Item – I went to the Hospital Out In The Country this morning, for my day 3 (or, ‘any day between 2 and 4!’ (which was just as well as it was day 4, but the clinic’s shut at weekends) bloodwork (estrogen, FSH, prolactin). Miss Consultant had ordered this all back in November, and I never got it done because I became pregnant that very cycle (I ovulated about a week after the consultation), and you can’t really do accurate day 3 bloodwork when you’re actually miscarrying. But hey! I’ve just had a normal, no-I’m-not-pregnant period, so we go back to Finding Things Out.
Item – This is, in FOUR YEARS of infertility treatment, the first, 1st, FIRST, day 3 FSH test I have had. The first. Primo. Only. Oh, I’ve had estrogen and FSH tested on other, completely bloody random days of the cycle, usually in the luteal phase, but never on the day it actually gives any answers as to the state of one’s ovaries. Is it me, or are my doctors incompetent drivelling moronic hacks who simply do not know how to do the most basic basicness of their basic bloody jobs? I mean, I know I have irregular cycles, which makes timing this awkward, but the HOITC has a daily walk-in phlebotomy clinic, as does my GP, so all anyone would have to do is send me away with the paperwork. Like Miss Consultant finally did in November. Reasons why no one’s done this test before? Even though I asked for it? I can’t remember. Originally, something about it all being sorted out when I did IVF (which I am not doing any more, on the NHS at least, on account of getting pregnant every third or fourth cycle, and then spoiling it all by miscarrying every single bloody time). Recently? Pfft. *Throws up hands, stalks into kitchen to bang cupboard doors about*.
Item – Anyway, the phlebotomy clinic was fine. Short wait, favourite phlebotomist (the expert, gentle one with a sense of humour who always gets a vein first go and it never hurts). The waiting room was, of course, full of pregnant women (good luck to them, I say. May they always be that grinningly pleased with life), and I now have a bruise despite the extreme gentleness of the needling, but it was fine.
Item – It being mid-January in Britain, I got drenched, soaked, half-drowned and sprayed with puddle-water (by a giant twatweasel who did it on purpose. The bird, I flipped it) on the way there, and on the way back (minus the purposeful twatweasel). And then I realised I had no pain-killers on me and the damp in the crotch of my jeans could, yes, be rainwater creeping up my legs, but could also be something worse oozing downwards instead. I rushed home.
Item – It was something worse. And I was so crampy I kept, helplessly, cursing out loud as each stab got me. The nauseating, dizzying cramps of days one, two and three of the cycle are worse, I think, because they are nauseating and dizzying, but these sharp knifing ones are pretty much as painful even if they are less all-encompassing-and-destroying. So I called work again and said, look, I’m really sorry, but (ahhh, shit) I can’t come in today after all (ow), but I’ll see you tomorrow (fffff… damn it). And then I took more painkillers and crawled about on the kitchen floor for a bit, trying to make myself a cup of tea and put the laundry on, yelping at intervals. Reading this back, I’m half horrified at myself, half overwhelmed with pity. But I feel a lot better now, and I seem (fingers crossed) to have stopped bleeding quite so extravagantly.
Item – H had a bad sad last night. When we’d clambered into bed, he told me he was sad about the most recent loss, and he wished we had a two-year-old too. We cuddled each other for a long while, and I kissed the tears from his eyes (which made me feel like crying too). Poor dear man, poor sweet good man. It makes me so sad. He’d be the best daddy ever, he really would. He already uncomplainingly cleans up vomit and does back-rubs without being asked. And if he feels this protective and nurturing towards me, just imagine how devoted he’d be to a tiny child. At least, you imagine it. I can’t without crying.
Item – H was still gloomy when he got back from work. I asked if he was feeling OK, and he sighed and said he has a ‘bad sad hangover’ from last night. ‘You could always blog about it,’ I said. ‘I’m much better now!’ he chirped eagerly, and sprinted away to put the kettle on. *I Raise my eyebrows*
Item – I had an interesting new variation on the usual dead baby dreams. I actually had my new-born baby in my arms, but we were being chased by Bad Guys™, and I had to do things like jump out of windows and climb down drain-pipes, knowing all the while that the slightest slip, hesitation, or fumble would mean I dropped the baby, or let the Bad Guys™ get her. I managed to wake myself up several times, so anxious I was starting to hyperventilate, but always fell back to dreaming about the same, desperate running, the leap from roof-top to roof-top I just couldn’t make, the knowledge that this was somehow all my fault.