Item – Dear all, especially those of you that delurked to express your concern and outrage over the whole (grr! Argh!) NHS appointments debacle, you are all quite right and the Thing To Do would be to make an almighty MP-involving fuss, both about the balls-up and about the ridiculous lack of doctors and clinics and such to treat Recurrent Miscarriages.
Item – I, however, am fighting through a slough of exhaustion, depression, period-induced misery and anaemia, weight-loss, family-being-difficult, work sucking out my brain and soul. I do not have the strength or time or anything else, really, to be fighting the good fight up and down the political systems of Britain. When I am, say, 40, and have given up on all this crap and accepted my childless state, perhaps then I will have the time and righteous zeal to go forth and smite mightily on behalf of my Sistren-and-associated-brethren. Now, I barely have enough me left to keep myself and my marriage going without going postal at work. I don’t have enough me to do my creative writing course, or any creative writing at all, or to enjoy most of my hobbies, or even read Big Interesting Books properly.
Item – Yes, I know I very clearly need a good counsellor/therapist. I haven’t found one yet. I have a short-list. It’s progress. Admittedly, at this rate, by the time I settle on one the whole question will be moot because I will be 97, but still.
Item – About the piss-poor infertility treatment lottery and the even more piss-poor miscarriage treatment lottery in Britain, even I, who am doing both because I am gifted like that, think that really, holding up the NICE gold standard of 2 free goes of IVF to all (NB, just because NICE says so, doesn’t mean your NHS trust is doing as it’s told, ohhh no. You may find they think little magic water pills* are a better use of your taxes) and yet being so utterly shit at looking after women who miscarry over and over again, is a cretinous set-up. For example, whenever we do speak to a gynaecologist (you Americans call the REs, we call them gynaecologists who specialise in infertility or reproduction. Your way is possibly better, because our lot are fucking morons about endocrinological reasons for infertility) he or she pushes Getting Pregnant, specifically IVF, as the thing to do. So, wasting thousands of your actual pounds to get a woman who can get pregnant, pregnant, but not having anything at all to offer in terms of keeping her pregnant, is the way to go. (We wouldn’t be having PGD or ICSI because we’re both chromosonally normal. Ha ha ha ha ha). This makes me crazy.
Item – And anyway, I’m still too fat for IVF. Do you know why? Because I keep getting pregnant. Fuckin’ A.
Item – On a cheerier note, I tried on all my summer-weight trousers and they all still fit, so the half-stone of double-miscarriage misery weight is not the sartorial disaster I was fearing it to be. I could do with a smidgeon less lard about the waist-band, to make sitting down in comfort all that more achievable, but still. I lost two pounds last week (I probably found them again last night, what with the Ben&Jerry’s Chocolate Macademia and the *cough* many *cough* glasses of white wine. What can I say? I’m on holiday).
Item – The Cute Ute has discovered a new fun game. Bleeding slows down to spotting and stops. Hurrah! Only, wait for it, it hasn’t! Blood everywhere! I mop up, in a fury. Cute Ute stops haemorrhaging at once, looking all ‘who, me?’ innocent. Wait 14 hours. Rinse. Repeat. It’s only day 7, so I’m not freaked out, as such, but I will be if that sodding useless piece of rusting out-of-warranty deformed junk doesn’t Cease and Desist in short order.
Item – For my 40th birthday, I shall be giving myself the increasingly appealing gift of a hysterectomy. So bloody there.