Item – I didn’t go to work today either. I got up twice in the night to rearrange my sanitary arrangements (seriously, the hell, Cute Ute? Turn it off). I am still pale and in pain (FUCK).
Item – I did, however, drag myself to the Hospital Out In The Countryside to get my Day 3 (day 2 to 4 will do nicely, thank you, according to Miss Consultant) FSH and oestrogen blood-tests. I discovered that if you go late morning, rather than early morning, you don’t have to sit among a regiment of pregnant women waiting for scans and passing the time by bitching to their mothers about how their boyfriend (who isn’t there) only has to look at them yada yada. Phlebotomy shares a waiting room with Maternity, you see, as ACU shares a waiting room with ear-nose-and-throat and, no doubt, leprosy shares with mental health and the artificial limb clinic shares with the renal unit. The place was deserted, anyway, and I was seen and punctured at once by my favourite vampire (he makes the vampire jokes), who is very, very gentle and quick and never leaves bruises. As I left, I told him he was the gentlest phlebotomist I’d ever had, and he said, twinkling ‘oh, dear, do I need to do it again?’
Item – And when I got home I lay down on the bed to rest for five minutes and woke up two hours later. Oh well.
Item – Anyway, I’m going to work tomorrow even if I end up passing out in the middle of the stacks. If no other reason than to remind my superiors that I really am sick as a proverbial.
Item – I have not allowed so much as a crumb of wheat (or gluten) to pass my lips for three-and-a-half months and are my periods ‘better’? Are they buggery. The last two have, in fact, been spectacularly, pointedly, worse. Nor am I happy miraculous pregnant. Nor is my skin any better. Any point continuing with gluten-avoidence, think you, oh wise Internets?
Item – As a macabre little plus, four days of nausea and eating maybe two rice-cakes and a little chicken broth every 48 hours has led to me reaching the elusive BMI of Under 30. I give it until I have an actual meal and promptly pop back up to Obese, but still. Nearly time to call Miss Consultant and get the Mills of NHS grinding on Project IVF.
Item – Oh, hey, do you think I’ll be allowed to call myself a proper infertile then? Because, you know, I’ve found several blogs over the years that all set out to tell the world one can’t possibly be a proper infertile until one has had IVF.