The Furtive Infertile: Notes from under a desk

Today, just as I had stuffed a much-needed, oversized hunk of chocolate into my mouth, the phone rang. It was the clinic. Really, their timing is uncanny.

"Hello, this is Mareighsgana Marmarmar," I garbled, strangling on my tongue and half chewed chocolate.

"You phoned us?" said the stern voice on the other end. There was a long, deathly pause. OK, obviously even though I had left a detailed message earlier, they were going to make me repeat the whole thing. Again. At my desk. At work. In my open plan office.

So I crawled under the desk and barricaded myself in behind some files and my gym bag.

"I was just wondering when we were going to get our letter confirming our appointment. We were referred, or supposed to be referred, by Dr Ticktock at the end of December, and we still haven't heard anything" I said quietly.

"Referred to where?" said Ms Sternietty Stern.

I felt like reaching through the phone and giving her a sharp neat slap. Firstly, I said 'where' in the message I left earlier. The message I had left in the privacy of my own home this morning. Secondly, I mean, where do ya think? Where does Dr TickTock usually refer people? Referred to Paris, France? Referred to Mars? Referred UP YOUR ASS?

"The um, Assisted Conception Unit," I whispered.

"Where? I couldn't hear you," Sternietty Stern barked.

"The Assisted Conception Unit," I repeated at normal volume, furtively glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention. Fortunately, most of the staff were huddled around a colleague's desk on the other side of the room cooing over baby pictures, so the coast was more or less clear.

"I'll transfer you," she grumbled, while I contemplated whether the phone line was long enough to turn into a noose, and if the filing shelves would stand up to the weight of my swinging body.

The Ass Con people were slightly nicer. I say "slightly" in the way that I find shots in my left arm slightly better than in my left buttock. She informed me that the letter confirming the appointment was on its way "sometime next week". Or you know, maybe Christmas. And that appointment would probably be for the end of March. Or possibly Christmas.

"Or it could be April," she chirped gaily. "Oh, and don't forget, the waiting list for IVF for fee-paying clients is at least six months. Or you know, longer!" Like around Christmas.

I wanted to ask about how we go about teeing up an IUI, but then all of a sudden half the office seemed to find a reason to stand in my immediate vicinity, so I gave up.

It's suddenly looking like a good idea to pursue private treatment in the Other City, or at least to gauge whether the waiting times are comparable. In a way that might be no bad thing. I've spent the last couple weeks in data-gathering mode about options - that is, for treatment and/or adoption, and am about ready to post my findings thus far. So I might as well fill in the jigsaw as best and fully as I can. Even if that entails more phone calls conducted in hushed, furtive tones.

"Mare?" I heard a voice from above, and looked out to see a pair of nicely polished shoes. It was my boss. "The meeting is about to start. Can I ask why you are under your desk?"