This morning, H and I hauled ourselves back out to the Hospital Out In the Countryside to finally see the fertility specialist and get some diagnosis, prognosis, and just general progress on my horrible insides. I say horrible because, not satisfied with yesterday’s Festival of Humiliation, they have taken to bleeding in a manner I would consider extreme for someone with a punctured aorta. I am getting through super-plus hamster tampons in less than an hour. I am permanently thirsty. I am washing the bed-sheets again. It makes going anywhere or doing anything a Mission, with Planning, and maps to each and every lavatory, and a very large bag of sanitary products, and the nerve to shove little old ladies out of the queue so I can get into the loo first.
Perhaps I should just lie down on a pavement somewhere close to a hospital and sob until a nice man takes me away in a wheelchair?
But apparantly this is normal for someone coming off progesterone supplements. Apparantly. According to my GP. Who doesn’t have a uterus, the lucky swine.
(Though, just in time to prevent my murdering him with his own stethoscope, he did say it was unfortunate).
Anyway. Back to the ACU visit. We sat in yet another waiting area, with a broken clock and several other mute and disconsolate couples for company, for quite a while. They were running late, said the nice young nurse. We shrugged. This is the NHS. It runs late, therefore it is.
The Specialist herself was very sweet and clearly warm-hearted and earnest, but English not being her first language, we were reduced to saying things over and over again with vigorous head-noddings and diagrams of my uterus drawn all over the blotter.
The good news – H’s sperm are healthy and lively and correctly formed and doing fine formation swimming in sensible directions. The Specialist hinted, quite delicately, that the clinic he had that first unfortunate diagnosis from probably didn’t know their adipose tissue from their brains. The two subsequent tests, done at the ACU itself (oh yes, he did another one on Wednesday, while I was shuffling about town in my finest war-paint, but we’re so blasé these days…) are both Fine with a capital F.
The bad news – it’s all me. I have, and this is where the diagrams got really scrawly and complicated, a blob, and a wiggly bit, and a bit in the middle that got underlined quite a lot. And then she sighed and turned the screen of her computer round so I could read the report for myself, and so, if I may translate, what I actually have is as follows:
- PCOS. Well, yes.
- A submucous fibroid, approximately an inch and a half in diameter. What the buggery hell is that doing in there?
- A weirdly uneven section of uterine lining which is probably a small collection of polyps, all bleeding and oozing away. Which explains the lop-sided appearance of the poor old ute in the HSG.
- Adhesions inside the uterus. As I have never had a D&C or an infection in my life, I call this a bloody liberty. How the hell did I grow adhesions? I mean, yes, I have had uterine surgery, but that was to remove a Fallopian tube, so it shouldn’t have affected the interior, and I am now Officially Cross, and Very Baffled.
- Oh, and a mild case of hydrosalpinx at the ovary end of the One Existing Fallopian Tube. Not enough to block the tube, but still, what the…?
So, I am now on a waiting list for a hysteroscopy and laparoscopy together, as I may well have lurking endometriosis in there as well, which would explain the state of the poor tube. The waiting list is six months. Meanwhile, I simply must not get pregnant, were it remotely likely, as the poor little embryo would either bounce off all the above nasty obstructions, or be poisoned by the hydrosalpinx, or get swooshed out on a tide of dysfunctional bleeding. I must go on the Pill.
Ah hah hah fucking hah.
Oh, and lose weight. This from a Specialist who was herself practically spherical, so I ignored it.
And so we finally got home, looking a bit shell-shocked, H, in fact, looking horribly worried about me and doing some second-guessing of his own, while I felt like slapping the GP who’d told me to go away and try for a year when I first pointed out that I didn’t think all was cuddly with the Precious.
I asked to see the GP (dear old Doc Tashless, who sent me off on this journey of discovery in the first place) this afternoon, to get the ruddy prescription for the ruddy pill (hence discovering his opinion on the Scarlet Tides). I didn’t get a ruddy prescription, because he didn’t want to prescribe the wrong one and make everything worse, so could I get the ACU to fax him with whether it should be progesterone-only or combined?
Head, meet desk. And again. Better now?
But I did get him to give me a scrip for another round of thyroid tests, because, hey, why stop at five problems when you can round it up to half-a-dozen?
I am now waiting for the ACU to answer my messages and then fax Doc Tashless, preferably all before I bleed out altogether and H comes home to find merely the little crumpled husk of my remains.