It’s been a bad week: over Christmas the consultant realised that, whuuut, no one has had a proper look inside my uterus yet. After one failed embryo transfer, it seemed strange there was still an investigation to do, but she was insistent we take a peek.
“The waiting time is eight to 12 weeks,” said the consultant breezily.
“Don’t worry!” she added after she saw my horrified face. “You’re so young! It’s only a couple of months!’
Then, during a pre-operative assessment today, I discovered the waiting time for a hysteroscopy from right now is – you guessed it – eight to 12 weeks.
“But what if I misery eat and gain my entire bodyweight again in the meantime?” I yelped. “What if my uterus shrivels up while I’m waiting?”
“Don’t worry!” trilled the nurse. “You’re so young! It’s only a couple of months!”
Dear lord. Can we please stop using the word ‘only’ when it comes to interminable waits? Do medical professionals not realise that when you are infertile, your life is measured out in eight to 12-week tranches? I have spent the past two and a half years wishing away entire seasons.
Last night, in a fit of whimsy, I calculated I am now close to the exact halfway point between when we I started trying for a baby, aged 29, and the point at which my fertility falls off a cliff, aged 35. I have spent the majority of that time waiting patiently for eight to 12 week periods to pass.
Still, I guess once that fertility deadline does hit, medics will finally stop saying “but you’re so young!”. Everything has a bright side.
For a fun joke, today I enquired about the cost of a hysteroscopy and laparoscopy if I were to do it privately (the consultant thought she saw some cysts on my remaining fallopian tube, and thinks it needs to be closed off. Goodbye, final, weak hope of ever getting pregnant naturally).
£6,500. Jesus god. See you in eight to 12 weeks, then.