A little sweetness

Did you know about Organic Meltdown? I’m not supposed to be going anywhere near chocolate at the moment (damn you, diet! You had better work!), but once apon a time *ahem* I ate some *ahem ahem ahem* (what? One bar, I swear) of their chocolate. And so did H. H quite likes chocolate too, you see. And it is totally guilt-free middle-class hippy suitable-for-eco-worriers chocolate. And extremely tasty. (Which helps). Every bar sold allows the charity to save one tree in the Amazonian rain-forest – how cool is that? It was, in fact, my duty to eat that chocolate. I am utterly slacking by avoiding it. (Oh, my, this is an ethically complicated situation).

This evening I got a little email from them. H had kept the wrapper from said chocolate bar (Organic Dark Chocolate with Indian Spice, I recall). There’s an extra little thing you can do, you see. Register the wrapper online, and they’ll pick a tree from their tropical cloud forest in Ecuador for you and show you where it is on google maps (on a ridge above the confluence of two rivers). That chocolate? Meant they could afford to protect that tree. It won’t be felled for agriculture, or to make way for cocoa plantations (which are, you see, one of the main reasons the cloud forests in South America are being cut down. Like I said, this is eco-worrier chocolate).

H had dedicated that tree to Pikaia.

Eat, drink and be sulky, for tomorrow we diet.

Item – I am ill. I have a bad sore throat and sinus-ache and headache and general disinclination to get out of bed. H is being Chief Nurse Wonderful, but confessed his own throat was feeling scratchy this evening. Oh joy.

Item – My mother, on hearing that I was planning to do acupuncture, yay, verily, had even chosen a clinic, decided that no no no I had to go to her clinic, to do magic special acupunture the Harley Street way. Hurrah, she’s offering to pay. Boo, because I don’t want her bloody alternative practitioners anywhere near me, with their seaweed yoghurt enemas and raisin diets. She swears this isn’t that sort of clinic, but I know her wiley ways of old, and I am Reluctant with a capital R, because neither do I wish to be sold eighteen-thousand hideously expensive herbal and vitamin supplements. The clinic H had researched merely stabbles you with needles, and that is all I ask of any acupuncturist, Harley Street or local high street.

Item – My mother is a control-freak. I am a control-freak. I think I should control my infertility treatment and reproductive equipment because they’re, you know, mine, and she thinks she should control them because she made them. I am very tempted to add something bitchy here about the wonderful job she did of it too, but I shan’t, because Karma is always listening.

Item – Oookay, the weight-loss stall has officially pissed me off. We are stepping up the lunacy. Pass me the kitchen scales, for I must weigh my pecans. I ate several pieces of toast today, because from tomorrow I shan’t be touching bread for a fortnight. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we diet.

Item – Had a long chat with H about how amazingly bloody depressed we both are, and we vowed to spend more time on our hobbies and enthusiasms, before we turn into two little heaps, one of phlegm and one of black bile. Whereapon I promptly bought another note-book (I own dozens of note-books) if for no other reason than because it was small enough to fit in my back pocket. Now, if I actually write in it as well…

Item – And perhaps I will fish my head out of my fundament and get back to blog-reading and commenting like a functional well-brought-up and properly socialised blogger, and stop lurking, sulking, and wallowing in self-pity.

Nowhere near positive enough

Hang on, where were we? There were several issues and questions and sucharama that commentators presented me with over the past few weeks. I meant to talk about them (the issues, that is. Not the commentators. Hi, guys! Talking about you! Not really!).

The National Health Service – A couple of dear darling commentators have wantd to know why I, May, don’t do this or take that drug or what-have-you. I’ll tell you why. It’s because I’m being treated by the NHS is why. They take a very dim view of people buying their own medication and throwing it into the mix, especially without or against their advice. They have been known to refuse people free treatment for that kind of stunt. And, before you protest, by and large, I think they are right to. I am not a gynaecological consultant (or RE, as the trans-Atlantic cousins call them). I do not know what more or mixed drugs would do to Satsuma. I have PCOS, I have just over half the regulation number of ovaries. I am a ‘hyperstimulation candidate’ ipso facto. I get migraines. I have some (mild) allergies. I do not wish to fuck with either my health or my continuing free medical treatment. It may not be stellar medical treatment, but it’s FREE. Well, not technically free, as I am a tax payer, but free at point of need.

