Barren Mare

A Fool's Errand

As a special Easter Monday treat, E and I had our very long- awaited appointment with the RE at the Ass Con clinic.

It's taken me a couple of days to recover, actually. I had to fix my hair, which was badly disheveled from the emotional rollercoaster ride, and to unwad my panties- which were in such an almighty bunch, I could barely walk, never mind sit at the computer.

For starters, from the minute we left the house, the trip to the Ass Con clinic was a little....fraught. The weather was horrendous. It rained all day, a grim relentless downpour, the kind where you get soaked just running to the car. We left in plenty of time, but since it was Easter weekend, and a public holiday here, we figured there wouldn't be much traffic.

We figured wrong. So very wrong. The roads were absolutely chock-o-block with cars. Clearly everyone had had enough of sitting around the house stuffing their faces with chocolate eggs, and had decided to head out for a little spin.

Several miles before the hospital, we came around the roundabout, and saw the long stream of red tail lights, going...nowhere. E. groaned.

"That's it. We're going to miss this appointment."

Now. If we were to make a list of things that one never ever says to a grumpy infertile woman, then "We are going to miss the appointment, for which we waited four months, because of a traffic jam" would be right up there, don't you think?

I did that thing- where I roar very loudly. There might also have been some pounding of my tiny fists on the dashboard. The force of my rage must have pushed the cars out of the way, because we made it through, got parked and ran ran ran through the raindrops into the clinic BANG on TIME.

And so, we met with yet another doctor. The first thing he asked was if I had any "papers" for him. I knew what he meant, of course. He meant that fucking HFEA questionnaire, which E. and I had filled out the night before, and which so incensed me I shall have to write yet another post about it. So more on that another time.

He also, foolishly, asked me my opinion about said questionnaire, and I duly mouthed off for awhile as E. tried to kick me gently in the shins. Happily, the doctor pretty much agreed with me that it is a pile of nonsense. Unfortunately, that was about the last time we saw eye-to-eye.

We began discussing the treatment plan, and lo! the diagrams appeared. Sometimes, when all this sketching is taking place, I am convinced that rather than illustrate the reproductive cycle, they are secretly conducting some sort of Rorschach Test.

Also, a lot of percentages were quoted. In fact, this doctor was so jacked up on success rates and numbers, I shall deem him "Dr Percent". Not a very catchy name, but hopefully this post will be one of the last times I ever have to refer to him. He then began talking about the timetabling for IVF. For us, the soonest we could do IVF at the Ass Con clinic would be six or seven months from now. This was not at all unexpected, though still disappointing. As the IVF chat progressed apace, I raised my eyebrows, and interjected,

"Of course, we'll be doing an IUI first, though, right?"

Dr Percent glared at me.

"Why do you want to do an IUI?" he asked, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest in a defensive manner. You'd have thought I had just suggested sacrificing a few goats to the Hungarian Fertility Goddess Boldog.

"Well, Dr Ticktock said....he told us...that was the next step. That we could easily arrange it. You know, data gathering, less invasive than IVF, etc, " I spluttered.

"We don't do IUIs here," he said. "They don't work. The success rates are bad. The percentages are....." Scribble, scribble of numbers and figures.

WHAT? WHATWHATWHAT? He might as well have said that they had discovered the earth is actually flat. I was so stunned, I didn't know what to say. He seized that moment of hesitation to quickly segue back into talking about how all the shots I would need to do for IVF were really "no big deal." Accompanied by a disturbing repeated jabbing motion toward his left thigh.

To cut what is becoming a long story short, we agreed that we could do an IUI if we really wanted to, even though it "wouldn't work". And the waiting list for that? Three more months. Even though it wouldn't work. In case we missed that- the "wouldn't work" part.

Oh, and getting my E2 tested? Cue another dismissive wave. According to Dr Percent, I don't need that either.

Then Dr Percent, with a perfunctory farewell handshake, handed us over to the nurse, who made an appointment for us to come back in July for another chat. Oh, and she didn't think the IUI was a good idea either.

"Just have sexual intercourse!" she giggled. Gee, I thought, slapping a hand to my forehead, why the fuck didn't WE think of that? Just have us some sec-shoooo-ul innnterrrrcoooooorse. Whilst relaxing, of course.

And as she proceeded to merrily start setting out the calender for the next IVF appointment, I promptly burst into tears. They really should put some fucking Kleenex tissues in these rooms, you know- that paper towel was very scratchy on my soft peachy complexion. Afterwards, because the afternoon had not been hellish enough, we went grocery shopping, which I loathe, and the stupid cow from the pharmacy gave me the wrong prescription. And then I had a bath and cried some more.

