception again with oodles of extra paper-work, to book the follow-up appointment, only to discover I’d been entered into the system twice, and under the care of two separate consultants, so after some hasty wrangling in the back office, Mister Doctor released me into the care of the fertility consultant the peculiar 18th of January appointment had been for. Which explains that.
But as we were in phlebotomy anyway, and the nurse was at a loose end, I had my blood taken while said wrangling was going on. First sensible and convenient thing the NHS has ever done for me. Luckily I don’t mind needles much (I’m a blood donor, where they come at you with a thing like a drinking straw attached to a garden hose), so that was all very quick and painless and neat and now I have a teensy crater in my right elbow to match the impressive collection of teensy craters nestling in my left elbow, from all that altruism.
And then we went to radiology and handed over even more paperwork so they could tell me when I finally, finally, stop being teased by that naughty NHS and get the dildo-cam.
And then we went home, and I treadled madly away on the exercise machine for half and hour, and we ate very healthy things like green beans and tomatoes and chicken for dinner.
I am a little depressed.