A couple of days ago, H sent me an email to let me know my mother had phoned him to tell him all about a private obstetrician a friend of hers she goes skiing with had recommended.
I completely lost my temper.
Eventually, H and I reconvened face to face and I said, dearheart, an obstetrician? What the fucking fuck? Is my mother on crack? Are you on crack? I repeat, what the fucking fuck?
And H said, well, aren’t you seeing an obstetrician already?
So my head exploded.
After a while, when I’d found the dust-pan and brush and swept up the shards of my skull, and H had dressed his shrapnel-wounds, we discussed the important technical differences between obstetrics and gynaecology. Then we googled this ‘obstetrician’ and discovered she was actually also a gynaecologist who specialised in PCOS and recurrent miscarriage, and therefore at least my mother is not on crack (H, well, after five-and-a-half al-bloody-mighty years of this shit, H has a moral duty to know the difference between obstetrics and gynaecology, is all).
However, I am by no means enchanted by the fact that my mother is now discussing the parlous state of my uterus and associated hangers-on with some middle-aged man I’ve only met the once while sharing canapés at the Après-ski. For fuck’s sake.
*Interlude with distant gong-like noise, actually caused by May banging her head on the side of the bath*
I was feeling decidedly ‘dear everyone who is not me, please butt out of my medical care’, with a side-order of ‘why the hell would I need to see yet another medical practitioner? Eh? Isn’t The Professor the official Best In Show round here? Eh? Eh?’. But then Miss Consultant, my NHS medico, who specialises in the bleedin’ obvious and not listening to her patients, and who is allegedly treating me for PCOS, finally sent me a letter (well, her staff finally sent me a letter) detailing the visit we had with her in November (more than two months ago! And they can’t even blame the postal service, because the letter is dated LAST WEEK!), going on and on about ovarian drilling and IUIs with, and I quote, ‘ovarian hyperstimulation’. Because, according to this letter, I don’t ovulate. She also sent a copy of this document (passive-aggressively, I thought) to The Professor, who had recommended no aggressive treatment at all (i.e., if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it) as I get pregnant all the time flying solo (duo. Actually. For biological reasons). There was not a word in this letter anywhere about recurrent functional ovarian cysts (which was my diagnosis of why I didn’t ovulate for two months, then suffered pain and bleeding, then ovulated three weeks after that, last Autumn), or possible teratomas, or endometriomas (which I also ‘mentioned’ at length), or the quite astonishingly massive amounts of pain I am in, or fibroids, or adenomyosis, or anything else that actually is wrong with me.
Of course, to be fair (let’s be fair. It’s good for the smugness muscles), Miss Consultant doesn’t know I’ve been pregnant (haha) since I last saw her, i.e. I do too ovulate, thanks for listening. I get to drop that bombshell on her next Wednesday. When I shall also thoroughly nix drilling anything at all. And when, hopefully, the results of my day 3 bloodwork, H’s latest semen analysis, and my scan will all be on the desk before her. I shall demand copies. And I shall remind her that Clomid doesn’t work for me, so what exactly was she planning on ‘hyperstimulating’ me with?
Suddenly, my mother’s suggestion of going 100% private really does appeal to me. If only because it’d be nice to have a doctor who actually pays the words I am actually saying to them the slightest attention. Even if no doctor has a clue what to do with me any more, and science has no more to offer, the least they could all do is offer me the basic minimum courtesy of listening to a word I say.