Eight to 12 weeks

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,” she said 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 as a nurse weighed me for the anaesthetist . “What if my uterus shrivels up while I’m waiting?”

“Don’t worry!” she trilled. “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 blocks? 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 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 the 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.

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Some questions on Clomid

The last you heard of me (before I started moaning about my age), I was celebrating my enthusiastic new GP.

To be fair, she was great. But the pace of the NHS could be beaten comfortably in a race by most glaciers, and so I have lost patience and gone temporarily private.

I knew I wasn’t ovulating, for I have been diligently using OPKs and tracking BBT for months. Thus, I was pretty sure all I needed was a couple of rounds of Clomid and, boom, a baby would ensue. At the time, it made sense that I went private.

I’ve just started my second round and… I dunno.

The trouble is, there’s no one to ask. Mr Private Doctor is an appointment only kind of guy. I have exhausted the GP’s pretty limited knowledge of infertility (although her “aww honeyyy…” face cannot be improved upon) and it turns out literally no one in real life talks about infertility. Apart from on internet forums. Which make Donald Trump look like a beacon of accuracy.

So, here are the questions I would like to ask about Clomid, but that I have no one to ask. Answers on the back of a postcard, please.

  • When actually counts as the first day of your cycle? Because, you know, the bleeding started about six days after ovulation this time around, and progressing into more of a… gradual buildup. So I kind of guessed what my second day might be.
  • Related: does it matter if you take it on the wrong day? Am I going to die of that?
  • Related: today I felt a bit fainty. Is it because I took it on the wrong day? Am I destroying my (admittedly already not entirely functional) reproductive system?
  • Is it normal to feel like there is something sitting on your chest, all the time? Sometimes it’s about the weight of a small dog – a chihuahua, say – and sometimes it’s more of a three-year-old. Either way, breathing is not always completely easy. But that’s cool, right?
  • You know how Clomid is supposed to trick your brain into thinking it needs to release chemicals that make you ovulate? And you know how if you’re stressed you don’t ovulate? What happens if taking the Clomid coincides with your most stressful week ever? Will it still work?
  • Say, hypothetically, I got pregnant, and then I started bleeding because that’s pretty much what I do, and then I took more Clomid? What would that do? Really more as a thought exercise than anything at this stage.
  • Does my level of positivity have an impact on it working? Because right now, I cannot visualise getting pregnant. I’m trying to be super positive… but I just can’t imagine it happening.
  • Will you hold my hand please?

By the way, I have an appointment with an NHS specialist in February… but honestly, I can’t help but feel a new geological era will begin before the NHS works out what’s going on with my inner workings.