Revving Gently

The effect of immersing Harry in a mainstream peer group has been fairly apparent. The ‘Neh-neh-ne-NEH-neh’ derisory hum – you know the one – suddenly emerged in his limited musical repertoire, and the day is punctuated by frequent utterances of ‘Why’ and ‘What’s dat?’. We get into a stickyish loop with ‘what’s dat?’ in particular, because he hasn’t yet acquired the vocabulary to do justice to his thoughts, and finds it easier to extend a conversation by simply repeating it ad-nearly-infinitum. However, having the ‘What’s dat, Mummy?’ conversation when he first wandered into the kitchen and found me jabbing needles in myself was a bit of a trial, and I was eventually obliged to tell him that Mummy was poorly and needed medicine.

Which isn’t exactly untrue: I eventually bared my poor suffering tonsils in mute appeal at our practice’s seemingly permanent locum young GP early today – he seems to have flowered a fair bit since the hip-dysplasia-Googling incident – who asked me lots of questions about heartburn, said throat appeared ok-ish really (and it does, I’ve looked. How can there be so much pain and so little inflammation!?), recommended salt gargling, doubted that an infection was still hanging on in there after this length of time, but cheerfully slid a prescription for amoxycillin across the desk anyway. Hellloooo green crap and thrush! I stoutly denied heartburn to him, but now I’m actually sat down, I realise that I do, in fact, have it slightly. Hmm.

Today’s scan went well: my left ovary has emerged from whatever ligament it was cowering behind, and has achieved glorious parity with my right; I have 7 follicles on each side that are starting to edge shyly into the teens. I had bloods taken on Monday that apparently decreed that I should stay throttled back at 225IU Gonal F per day; they are tentatively talking about retrieval next Monday. I am on course, they feel, to beat my previous egg record (10, of which 9 fertilised). There will be triumphant clucking from the Hairy henhouse if I find 12 or more in the nesting petri-dish when I wake up, and indignant squawks if I don’t.

I have just commented to John about my memory of him – quite spontaneously – reassuring me as soon as I’d woken up from egg retrieval: that they had managed to snare 10 eggs. ‘It wouldn’t have entered my bleary head to think about it that soon after coming round, but I was really grateful to know!’

John, with a level stare, ‘You asked about it 35 times in the first minute. And several times a minute for the next 35 minutes. Then you told me about something at work you hadn’t done. Then repeated it again. And then some more. Then you started asking about the eggs again.’


Fun times coming for him on Monday, then.

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