Since I lost Pikaia, 15 months ago, I’ve had only five ovulatory cycles. Of which only two seemed to have anything to do with Clomid, and one of those was definitely more of an ‘I’m not budging until this damned chemical shit is totally out of my system’ point-proving exercise than a drug-induced ovulation.
I have two strong and recurrent feelings about this, depending on whether you catch me having had, or not had, my mid-morning coffee-break:
- Well, you know, in a normal woman, who ovulates maybe twelve or thirteen times a year, no one would bat an eyelid if she still wasn’t up the duff after five cycles. Not one single eyelid. It’s within statistical ordinariness. It’s not something anyone would panic about. Keep trying. It’s fine. Deep breaths now. Remember, you shouldn’t expect yourself to be pregnant already, you’ve only had five goes since you were last pregnant. Now breathe, finish your coffee, and stop staring at the carrot-cake, you can’t have any.
- In fifteen months, fifteen, I only get five cycles? Is this fair? Is this cricket? How the hell am I supposed to get pregnant if I only get a go once every three fecking months? Huh? On average? Huh? Do you have any idea how crushing it is to get a period when you get so very few chances and you haven’t a fecking clue when or if you’ll get another chance? Crushing, I tell you! This is me, being crushed! Also, you’re between me and the coffee stand and I am taking no prisoners. Mmmm. Cake.
It’s exhausting. (Also, what’s with all the pre-coffee fecking? My inner Irish half (yes, both grandmothers were Irish) seems to suppressed by caffeine. How odd).
So, what exactly, do you suppose, are the chances of Satsuma stepping up to the crease a third time in a row? (Americans’d say ‘plate’. But we play cricket here in Blighty, so we step up to the crease, and anyway we’re just won the Ashes, so crease! Crease! Crease!). She definitely seems to be hinting that she’s over the Clomid and on with her life, doesn’t she? Do we trust Madame Satsuma The Lying Ovary of Lies’ hints? Do we look stupid?
However, H is optimistic. After all, I ovulated on day 20 last time, flying solo – I hadn’t even been acupunctuated yet. H cannot shake off his hippy conditioning, and has rather more faith in the Snazzy Clinic than I do, and is assuming they’ll make things even better. Me, I am cynical and now possibly even sneery. It’s a consequence of being punctured in special lady-organs improvement points for improving the condition of the uterus, and then going on to have a period the sheer suckitude of which actually sent me off to snivel in the GP’s waiting-room, surrounded by Things in Pushchairs Pushed by Great Big Bellies (my God, it was like farrowing season in there. All of you who know farms, know what I mean).
My next visit to the Snazzy Clinic is Wednesday. Words will be said. Pray God I say them in a calm and reasonable voice and don’t drag in Ben Goldacre, Richard Dawkins, or anything sweary.
Anyway, in any case, must crack on with the weight-loss thing, which has stalled again, and I am thanking my lucky stars it didn’t go backwards, considering my appalling laziness recently. And I ate an extraordinarily large portion of extraordinarily good lasagne tonight, which I doubt helped. In fact, I know it didn’t help. I made it. I saw exactly how much butter and olive-oil and cheese went into it. I’d be a nine-stone twiglet if only I was a shit cook.