Hello, petals. I’m feeling ever so much better, thank you.
I did love all your comments on my last post, threatening international mayhem and possible slaying if my clinic doesn’t produce something fabulous at the visit next week. But, my dears, HFF is completely and utterly right – have you read her comment? Please nip back and read her comment – and the reason I am not expecting much to come of this visit is that, reallio-trulio, there is not much that can be done for me. To whit:
I have adenomyosis. The cures for this are, um, hysterectomy. And that’s it. There is no cure that will also allow me to have a baby. As for palliative treatments, or treatments that will slow or reverse the condition for a while, well, they are, variously: months of Lupron or similar oestrogen suppressants; months of birth-control pills; months of the Mirena coil. All these also do not allow one to get pregnant. Therefore, beyond tweaking my pain medications, there’s absolutely screw-all to be done. Until the point I flip out completely and do one of the above for six months just to give myself a break (obviously, not the hysterectomy. I’m saving that for my 40th birthday).
And I get pregnant quite regularly (when my sodding ovary isn’t on a crazed SHAN’T bender), and Clomid makes me anovulatory, and arsing about with my oestrogen levels is Not Good for the adenomyosis anyway. My husband’s sperm is plentiful and can swim. IVF, with or without ICSI or PGD, does not at all increase the chances of NOT miscarrying for women like me. So there really isn’t much even the most eager of fertility clinics can offer me. As HFF said. (I shall get her to do all my posts when I feel shite. She’s very good).
What I do want, if possible, if NHS resources stretch that far, is monitoring, if Satsuma the Ovary of Recalcitrance acts up again. I would like to be able to call them and say ‘look, it’s day 21, and there’s been not a peep from within’ or ‘it’s day 21 and within is Making a Fuss’, depending, and they’ll book me in and have a look and be able to say ‘ovary’s doing nothing, take provera’ or, ‘hang in there, I can see a lead follicle’ or, ‘yep, that’s a cyst,’ or even ‘shi- err, shoot. I think a piranha is eating your fallopian tube.’ And, as a bonus, I’d like a 7dpo progesterone test, because 11-day luteal phases, while not in the official ‘man, you iz borked‘ ball-park of How Not To Do A Luteal Phase, are stupidly short and I worry.
And there you have it. I want a monitored cycle monitored on my terms, and the NHS wants to save money and wash its hands of me.
Anyway. Cycle 30-something-or-other. For the past five years, I’ve been begging and pleading with the Universe to let me be pregnant for Christmas, as all these infant-free, infertile Giant Holy Baby Celebration Family-Is-Everything Extravaganzas are… depressing. And then there was last Christmas. Where I was pregnant, after all. Hah! Hah, I say! So now I do not wish for anything baby-related and tinsely at all. I merely wish to eat a roast potato at some point, and perhaps get drunk at least once.