Interesting developments

Meanwhile, wheels were in motion on the Great-Get-And-Stay-Pregnant Escapade of 2005 (ongoing, extended).

H had been hunting about for contact details for a highly renowned Professor who specialises in treating recurrent miscarriage and infertility. The NHS waiting lists for her clinic were all at least 8 months long (at least. In NHS terms this means 8 months if everyone else on the list emigrates or has triplets before August), and my mother is practically waving fistfuls of tenners in my face every time the subject of my uterus comes up (hey, she brings it up herself just so she can wave tenners at me), so we decided to ask for a private appointment.

And while we were in Wales, we found out we’d got one! In less than a month’s time! With The Professor* herself! Bother this rash of exclamation marks! But I’m actually quite excited about this! And breathe!

Anyway, when we’d got home again, and breathed, we found the email from The Professor’s secretary included a vast medical history questionnaire to amuse ourselves with, a request for a referral letter from my GP or gynaecologist, and a stern recommendation that we cease forthwith from disporting ourselves in the bedroom so we don’t get pregnant and mess up the investigating. On which points: –

1 – Filling in the questionnaire sucked. We had to do it in sessions, because the suck, it became almighty. Also, insanely complicated, as they hadn’t left enough room for all the Goddamn tests and procedures I’ve had done in their mimsey little columns. This made me feel like the Defective Freak, also depressed. And then H had to call his mother to find out during which trimester she’d had her miscarriage in, which must’ve been a fun conversation for the pair of them (we also found out she’d probably miscarried because she’d already been pregnant when she went to have her IUD removed so she could get pregnant… which sucks. Horribly. Irony is so very bloody. But at least H isn’t the proud owner of some seriously fucked up genetics. Felt more like the Defective Freak than ever, because, after all, it’s all about meeeeeeeeee damnit).

2 – Referral letter from my gynaecologist? From the very team that have driven me (a socialist, FFS, a socialist) into the arms of capitalism because they seem completely fucking unable to communicate with each other or me and keep screwing up my appointments and keep not telling me interesting information about my own damn innards and generally act like they don’t give a flying fuck –

[Pause to wipe flecks of spittle off the monitor] –

Sorry about that. I’m taking deep breaths. So. I think I shall get a letter from my GP instead. Heck, I’ve got to show him my toe anyway (but see below).

3 – H and I read the ‘no sex please’ bit of the email, and agreed that this was Very Sensible. Why risk another doomed pregnancy when it would a) interfere with all the tests and b) be really stupid if it delays finding out the Answer and therefore not having to have another doomed pregnancy and c) would be doomed. Did that make sense? Never mind. Meanwhile, my temperatures have been dead-cat-bouncing and Satsuma has been flinging her furniture about and slamming doors, so we can’t be sure what, if anything, she thinks she’s playing at. Tentatively, I may have ovulated yesterday (day 20. Meh. I’ll take it) but I am perfectly prepared to take it back later this week. We’ve been here before. Anyway, we hadn’t had sex for nearly a week, not even the not-baby-making version, and it wasn’t an issue until… Look, I have no idea what happened this afternoon. We just… *cough*. And only realised we should perhaps back off a minute and find some latex (we do actually have some, somewhere…) juuuust too late. This is how nice girls get knocked up in carparks, isn’t it? Oh well. If I was right about Saturday being Satsuma’s Big Day, it’s not an issue. Which practically guarantees I will be wrong about Saturday, won’t it?

(Oh God. I’m a grown-up and everything, and this is my husband we’re talking about, the man I’ve been living with for FOURTEEN YEARS. Anyone’d think I’d just met him in a club.)

So there’s that.

In other news, I’ve borked my sodding toe (Yes! The toe I keep especially for sodding!). On Friday night I was striding briskly into the kitchen to get a glass of water. There was a large solid suitcase on the floor, the sort with wheels and an exoskeleton, that doubles as Luggage as and when. I strode right into it, and it was wedged up against the kitchen table, so it weren’t going nowhere, baby. Something had to give, and I rather fear it was me. I took another step or two in stumbling disbelief before folding, and H came running in to find me in a heap by the washing machine, clutching my foot in the special rigid-cage-clutch in which you try to squeeze the wounded part as hard as hard without actually touching it, and muttering obscenities through clenched teeth. My middle toe was so astonishingly painful I couldn’t even let the duvet rest on it in bed. This did wonders for my sleep.

Next day, couldn’t put any weight on my foot at all. At least, not without yelping and toppling over. We were going to go on an outing to the Lovely Big Park and walk all about it admiring the English summer before it melted away altogether. As it was, I spent the day lying down or hopping about the house in a tearing sulk.