IVF – In my particular trust (and GOD does it BUG THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF ME that each trust sets its own rules about this – NHS FAIL), I can have two IVF cycles, and the money for them has been put aside, as long as I have a BMI of 30 or under when I start treatment. If, however, I have private infertility treatment beforehand, I forfeit my free cycles. This is why I am eating salad, exercising, cursing like a navvy, and not investigating private clinics just yet. Even though I do have a bit of money saved up.

Clomid – To do another Clomid cycle or not to do another Clomid cycle: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the ute to suffer The prods and pokings of outrageous ultrasounds, Or to close mouths against that pill of troubles, And by refusing end them? Will have to get back to you on that.

Injectables – I have not been offered injectables. Miss Consultant, and the IVF consultant, both think IVF is the next step, really, and are not prepared to waste more tax-payer’s money on shilly-shallying about. I think Miss Consultant is more concerned than she is prepared to admit about the state of the One and Only Fallopian Tube. Also, I am 34. I am running out of time. If I was 24, hell, yes, as many ‘see what you can do in your own bed’ cycles as I liked.

IUI – See above. The NHS thinks I am too old and ought to be getting the hell on with IVF, as soon as I can whittle my flabby arse down for it. This is cheaper for them, as they don’t think IUIs and injectables will work, so why waste money on them? And I can’t go and do them privately, see above above. Hmm. This all sucks a bit, doesn’t it?

Metformin – The NHS does not think metformin that good a treatment for PCOS, unless you actually HAVE developed Type II Diabetes. There’s some research somewhere that showed ovulation rates on met and clomid were actually worse than on clomid alone, go figure. Several doctors and consultants now have lectured me on the subject, the consensus being that if you lose weight on met, you will put it all back on in seconds when you come off met, and you will come off it to do IVF (they don’t care for medication variables in Blighty, do they?), so there’s no point. And your body, allegedly, ‘forgets’ how to regulate its own insulin while you’re on met, and so if you do come off it it’s harder than ever to keep the weight off, and more likely than ever that your pancreas will emigrate. Apparantly. And all the benefits of met can be reaped in more sustainable form by the whole eat-the-fucking-salad, do-the-fucking-exercise thing, apparantly. I don’t know. I hear so many State-side stories of met being vunderbar and fantabulous and miraculous. And diarrhoea-inducingly vile. I am currently actually losing weight without met, so am inclined to keep on avoiding it until and unless the weight-loss goes tits-up for reasons OTHER than Ben and Jerrys. I hate the idea of having to be on strong medication for life, and I hate the idea of screwing further with my already screwed metabolism.

Counselling – H thinks this is going well. We are having fewer and fewer appointments, with longer gaps between them, like giving up cigarettes. I feel frustrated with it. H will not bring his issues up in the sessions, and when the issue concerns H, or is to do with H’s behaviour, I feel disloyal bringing it up myself. Also, I am getting fed up with the constant focus on how to create situations in which H feels comfortable sharing his feelings etc. Childish desire to scream ‘But what about meeeeeeeee?’ recrudesces at these junctures. On the other hand, H is sharing his feelings a lot more, and instead of getting defensive and sulky when I challenge him on his avoidance thing, he is far more likely to take it on the chin and try to have a proper talk about whateverthehellitis. So. Counselling. It’s working for H. It’s working for our relationship. I am a special flower who needs extra cookies. Also, is it normal to feel you can’t share certain issues with your counsellor out of sheer embarrassment?

Acupuncture – H has found an acupuncturist specialising in infertility. I now have to call and book an initial consultation. I am a sceptical, atheistical, anti-hippy-crap person. And yet I think this is a good idea. Not necessarily because I think acupuncture works, even, though I have seen interesting studies about it, and anyway, I like the placebo effect. The NHS could do with a bit more placebo effect itself. But, see above, strong desire to be centre of attention, issues regarding, etc., thank you. Also, it’s (allegedly) good for migraines – and I am getting really really sick of them – insomnia, and general teeth-gritting refusal to relax the hell already. Not that relaxing gets a girl pregnant. Oh no. Ovulating does that.

The Size of My Arse -Working on it. Have now got to weirdly upsetting stage in which I can comfortably get into trousers that two months ago I could not do up, and last month I squeezed out over the top of like too much rising dough in a very small bread-tin, but haven’t lost a single ounce for two weeks now. Horrible fanasies of going back to IVF clinic looking trim as anything, clambering onto scales, and being thrown back out again because my bones have turned to lead and they won’t believe it’s lead and not lard despite the smaller trousers.

Satsuma – is thinking about it. Also, EWCM has reappeared. Assume Clomid Fail has worn off, leaving me with standard mind-fuck PCOS fail to be getting on with.

