Miss Consultant’s poor benighted secretary, a cross between an angel, a slave and wikipedia, got back to me yesterday. Guess what Miss Consultant wants me to do?
Because I’m seeing her on the 25th and what’s two more weeks?
Well, for starters, if she’d got back to me when I first asked, it’d’ve been four weeks and pretty much enough time for another whole cycle, but never mind. It’s not like I’ve spent the two weeks I’ve been begging for her attention filling in IVF paperwork or any other little thing like that that concentrates the mind WONDERFULLY.
It’s not that I want to not do IVF, not that I’m hugely keen on needles and bloating. But I did want to give Clomid a proper actual try, you know, with several goes and a possibility of it working properly on account of my actually ovulating, before I jogged on to the next task in this giant game of Myst, Infertile Island Edition.
Because Clomid worked before (Hah. See? These infertility doctors are infecting me with their jargon. ‘Worked’ indeed). And if all the matter is, is I can’t ovulate or, at least, can’t ovulate in a timely fashion and before the given egg has been boiled hard in a soup of estrogen and LH, then surely Clomid is the answer. Therefore the thing to do is get me to ovulate before the end of the third week of the cycle, several cycles in a row. And then panic and bring on the needles. Surely. And all this fucking about waiting for clinic appointments because my consultant ‘doesn’t do’ calling back, is a complete waste of time.
Incidentally, H was on an IVF message board earlier this week (no, I had no idea, this was his own spontaneous action, and I was so startled at the information I think I forgot to be touched and delighted), and Miss Consultant apparantly has rather a reputation for being inaccessible and not answering her patients’ calls.
Dear Christ in heaven, why me?
In other Fairly Major News, my FIL had open-heart surgery today. He seems to have come through it fine, and they didn’t have to replace anything with metal or pig-parts, which was a worry and is a bonus (I mean, my MIL is an insomniac as it is – imagine asking the poor woman to sleep next to a man who clanks all night). He’s still sedated in Intensive Care (normal after a heart op), so we have to wait, wait, waitwaitwaitwaitwait, until tomorrow to get a proper update. H is like a cat in a rocking-chair factory, poor lamb. Think happy thoughts for H’s Dad, and H’s Mum, and grandparents, and brother, and for H too, please, dear internets.