On Wednesday we went to the ACU (Assisted Conception Unit) to see the consultant, in case he, she or it had any grand plans for my innards this season.
- My miscarriage was not in my notes and Miss Consultant wanted to know why I had such a big gap between Clomid cycle 2 and Clomid cycle 3. So I had to tell her.
- To be fair to Miss Consultant, she was decorously sorry.
- Yes, she did say it was excellent that I responded so well to Clomid (aaaaaaaaaaaagh. And again, AAAAAAGGGGH), but said again how sorry she was it ended badly in the very same sentence, so there were no awkward pauses in which I could plot her untimely demise. And it is excellent that I respond so well to Clomid. I also respond well to clinics that keep good notes on their patients, but clearly I can’t have everything.
- Miss Consultant was, however, a little concerned that I had had an infection, and wants me to do another Hysterosalpingogram in case my one and only fallopian tube is now a mere piece of spaghetti and as much use as one in egg transportation. Because infections can cause scar tissue. Occasionally. This is only a ‘just in case’. Really. Nothing to worry about. No fucking irony at all in the fact I may never be able to get pregnant because, ah hah hah, I once got pregnant.
- And I should really stop freaking out and imagining worst case scenarios. It’s only a precaution.
- The radiology department made me feel utterly homicidal, because they only do HSGs between day 5 and day 19 of a cycle and I was too late to get mine in by day 19 of my cycle (‘We’re fully booked! We can’t book you in this time! We don’t care what Miss Consultant says!’) and have to call them when my next cycle starts. Which could be any time between mid-October and 2012. AAAARRRRGGGGH.
- Miss Consultant noticed I’d put on a bit of weight since my last visit back in April. Well. Yes. I was pregnant, and then I wasn’t pregnant, and then I comfort-ate my way through my dissertation. I do know I’ve put on weight. She gently reminded me I had been ‘doing so well’ with the weight thing, and that being very overweight was a risk factor both in not being able to get pregnant and in having miscarriages, and I didn’t want to go there again. At which point the Positive Thinking Fairy caught hold of my hand and led me away to an inner flowery meadow with blue-birds and kittens and a large G&T, carefully explaining that Miss Consultant had said she didn’t want me to suffer that again for any reason at all, especially not a preventable one. Nevertheless, Bitter McTwisted, who had been hammering to get in from the moment Miss Consultant mentioned the word ‘weight’, gate-crashed shortly after midnight to point out that whatever Miss Consultant meant, my lardy arse was a dangerous baby-murdering monster and everything from my miscarriage to the current collapse in house prices was entirely its fault. Even though anembryonic miscarriages are caused by genetic mince and don’t have time to be caused by lardy arses.
- So I am eating less and exercising. I was going to anyway. Is it just me, or isn’t there something Hugely Irritating about being nagged to do something you were actually really truly just about to do, actually? And the crisps I ate earlier this evening were an illusion caused by too many walks in the sunshine.
On Thursday I behaved abysmally, bellowing and swearing at H for a minor infraction of the current (as in, I only just invented them right then and there) house rules on serving dinner, and eventually sat down and cried and cried and confessed I was actually really upset by the visit to the consultant.
On Friday I had a headache. And was sick to death of myself. So H dragged me out to the countryside and showed me a great many trees, some cows, and a beautiful view of the rolling hills of Southern Britain. This cheered the both of us up so much we took advantage of the fact my period had stopped to resume marital relations, wherapon Cute Ute decided she hadn’t quite stopped after all, and now I am washing the bed-sheets. It was Very Gothick. With a K.
And tomorrow is my second Blogoversary. Three years of this (two chronicled here). Three years since I threw the Pill out. Three years of ultrasounds and x-rays and drugs and surgeries. You load sixteen tons and what do you get?