Work/Life balance – Gone to pot.

Father’s Day

H has been in an odd mood lately. Distant, distracted, tending to sigh and wander off mid-conversation. Not nearly as affectionate as is his wont. Normally, when we get into bed, he puts an arm around me and kisses me before we both roll to our respective sides of the bed and bury our heads in the pillows, back to back. For the past week, he hasn’t, and as I am considerably less cuddly and considerably more prickly then him, I wasn’t going to if he wasn’t, harrumph.

And anyway, I was in rather a sulk myself.

But by yesterday it was definitely bugging me. So I tackled H. What was the matter? I asked politely. H shrugged, and looked, as he does, long-suffering. The little irritations in life, work, the broken oven, didn’t seem ‘enough’ to be in such a mood about. And the bigger things… he shrugged again. I said, ‘Is this all because it’s Father’s Day tomorrow?’ Poor H. ‘I hadn’t actually consciously thought of that,’ he replied, ‘And now thanks to you I am thinking of it.’

I decided to shut up about it for a while.

And that night in bed, again, no cuddle. I’m afraid I felt my temper fray. I tackled H. In fact more or less got him in a head-lock and applied Wifely Pressures, aka emotional blackmail, the gist of which ran something like: ‘Husband of my heart, WTF is with the not cuddling thing? Because I am beginning to take it real personal. It’s bad enough me thinking my body is a stubborn heap of shit without you joining in.’ H assured me that that wasn’t it at all, and while he was frustrated that the clomid didn’t work, he wasn’t frustrated with me at all, and certainly didn’t want me to feel that he was. While this was reassuring, it did not entirely satisfy, and I persisted (and, dear Internets, when I persist, I persist, and H knows this of old).

So H finally told me that when cuddling me, all his emotions rise to the surface. Something about holding and being held loosens the lid of the box he keeps them stuffed into. In the day, this is fine, because he can let go of me and Sort Laundry or Do Things On The Internet or Make Tea, and distract himself from said emotions before they actually, you know, get him. However, in bed at night, in the dark, there is nowhere to go and nothing to do but face them. So, you know, safer not to cuddle.

I stroked his hair, and asked, what emotions, sweetheart?

And my darling H said, ‘I’m sad that we might never have a child together.’

And then he wept in my arms, in bed, at night, in the dark.

Several cuts of the whip

It has been a less than fabulous week.

It ought to have been a fabulous week. There were theatre visits, and a weekend, and my husband bought star-gazer lilies, and I saw friends, and a last birthday present turned up in the post, hurray!

But I was in a foul mood anyway, about the Clomid Doesn’t Love Me Anymore thing, so I was attracting anxst. As you do when your mood is foul.

On Wednesday, the evening of the day in which I had learnt this cycle was another Epic Fail (I am so good at those now), H and I joined my good friend E, and some friends of his, to go to the theatre (that bit was great, we saw Waiting for Godot, and it was AMAZING. A. MA. ZING). Anyway, E’s friend hasn’t seen me for a couple of years, but we always ask after each other, so, as we were walking along, she asked, ‘so, how’s the kid?’

Awful pause.

‘The… the what?’ I stammered.

‘Your kid? You’ve got a baby, haven’t you?’

‘No,’ I said, evenly (yes, evenly! I was impressed too!).

‘Oh, I thought you had,’ she said, looking confusedly at E, who having missed the exchange, smiled back.

Arse. E was one of the first people I told when I was pregnant, mostly because I nearly puked on him. Oh, don’t be angry with E, both his friend and I know he tells the other all about each, and I know eye-watering stuff about her, so it’s only fair. Only, he seems to have missed out the vital point that I did not, in fact, have the baby.

I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t face it. No doubt she interrogated him at length later.

Then, at work, a few days later, a colleague, let’s call them P for Parent, having told me all about the lovely things they’d done with their small children over the weekend, asked me what I’d been up to. I mentioned the theatre trips (I’ve been on several). ‘Oh,’ said P, ‘That’s the problem with having kids. You don’t get to have so many evenings out. You’re so lucky. I wish I could go to the theatre as often as you.’

‘To be honest, I’d rather have the kids,’ I said, stung, and not very evenly at all.

There was a horribly awkward pause. A LONG, horribly awkward pause.

‘No, you wouldn’t. They’re such hard work, they take over your life,’ P began, and then, thank GOD, the meeting started, and P had to shut up. This being the same P, remember, whose children are the light of their life, and whose weekend was one great ocean of family cuteness, three minutes previously. As P is quite a nice person, I can only assume this was a cack-handed attempt at comfort.

