Feed Me, Seymour

I’m on day… what… 13? of the low-dose pill, and I have rather fallen out of love with it.

I stopped bleeding only this morning; the cramping continues, and I feel that a fortnight’s (moderate yet nastily persistent) pain and generalised discomfort is a trifle excessive. Low dosage hormones, it seems, are woefully inadequate for holding my wilful endocrine system in check. Not man enough for the job.

Loestrin is a TM175

 when I evidently require a T9040.

Although there’s definitely an argument for not bringing something that big and beefy anywhere near me at present, because I am liable, Hungry Caterpillar-style, to devour it.

The last two weeks? If it moves: I have eaten it. And its friend. And damn near the plate it was sat on, too.

And it’s a funny thing, but I’ve spent half the time complaining about acute nausea, too. You know, in between the continual snacks I keep inadvertently making for myself. 

So, what with indefatigable cramping, unassuageable hunger and abiding nausea, it’s exactly like being pregnant sans the demented agitation. All the fun of the fair!

God alone knows what hormonal uprising is taking place in there, but I am refusing point-blank to worry about it. I will turn up for my baseline scan in 18 days and simply make wry faces at them if I have plumped up follicles; I once grew a lustrous 20mm one during supposed pituitary downregulation, so anything is possible.

I’m actually quite excited at the whole prospect of this cycle, when I’m not being overly-cognitive or Han Solo about it. I am peeved that there isn’t a prospect of – or at least, a great deal of point to – making repeated assays with my beloved peesticks: I have ordered a trigger shot of 10,000 mIU of hCG that will bugger the playing field right up for them. Waiting on the vaguaries of a nurse’s workload to deliver quantitative beta results is not quite My Thing, though, primarily because I am a savage control freak and hanging about for phone calls that never arrive when they are promised is anathema to my stress levels. I am also aware that my clinic, although kind, clever and industrious people, are, like all their NHS infertility compadres, patently very overworked; as a result, they are quite spectacularly and monumentally dreadful at answering the goddamn bastard pissing motherfucking phone. This was bitter vexation to me when the NHS was picking up our treatment tab 5 years ago; the issue has become noticeably worse since then – and now, just for good measure, piling insult onto fiscal injury. I would rather pay a little more, I think, in order to be irritated a little less.

Rapidly changing the subj., before I lose my calm: the Queen is coming to Stratford tomorrow to reopen the Royal Shakespeare Theatre,


which has been a tedious and untidy time a-rebuilding.

She is going on a walkabout afterwards, and Harry’s school have been offered places in the goat rodeo crowd of posy-profferers. It was probably the thought of committing to a long wait with an attention-span-challenged 3 yr old that put me off – but there is also the mildly alarming thought of the inevitable lèse majesté that Harry would doubtless attempt to commit. Harry is a lightning-quick and tenacious Confirmed Cuddler – and sticky bears are ninepence. The royal apparel would likely suffer.

I think we shall proceed unofficially to a less favoured but rather more relaxed position along Waterside, and content ourselves with waving. Unless the antiquated treasure that is the Duke of Edinburgh wanders our way, of course, in which case I shall elbow down to the front, as he is one of the few people whose utterances I hang on with almost as much delight as Harry’s – albeit with a slightly different sensation during.

If they lock us up for accidental treason tomorrow, you’ll hear about it in more places than here.

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