So what do I take from all that? Having sat back and Googled on it awhile, I can sort of see Dr Percent's point about IUIs. I'm not stupid, I know the success rates are not great. But to go straight to IVF- do not pass go, do not collect IUI- just seems so... drastic. Is it just me or does that seem drastic? Also, I know there has to be some professional medical detachment, but they talk about IVF like it's ordering out for a goddamn pizza. And neither of us got a good feeling about the place. We do have other good options for clinics- and if at all possible, I'd prefer it if there was no way in this lifetime that Dr Percent gets anywhere near my cooter.

I guess what is most upsetting is that I was really hoping from the bottom of my equine heart that on this, our third trip to that clinic, we would finally, after all these months and months of waiting, see some action. I suppose deep down, I truly thought he would kindly wave his magic wand, hand me some Clomid, and away we'd skip, IUI bound this cycle. I had told myself I would surely be pregnant by May.

Instead it turned out to be yet another total waste of time. A fool's errand, the sole purpose of which was to undergo what I (belatedly) realised was the Ass Con's "Welfare of the Not-Yet-Even Conceived Child" assessment.

OK. Roll on Plan B.

The shipping forecast

A friend suggested to me that in my recent post about how I should occasionally talk about how I am feeling, I cleverly managed to avoid any real discussion of how I am, in fact, feeling. Damn. Nothing gets past you people, does it?

I guess there is no short or easy answer to how I am feeling. It's a bit like the British weather- ask me now, you'll get one answer. Ask me again in five minutes, you'll get another. I think this is defined as "variable".

The thing about a diagnosis of "unexplained" infertility is that it is such a double-edged sword. There is no apparent reason why conception and pregnancy do not not occur. The tubes are clear, the swimmers viable, the egg trundles down the line, on schedule, as it should. Therefore, logically, you tell yourself to "relax", because you could get knocked up any month now!

But on the other hand, the very fact that you have reached the point of receiving an infertility-related diagnosis at all suggests that everything is not quite as it should be. And the months go by, and you begin to think that the your infertility is not so unexplained after all- they just haven't looked hard enough for the cause. There's a reason there somewhere as to why you DON'T GET PREGNANT- you just don't know what it is yet.

And yet you hope, because, well...why not? In the absence of something concrete to cling onto as to the why, the brain (which is quite happy at the best of times to devise all sorts of self-deluding theories) happily chugs along in merry denial mode. There's nothing wrong here! It's only a matter of time! Lalalalala!

Unexplained infertility is basically one gigantic head-fuck. And so like may people living in a state of constant head-fuckery, there is a pendulum action going on. Some days I tell myself that it will be fine, to be calm, that the drugs will work, or that nature will take its course as it should. And then other days I am overcome with the urge to run screaming in a blind panic down the street. AIEEEEEE! BARREN AND DOOMED!

It's like that expression, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they are not out to get you. " Well. Just because we are unexplained doesn't mean we are not infertile.

Add this to all my normal human emotions in day-to-day existence. For example, even without infertility, I get cranky. Like yesterday, when we were in the hardware store, and people were doing that thing where they stand, for hours, right in front of the stuff I want to look at. My whole life, this has driven me crackers. As in "WILL YOU MOVE YOUR GIGANTIC HEAD AND SELF OUT OF THE WAY IMMEDIATELY BEFORE I SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST WITH IMPATIENCE AND IRRITATION?"

Or my tendency to find things delightfully absurd. E. and I have a similar sense of the ridiculous and we laugh about things every day, all day. It's very rare that even on the darkest days that a giggle can't be raised out of me about something particularly goofy.

So what you have is a big swirling mix of internal stuff, all the time. Infertility is just one aspect to add to the overall composition. True, at the moment, it's a big aspect. It does tend to seep into everything else. But sometimes I have to stop myself and ask if I am pissy because of our situation, or just pissy because I haven't had enough caffeine.

In short, how am I feeling? Complicated. I feel complicated. My internal messages are frequently cryptic and hard to decipher, like listening to the Met Office shipping forecast. East or Northeast 4 or 5, but mainly 3 in East. Fair. Moderate or Good, occasionally Poor later.

Totally OK, and not OK at all. Panicked and calm. Optimistic and wracked with a sense of foreboding doom. Naive and enthusiastic, cynical and doubtful.

And a bit peckish- what's for lunch?

Idea stash

I revealed in previous posts that I have a slight penchant for the literary genre known as "chick lit". Which means light, frothy cotton candy confection novels, usually with a bright pink book jacket. The paper thin plot usually consists of the heroine shopping, lunching/chatting/visiting friends, and obsessing over men.

I always feel vaguely guilty for reading this stuff, as if my time would really be better spent on a more "improving" type of book. But honestly, I spend much of my working day contorting my brain over weighty and difficult matters. When I come home, I just want to be floppy.