Today, the damn toe has developed a deep navy ring of bruising round the tip, and some deep magenta bruising tucked down between it and the next toe, and still does the most peculiar stabbing, grinding, tingling thing when I put any weight on it. I can’t actually stretch or curl any of the toes on that foot. Not as in, it hurts to try (which it does) but in that they just won’t bend. It’s weird and horrible. I shall show it to the GP tomorrow, I think, in case it gets me out of any of the more boring or tiresome parts of work.

(And thereby fell my Divine Punishment for disregarding the Word of The Professor’s Clinic. When enjoying marital relations, ill-advised or otherwise, there comes That Special Moment when the toes automatically curl. It can’t be helped. It can’t be stopped. It’s not something I’d ever wasted more than an ‘oh, how cute’ on before. It, err, put one off one’s stride, rather.).

*I’ve mentioned her name on this blog before (you can do your own detective work), but as I’m actually reallio trulio meeting her, and I most certainly am going to blog the hell out of the experience, I thought… reticence? Pootling in just below the radar? Might be wise. No people turning up on either doorstep saying ‘I googled The Professor and I found this‘. Eh. This semi-anonymous blogging thing is a bugger to navigate.

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9 responses to “Interesting developments

  • Heather

    Oh NO! Poor toe! That sounds horrible.
    I’m exceedingly excited about The Professor!!

  • katie

    Our specialist clinic (including also-well-published-but-no-books Professor(s)) doesn’t ask you to hold off on the ess eee ecks, I think cogniscent of the fact that many of the patients are very elderly and unwilling to miss out on 6 months of trying.

  • H

    On hearing the crash bang and air turning blue I nearly choked on toothpaste foam. On disposing of that I leapt forth to the rescue while rather stupidly enquiring “are you all right?” but I when the blue air suddenly evaporated into a sullen grey did manage to quickly amend that to “of course you’re not all right… what happened?”

    I have been waiting on May hand and FOOT all weekend feeling guilty about the luggage being there and my dense reaction.

  • QoB

    Sounds like The Luggage was trying to get its feet back.

    Also maybe possibly sounds like your toe/foot might be broken…. might! possibly! The bruising will be spectacular though, either way.

    Here’s hoping the Professor lives up to her reputation!

  • a

    Sorry about the toe! I have very resilient toes, apparently, as I have crashed them into more things than can be believed (usually wood furniture which is exactly where it was supposed to be – oddly) and have never even given myself a bruise. But, that may also be due to the fact that I have no circulation in my feet, and so no bruising can occur where there are no blood vessels.

    Hurray to progress in appointments! Hoping the professor lives up to his/her reputation.

    Here’s a little TMI for you…my husband is a big fan of the withdrawl method except lately when there is any remote possibility that I might be ovulating…and we’ve pretty much given up on trying. I don’t know if it’s base nature, accident, or subconscious. I guess I could go back on birth control, but it seems like a waste of money and you know, could cause blood clots, so never mind…

  • Ben Warsop

    Deep sympathy about the foot which really does sound extremely borked.

    Just to add jollity into the mix, do make sure that seeing the Professor privately doesn’t put you to the back of the Queue of the Virtuous, or mean they expect you to pay for everything from now on. Double and triple check that. My local paper had just such a story. Sorry about that.

    Good luck with everything.

    B

  • Teuchter

    Borked toes – not good.
    Appointment with Prof – Yaaay!

    And if you get shoved to the back of the Queue of the Virtuous or any other such garbage – I’ll write to my MP, come out onto the streets and demonstrate with an Eff Off placard and make huge amounts of supportive noise.

  • Hairy Farmer Family

    I am a Toe Stubber of talent, but have never yet actually managed to break one. My prefered method of responding to the pain is to tread heavily on the injured toe with the other foot – in some primeval attempt at crushing the pain to death, I think. Dunno what that’s about, I’m sure, but I do know that, sure as death & taxes, the words out of John’s mouth would be (if it sounded a particularly catastrophic fall andworthy of enquiry) ‘Are you all right?!’

    If you have managed to bork it so effectively by ‘striding briskly’ then remind me (and H!) never to deserve a swift kick in the pants from you. The kick-ee would definitely see next week coming up on them quickly!

    As you know, I am awed by your June! Appointment! with The Professor Whose Books We Own. I am, in fact Jelus, and want one of my own!

  • Twangy

    Impressed with idea of rapidly approaching appointment! Yes. Come on, Professor Lady. Know what to do, okay? Have tricks up sleeve or trouser legs or something.
    Be good to and for May.

    Sorry about the toe. Gee, yikes. Sounds nasty, and painful in a star-seeing sort of way. And indeed, quite banjaxed, and in need of time off work, so as to be rested on a velvet cushion. After my shoulder thing, I have great respect of limbs and believe they should be indulged. They can strike back, otherwise. Vengeful little beggers.

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