I did not sleep Sunday night. At all. Not even in a dozing-between-glaring-at-the-alarm-clock-on-the-hour way. I lay under my duvet like a particularly rigid I-beam, and watched my thoughts hurl themselves endlessly against the bars. They’re not very bright at 3 am, my thoughts. And then, because I was not asleep, I kept needing to pee, so I kept waking H up. And H was being so very sweet about it. If I’d’ve been H I’d’ve beaten me senseless with the bed-side table on the third go-around. Perhaps he didn’t because I made a noble attempt to beat myself senseless on the bed-side table, by completely misjudging its position with relation to my ascending head as I forced a bend into my I-beam and levered myself off the mattress for the umteenth widdle.
So Monday morning, I utterly failed to go to work. I was tired to the point of mental incapacity, my head hurt, and, you know, sod it. Sod it all. Sod it very hard indeed.
In an attempt to derail Bitter McTwisted from grinding on and on about my immense uselessness to the entire human race not least my own self, I spent the day playing phone-tag with the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic instead. Oh, and laundry and dishes. I did them too.
I finally got hold of Senior Consultant’s Secretary mid-afternoon, and explained to her that I had seen Senior Consultant at the beginning of December, and he had sent me off to have eight vials of blood drawn, and then referred me back to the Assisted Conception Unit who would allegedly discuss these results with me, and lo, after setting my attack-GP on them I had received the referral letter at last, and excuse me? 26 of May appointment? I also pointed out I had had another miscarriage since I had seen Senior Consultant, bringing my Official Count to three. And that making me wait until the end of May to even begin to discuss the results, let alone do any follow-up or repeat testing, was Not On.
The secretary agreed, and told me what I really needed to do was get my GP to refer me to Professor Lesley Regan’s clinic at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. She, you see, is Britain’s ultimate expert on recurrent miscarriage.
Is it normal for the secretary of a given clinic to tell people that actually, they want to dump this clinic and go to another clinic? Even in the NHS?
And then she delved into the depth of the Mothership computer system to find my blood-tests for me, and found that they’d all been creatively mis-filed under the pile of beta HCGs I’ve had this month and I had to explain again and again I’d had eight vials drawn. Eight. She could find four. Was she sure those weren’t the beta HCGs? She would check. Tap tap tap. Mutterings about people messing with the system in her absence. Eventually I heard the printer on her desk start up and she assured me she would take the whole lot to Senior Consultant and get his interpretation of them and have him get back to me.
And then told me I should really, really get myself referred to Lesley Regan.
I thanked her enthusiastically and hung up.
Naturally I googled the everlovin’ out of Professor Lesley Regan, and yes, she does head the biggest Infertility and Recurrent Miscarriage clinic in Britain, and has written a book, and did all sorts of pioneering work on Hughes Syndrome.
So. Um. I must admit it was a very clever way for the secretary to distract me from the royal half-assedness of my blood-test results/ACU referral.
And now I must put my Big Girl Panties on and really go to work.