Because, really, I’ll totally take the cute kids over the theatre visits and lie-ins. And I’m willing to bet P wouldn’t take the years of fertility treatment, surgery, failure, and the silent bitter weeping of their beloved partner over the loss of their child, even with all the Godot versus the Space Wizards theatrical triumphs in the world thrown in.

Yesterday I was hauling my pathetic arse out of the incommunicado funk everything had hurled me into, when I got a migraine. It was a two-stage migraine. I ran home with one eye completely blood-shot, half-blind, nauseous, dizzy, collapsed, and the actual agonizing headache failed to materialise. I had a headache, but not as bad as that headache, and despite infuriating photophobia, was quite chirpy by evening. Aha, it was merely biding its time, and I woke up at dawn feeling like a rugby prop forward was standing on my head. Most of day spent in bed with head under duvet, as blinds utterly unable to keep a sufficient quantity of that bastard light out of the room.

A fine end to a pisser of a week. I think I shall have a drinkie.

P. S. The oven just broke, blowing every fuse in the house. When I have got over my joy that the modem survived, I shall swear a great deal and have ANOTHER drinkie.

Step we waily, on we go

I don’t really know what to do with myself now.

Obviously, there is the Next Step, and the Next Step is IVF, but I have at least a stone to lose, a stone-and-a-half, say, before the NHS will agree to do it. Enter hiatus of, I hope, merely several months, while I wrestle a) my love-handles, b) my lazy arse, c) my demons and d) my thing about chocolate when peeved, into submission.

What the hell am I supposed to do with myself for months on end, waiting to be treated? I was going to be doing clomid cycles, about which Miss Consultant wasn’t hugely optimistic, but clearly she thought, and I agreed, that they’d keep me busy. And clomid has shat on me and flown away.

H, who very much wishes to do or say something helpful, has suggested acupuncture. Hell, I’ll do acupuncture. I was raised by credulous hippies, and therefore am very keen on scientific method, double blind trials, results reproduceable under laboratory conditions, and, umm, the placebo effect. I may not have much faith in being stabbed, but I do have a lot of faith in having somebody prepared to take me and my failing, battered, ornery blob of a body seriously, and dedicating time and sympathetic attention to it (and me). This is not something the NHS has the money to do. It will treat me when I meet its checklist. When I don’t meet its checklist, it will turf me gently out until I do. How I get to meet the checklist is no concern of theirs.

(H was also raised by credulous hippies. In is case, he is still three eights credulous hippy, bless him).

I am actually losing weight, so I am not sure why I am having helpless hopeless wailfest moment here.

Except that I am 34. And if it does take me months to lose the weight, which no doubt it will, as PCOS makes your fat cells cling oh so determinedly to every damn ounce, well, then it will be months and months before I do IVF. I could be 35. My sodding lazy eggs could be withering away inside my sodding lazy ovary, week by week. Yes, my mother got pregnant at 38, so I should have no trouble on that score, or so family members have reassured me, and yes, but, this being the kicker, my mother never had PCOS. I should imagine that has a much greater effect on my fertility than whatever Catholic-Jewish Rabbit genes I inherited from either side of the family.

Anyway, I was bollixed from birth, so clearly didn’t inherit any of them. I had a dermoid cyst that destroyed an ovary – you’re born with those. I have an arcuate uterus – not a problem as such, but something clearly went slightly awry in the growing of me. And look at my hands. My ring fingers are longer than my index fingers, a sure sign of raised testosterone levels in utero, and does that sound good for a woman’s fertility to you? (though it also apparantly means I will be athletic, mathematically and spatially gifted and not so good with words. Yeah, athletic, haha, and I still can’t do primary-school level mental arithmetic without a pencil and the back of an envelope, regularly walk into tables and door-frames, and write sestinas for fun, so either I am an anomaly or the finger thing is drivel). Where was I going with this?

Oh yes. I feel that as I am reproductively botched, I don’t have the time to faff about eating lettuce and ‘concentrating on my career’ until next year.

I agree, written down this all sounds stupidly neurotic and vapouring. It’s only a few months. It’s fine.

It’s not fine. I’m panicking. It’s not fine at all. On with the needles.

Now what?

So, back to the ACU at the Hospital Out In The Country, in the rain, at stupid annoying mid-morning-time, blowing an entire morning at work out of the water, about which I’d normally be quite happy, but right now, what with me being all New Job Shiny Eager Busy Kitten, it is, I think I mentioned before, annoying.