What I haven't yet confessed to is that my taste in the pulpier types of fiction also extends to the odd Stephen King novel or two. Now, my enjoyment of the King oeuvre is more closely subscribed to say, vintage King, as opposed to some of the awful schlock he's churned out in rcent years. Although in a pinch I will probably read even the bad stuff. I particularly like "The Stand" which, to my mind, is one of the best tapdances on the grave of a post-apocalyptic America ever written. And who doesn't love a good apocalypse?

Anyway. In another novel called Bag of Bones that I happen to like quite a lot, Mr King tells the tale of a bestselling fiction writer in Maine. One afternoon, the writer's wife goes off to the grocery store and drops dead in the parking lot. And it turns out that, unbeknownst to the writer, she was pregnant. (You find this out on page three or so, I'm not exactly giving anything away.) The writer goes off to their house on a lake to mourn her death and hang out with ghosts. Literally. As you do.

One interesting element of the plot is that when his wife dies, the writer gets really bad writer's block. And seeing how he is a bestselling writer with things like three-book publishing deals, this puts him in a spot of bother. Lucky for him, he has actually churned out more than the required amount of novels per year, and has a couple on ice in a safe deposit box. A secret hoard of manuscripts to offer up to the publishing gods.

Sometimes I feel like that with posting. In case you haven't been paying attention, my progress along the treatment trail has been woefully slow. It's been mindnumbingly frustrating to deal with, and it can get buttnumbingly sore sitting in front of the computer screen trying to think of something new to say about it all.

Like the fiction writer in that novel, I occasionally get an idea for a post, and save it up for when we hit a really boring patch. But I worry sometimes that the hoarded supply may dwindle.

Other times I feel as though there is a never ending vein of infertility-related goodness to be mined, and if I wait long enough, another idea will come. So I am sure there is plenty more material there. However, it does occur to me that it might be fun to talk about something else on occasion. And so I am beginning to think about topics for those days when my infertility-themes idea stash is running low. If nothing else, to remind myself that before infertility (and maybe even during) my facets were- and are- many and varied.

I just thought I would warn you. In case you paid your admission fee expecting a documentary with ultrasounds and blood draws, and instead discovered, for no apparent reason, the chronicle of how I was once evicted at gunpoint by a crazy landlord.

Red Card

E. has a number of peculiar quirks that I find endearing, possibly because he is so different from me. For example, I tend to avoid background noise whenever possible. If I am trying to concentrate, I prefer silence. I cannot bear to have the television or radio on if I am on the phone. And apart from the occasional exuberant belting of Broadway showtunes in the shower, I also observe a sort of monastic quietude when I am home alone.

E., on the other hand, likes a running soundtrack. Much of the time he creates his own. He whistles, he hums, he carries on private monologues with himself out loud as he is cooking, driving, or trying to remember where he left his sunglasses. He cannot bear to eat dinner without music playing. And the first thing he does in the morning upon getting out of bed is turn on the radio.

Specifically, he tunes in to a sports talk show. To my ears, this program sounds like blahblahblah sports blahblahblah football ("soccer" to you Americans out there) blahblahblah. People phone up to express their views on the minutiae of the game, dissecting every detail in every play, every tactic, every move. For hours. And hours. And hours. Occasionally there is a little digression to talk about something like horseracing, but then it's back to football.

I don't know if I can accurately convey to you the the absolute obsession with which some people follow football here, but let me tell you, it's pretty all consuming.

My interest in football extends mainly to observing the trends in David Beckham's hair and tattoos. I also get relatively animated about the game during the World Cup. But that's because there is usually a football pool on the go, and if my team win I get something like £10 or so as prize money. Plus it's hard to escape it during World Cup time, as the whole country seems to grind to a halt when the England games are on. But otherwise, all the football chat sort of washes over me in a wave...

One thing, though, that I have picked up, partly from this barrage of radio chat and partly from watching the odd game here and there, is the notion of a "red card". For those of you who like me who are hopeless ignorant about soccer/football, this basically means a player gets ejected from the game for bad behaviour or misconduct, like a malicious foul. The player cannot then be replaced. The referee doesn't even have to say anything, he just holds up a red card, and off the player must go. Like David Beckham! During the World Cup against Argentina! Because, like a dickhead, he kicked that guy! And England lost because of it! And it was oooo, dramatic!

I've decided that it would be really useful to have Infertility Red Cards. You know, for those scenarios when somebody has said something so unbelievably stupid or crass that it doesn't even warrant discussion or explanation. Just hold up the red card and bam! That person is summarily ejected from the room/conversation/relationship.

I'll give you an example. The other day, I was talking with my (now heavily pregnant) Team Leader near the end of a very tiresome working day, in which everything had gone badly. Another person came up and started chatting to us, and quickly realised from our hangdog expressions that Team Leader and I had had a growler of a day.

"I bet you two wish you could just head off to the pub and drown your sorrows," said the person. "Oh, well, I don't mean you, Team Leader, obviously, given your condition. Hahahaha. But you, