Back in December, the NHS and I had a brief contretemps about letters, the sending of not equating the receiving of, and they could have checked before flicking us unceremoniously off the IVF waiting list. I went to see my GP and said, through lips stiff with tremble-prevention, this will not DO, and he agreed, and said he’d get me put back on the list.
Tah-dah! All the paperwork has started turning up in the post. And we fill it in and send it back, and they send us more. Sign your name. Find husband, get him to sign his. Fill in horribly photocopied and therefore somewhat illegible form that wishes to know about mental health issues, police records, and have we ever taken a small child of our acquaintance, loaded it into a cannon and fired it across the Channel? Fill in somewhat more irritating form that demands to know my weight (lots. Many many many. Lots) in the same breath as reminding me I can’t HAVE IUI/IVF if my BMI is over 30. (Umm. That means another 20 pounds to go. At least. And I thought I was doing so well. Did I tell you I am now a (British) size 16? I was an 18 in October). Wonder why none of these forms and letters mention a date, or even a range of dates. Sigh. Chew nails. Wonder if recent freakout had anything to do with any of this or whether it was all about the Epic Clomid Fail.
As for H, well, H had an anxiety dream last night. He has graciously allowed me to share it with you, for verily, it made me nearly pee myself laughing (Folks! This woman laughs at her husband’s anxiety dreams! Shun her!).
H dreamt it was time for the Treatment. We went to Unspecified Hospital, and then H had to have sex with me right there in the ACU. This accomplished, the doctors somehow measured the volume of his contribution despite the fact it was inside me, and decided (oh, poor H) that there wasn’t enough of it. So H was lead off in shame to the Wankatorium (which is much more fun a term than ‘private facilities for sample production’). The route, naturally, went straight through a large group of beautifully dressed concert-goers. The Wankatorium itself appeared to be a very large and ornate early steam engine. H had to get down on his hands and knees to crawl inside, and the inner chamber’s ceiling was also so low that when he lay on his back on the mattress provided, he realised he’d crack his knuckles on the ceiling if he tried anything….
I’m rather glad he woke up at this point. I daren’t think how this could have progressed.