(But I did get a lie-in, and breakfast in bed, as H is on a mission to prove that the row we had at the weekend was an aberration of the most aberrative kind and he is, yes he is, the sweetest man in England, dammit).

Nice Lady Wand-Monkey took one look at my insides with her trusty dildo-cam, and sighed, and said ‘your ovary is stubborn,’ not a sentence designed to fill the heart with gladness at all, though I did appreciate the sigh, and the general attitude of sympathetic disappointment. Satsuma, you see, has got rid of the 11mm follicle, and now only has about half-a-dozen teeny-tiny little 2 or 3 mm follicles. There is nothing there to ovulate with. Nada. Zip.

On the plus side, Cute Ute has grown a lining. So, you know, I can have a period, if I like.

Hur-fucking-ray.

Conclusion, I am now immune to Clomid.

Like I said, hur-fucking-ray.

I shall sing loudly until it all goes away

On Tuesday, I got up at 6 am, yes indeedy, so I could get to the Hospital Out In The Country by 7:30, as Nice Lady Wand-Monkey starts work at 7:30 am, presumably prepping IVF ladies for the Giant Stabby Day, and she decided she could squeeze in a quick look at Satsuma and her little side-kick Kumquat. It was day 12 of my cycle.

Well, she said, having poked about in my innards for some minutes, there’s an 11 mm follicle on Satsuma (she calls her ‘Your Right Ovary’ really, which is so very formal, perhaps I should introduce them properly?). Not much of a lining yet, though. Last cycle, I had a 12mm follicle on day 9, which then proceeded to do absolutely nada, so she thought it best if I go back on Friday (day 15) for another ride on the dildo-cam.

I went about my business for the rest of the week.

But I did notice a distinct lack of EWCM. And, my dear internetty intimates, I normally produce that by the gallon – the gallon, I tell you! – so I thought, wow, this Clomid stuff, at higher doses, somewhat freaky, huh?

Friday morning I got Nurse Capable, instead of Nice Lady Wand-Monkey. Nurse Capable is nearly as lovely, but did have to be warned that Kumquat is only a Kumquat and the more you look for her, the more she isn’t there. We then looked at Satsuma. 11 mm follicle. What? Why yes, 11 mm. The sodding thing hadn’t grown AT ALL. And neither had my lining, which was still very very thin indeed. It would seem that whereas my body flips 50 mg of Clomid the bird, it is absolutely steam-rollered by 100 mg and is now in a massive sulk, refusing to produce any estrogen at all. Silly bitch.

I go back for another scan on Wednesday (day 20, FFS), unfortunately not at arse-crack of dawn but, infuriatingly, mid-morning, so I have to take time off work, which will no doubt be fine with Alpha Boss, but pisses me off. And if nothing is happening on Wednesday (which, did I mention, will be day 20, FFS), well, a consultant will have to be called in.

Argh. Argh argh argh argh.

Just as I was leaving, Nurse Capable said, cheerfully, ‘Have you lost weight? You have? You’re looking good! Well done!’

Being May, I went away thinking, so, they tell you to lose weight because, on top of everything else, it’ll help you respond better to medication and regulate your cycle. So, you lose some sodding weight. Do you respond better? Are your cycles regulated? Ah hah hah fucking hah.

But I was a teeny weeny bit pleased.

What I did on my holidays, by May aged 34 exactly

Hello, hello, we’re back, we’re washing eighteen zillion loads of laundry – I’m sure we can’t possibly own that many pairs of socks, let alone have worn them all over the course of a mere ten days, but there they all are, and most of them have clearly been in big muddy boots for hours and hours.

As have my feet. Poor feet.

In the grand tradition of last time we went Oop North, I give you:

