I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept properly since Saturday night. On Tuesday, predictably, I had a sleep-deprivation induced migraine and spent most of the day thrashing the bed-covers into a kind of blanketty Mont Blanc with a pillow over my face. And then I drooled and hyucked at the Inauguration, and went back to bed wondering why on earth Aretha Franklin was singing “God Save the Queen”. Since when do the Americans want to save our Queen? Has Obama turned you all into Canadians as threatened? (Watched the news later – ah. Different words. Never mind).
I haven’t ovulated. Day 33 of this sodding cycle and I am just gob-smacked. Clomid works for me! Clomid worked for me three times in a row! What the fucketty-damn is so different about this time? Please? Anyone? Because ARSE but I am ready to do my own laparotomy just so I can grab Satsuma round the throat and throttle the lazy little bitch.
So, I called the ACU, to ask for advice. The Wand-Monkey Nurse, who I like, called me back to say, umm, there’s nothing they can do as I am not actually being treated by the ACU, I am being treated by the Fertility Clinic.
‘The Fertility Clinic.’
May gives telephone handset her finest ‘watchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?’ look.
‘The ACU does cycle monitoring for the Fertility Clinic at the Mothership Hospital, and lends them office-space for consultations, but they are not the same thing.’
May splutters that she had been under the distinct impression that they where the same thing, as Hospital Out In The Country, where the ACU is, is where she has had all her diagnostic work done.
Yes. They do that for the Mothership Hospital, as they have the facilities and the Mothership doesn’t.
Ah. This is one of those NHS things, isn’t it? Like why May can’t do IVF with the ACU at HOITC and has to do it through Some Other Bloody NHS Trust Altogether?
So, if May wants a scan or a blood test, she has to call Miss Consultant’s secretary at the Fertility Clinic who will pass the message on and if Miss Consultant decides it is appropriate, then Miss Consultant will write a letter (what is this, 1959?) to the ACU and then when the ACU has received it, the ACU will call May to tell her to call them to book a scan, by which time May will have ovulated, got a period, gone to her graduation ceremony, been promoted and/or sacked, and died of old age, surrounded by grieving NIECES.
For Fuck’s Sake.
The Wand-Monkey Nurse was lovely, and tried to be as helpful as possible, and wished she could do more, and what’s more remembered me and that I had a miscarriage, but could do abserlootely nothing on account of being bound, gagged, whipped and hung from the ceiling with red tape.
May said ‘thank you for all your help’ 87 times, and hung up.
May said a bad word.
Anyway. I am seriously stressed now. Seriously. Stressed. You could bounce rocks off my back-muscles, they are so pingy with stress. And I can’t sleep. I have not called Miss Consultant’s secretary yet, because I was at work today, trying to fly on one engine, and when I got home again, I thought, didn’t I mean to go to the bank? Also, the post-office? And call Miss Consultant? And then I thought, ah, feckit. And then I chewed my fingernails down to the quick.
Which leads neatly on to the counselling thing. I have not made an appointment with the Infertility and Miscarriage counselling service down at the Hospital of Doom yet (have you lost track of the hospitals yet? I clearly have). I am deeply put off by the fact that they only function between 10 and 4 on week-days. The thought, the mere thought, of trying to get that time off work to go see them makes me hyperventilate. The fact that all this stress and nonsense is affecting work (see migraine, above) is one of the things that is making me very anxious in the first place – to get help for the anxiety, I must start by flinging myself under the spiked wheels of the Work Reveal? Really? WTF? Surely that’s the grand finale after ten weeks of intense soul-searching and rebuilding of the metaphorical spine from the ground up?
H, meanwhile, looked up a private counsellor one of his work friends (also infertile, blimey, we get everywhere) told him about. And saw the price. And we both twitched a little. Excuse me, but how much is normal, per hour, for private counselling? Does anyone know? And can let me know, by private email if necessary? Because if that’s how much it costs, then that’s how much it costs, and we shall put on our Big Girl and/or Boy Panties, but really, £100 an hour? Do we get massages and free bathrobes?
And the first person to tell me to just relax, or points out that stress can inhibit ovulation, in the comments or to my face, will be hunted down and tarred and feathered and forced to walk barefoot to Aberdeen.