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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11 Responses

  1. The image of Harry darting under the guard-rail and throwing his arms about the Queen’s August Knees delights me inexpressibly.

    As for your insides, I shall attempt to GLARE them into cooperative submission from here. Behave, damn you! Be GOOD! Do what the nice drugs tell you!

    Given that you’re PAYING, not answering the phone/calling back pronto is inexcusable. I shall attempt to GLARE them into submission also. *Concentrating face*

    What’s with me and all the capital letters today? Sorry. I am agitated all over your blog.

  2. *Comes back to check previous post for weird spelling and general lack of clarity and to mop up the agitation*

  3. The thought of Harry throwing his sticky hands all over the Queen fills me with glee! But, I see your point…

    I don’t really understand the NHS’s difficulty with answering phone calls. The thing is, receptionists are not exactly skilled workers, and their salaries can’t possibly be very high. So, in the grand scheme of things, there should be a plentiful supply of people available to answer the phone.

    Best of luck with the cycle…

  4. I can’t imagine that Queen Elizabeth would be distressed by a 3 year old little boy with a charming smile no matter how grubby. She’s always seemed to be the most gracious lady.

    And given her age, how many more opportunities will you have to see her?

  5. I KNEW there was a reason I spent all that time reading up on lèse majesté on Wikipedia earlier this year (besides not knowing what it meant, of course). I do like to imagine Harry cuddling with the Queen. You would be splashed all over the tabs! She would probably be very nice about it, though.

    Hope your cycle goes exactly as it should!

  6. I say: let Harry run free! As a sort of Test of True Majesty. For anyone who is not delighted by Harry has surely no heart, at all.

    Good luck with the innards.

  7. Confirmed Cuddler? I think I want to meet him!

  8. I cannot imagine the Queen being anything but delighted with Harry, sticky fingers and all.
    As for the NSH not answering phone calls or returning them, it is not confined to the UK. I am having the same problem here, in two different states with two different RE’s office while we try to coordinate things.
    I continue to keep my digits crossed that everything is going as it should. Stares at ovaries from across the pond.

  9. Apparently the Queen is visiting my fair country this year, too: I will make sure to bring my 3-year-old godson and his penchant for looking down women’s tops in public and saying “nipples!!” loudly. I’m sure HRH will love this demonstration of Irish hospitality.

  10. […] some time ago that he could go to London, because he wanted to go to the Queen’s house (after waving busily at her in Stratford earlier in the year) and play with her. This has evolved, after gentle nudging in the […]

  11. […] The Jubilee was ace. I do love a bit of flag waving. […]

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