Holiday High-Lights –

• Sun. Lovely long days of bright and cheerful early summer sun. I am all brownish and glowy. Despite haphazard but determined plastering on of Factor 15. And standing on top of a hill looking out at miles and miles of finest English countryside, jewel-like in its very greenness, with a soft breeze ruffling your hair, and a red kite, or even an osprey, balancing above you on the same breeze, ah, well now. You can feel your very bones smiling.
• The ospreys. They have a nest! They have three eggs! No, wait, they have three chicks! The male has brought a fish back to the nest! Look! Look! The male is soaring right overhead! OMG, it really has a six foot wingspan!
• On the theme of birds of prey, twelve red kites as we drove up through Oxfordshire, and three as we drove back down. On the day we found out Pikaia had died, golly, a whole year ago now, we walked about for hours in the local cemetery, chiefly because it was deserted, and partly because it seemed appropriate, and we saw a red kite, flying away from us. As they’re endangered, and creeping back from near total extinction, I am a little superstitious about them. Seeing 15 of them on one holiday was extraordinarily exciting.
• Eating our heads off. We struck lucky and had some very fine meals indeed this holiday, and it’s only thanks to the fact we also walked for miles and miles that I don’t weigh 12 lbs more than I did last week.
• In fact, I weigh a couple of lbs less. Feel free to hate me. Thank you.
• Though I think The Hairy Farmer Family may have put paid to that. We stopped off on the way home, to raid HFF Wifey’s fridge and over-excite her child, her dogs and her chicks. Oh God. The Mississippi Mud Pie That Was Not Banoffee Pie. Oh God. Oh God. Chocolate custard was the one best thing about boarding school, and she gives me a pie full of it. Yes, I had seconds. Totally. I only didn’t have thirds because even I can’t store food in my cheek-pouches and still talk coherently. Also, there was the lemon meringue ice-cream.
• I still think I shall kidnap HFF Wifey on day and rush up to Gretna Green with her and we shall live in food heaven for ever and ever so there.
• The view from Aphra‘s house. Loved the apricot crumble too. In fact, Puddings of Wonder and Delight were a big theme this holiday. Hi, Aphra! Thank you for lunch!
• Femi.nax Ul.tra. I actually would probably still buy this drug even if it was made by Nazis. I love it that much. But see below.
• H, who was being as patient and sweet as ever, which is to say canonization looms. H full stop. H, high-light of my entire life.

Holiday Low-Lights (there’s always some) –

• The exceedingly wet day, waterlogged trainers, and the exceedingly wet socks that went with them, squelch squelch squelch squelch, all day long. Urgh (squelch squelch squelch squelch squelch…)
• Clomid-induced weeping tantrum over a pair of cheap binoculars. Or, more to the point, over the grovelling apology that H did not instantly produce when he broke said binoculars, admittedly while trying to adjust them for me and my freaky eye-sight. (He fixed them later. They work fine now.  Umm.). At least we kept another sight-seeing couple mildly entertained for some minutes, before I realised we had an audience and stormed off to the car in a kind of furnace of humiliation and rage.
• Tourists (oh, not us, we’re not tourists, dear me no. We’re visitors). We cleverly chose to birthday and anniverserate during Half Term, and landing face-first in the crowds of families trying to keep assorted rug-rats, ankle-biters and pout-faced teens entertained or at least quiet. No luck. The hills were alive with the sound of whinging. There are moments when I really, really really, wonder why the hell I want kids at all.
• My period. In full down-pour all Saturday and Sunday (Sunday being my birthday, of course, obviously, goes without saying, ah ha ha ha). We change a super-plus-extra tampon every two hours at these times, and are wearing a sticky-back duvet, because there are gushes, you know, and therefore we are also wearing a tunic, so people can’t see either just how padded the crotch of my jeans looks, or that the padding has been ineffectual, oh hurray. So the fact I went on a 7-hour hike on Sunday has everything to do with the availability of pub toilets and with Femi.nax Ult.ra, which, dear ladies, please listen, WORKS. I take it, I am not in much pain. I don’t take it, I curl up in a ball, blench, vomit, faint, etc. But see above.

Holiday WTF Moments (because what is life, without the odd WTF moment?) –

• The heavily pregnant waitress, waiting on us, yes, and gently pressing her belly against the table every time she brought us something. Torn between guilt and concern – why isn’t she sitting down and getting me to bring her stuff? – and irritation, because, you know, miscarriage anniversaries deserve to be free of pregnant bellies bumping into your very fork-wielding hand as you tackle your steak and try to think happy thoughts.
• Trying to hold a detailed conversation with the ACU about my monitoring scans, dates for, over my mobile phone, with a crap signal, in the rain, on the corner of a busy street, surrounded by tourists, most of whom were family groups. Managed it without saying ‘period’, ‘blood’, ‘ovary’ or ‘uterine lining’ out loud, though I did have to say Clomid at least twice.
• On which subject, hot flushes. In the middle of the night. I wake up running with sweat. It’s revolting. I don’t like sweating. I stopped taking the Clomid five days ago. Enough sweating, thank you.

• One of my eight brothers and sisters remembered my birthday. One. Unum. One. I will buy him a drink next week, and the rest can go screw themselves.

And now, I must go and do more laundry. Please excuse me.