Item – So, low temperature again, cramps, traces of pink spotting, nausea, back ache, general desire stab someone. Anyone will do. This cycle is very nearly officially over, and totally officially ‘unproductive’.
Item – And that’s the end of the fifth cycle since I was last pregnant. I’m beginning to get concerned. To whit, H’s sperm count and motility is normal, I’m very gradually ovulating earlier and earlier each month, from day 25, to 21, to 19, to now 17 (ie each ovulation SHOULD be healthier and less genetically fried. Allegedly. So I’m told), we’re having a great deal of perfectly timed sex every cycle (I bet you all wanted to know that. Hey, it was good, fun sex, too. Please feel free to hate me. You’re welcome). So, you know, it could just be chance, bad luck, me being 36, etc., or something has gone hideously wrong. We shall see.
Item – In particular we shall see because H and I are going back for a ‘six month check-up’ with Miss Consultant of the NHS in a couple of weeks. And I shall a) ask for the precise and exact results of my last CD3 (well, 4, in the event) oestrogen/FSH/prolactin test (though I am not too terrified. I am ovulating with (for me) peculiar regularity this year). And I shall point out that during my periods, the right side of my lower abdomen develops an extraordinarily tender hard swollenness, which can take a week to disperse, and every single one of my Spidey Senses is screaming ENDOMETRIOSIS! ENDOMETRIAL CYSTS ON SATSUMA! PAY ATTENTION! PAY ATTENTION! I think I am going to have to demand another HSG and laparoscopy. I fucking hate the idea of demanding surgery again. But not as much as I fucking hate the idea of Satsuma being mummified in scar-tissue and blood-clots, or the One And Only Tube getting itself glued shut with the same. So.
Item – If Miss Consultant dismisses my concerns or tries to blame my weight again, so help me I will do violence to her office.
Item – I am so weepy and distressed I am actively short-listing counsellors (criteria – do you specialise in infertility and miscarriage? Can you spell? Does your website make me feel intrigued or pathetic and vaguely grimy?). I shall have to get back to you guys on this one.
Item – And yes, I am still weepy and distressed. Sorry. It’s just all got a bit too much even for me and my British Stiff-Upper-Lip (or in my case, fuzzy upper lip. Damn PCOS to hell anyway). I would very much like to get over myself and cheer the fuck up already, but I’m not responding very well to my usual method of alternatively cajoling myself with tea and ice-cream and shouting at myself for being pathetic and hysterical (I don’t think this works for toddlers either. I really need to work on my motivational behaviours. Hence counselling).
Item – So, today, I crept over to the chemist to get my prescription for volterol (diclofenac) per exit, and thence to the corner shop for milk and Phish Food, and then took Wombat’s splendid advice and spent the day curled up in an arm-chair, watching Fellowship of the Ring, extended version, plus all the extras and ‘making of’ documentaries I could take. And as I type, H is ordering takeaway. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat much of it (stomach has noticed sudden rise in prostaglandins, is objecting), but I value the principle of the thing.
ETA: Item – And I want a kitten. Everyone else gets an Obligatory Miscarriage Puppy or Kitten. I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one. Apart from the tedious technicality that our rental agreement bans pets. Fuck it. *Becomes irrational. Cries.*
(Term Obligatory Miscarriage Dog courtesy of Uterine Wars. I thank you).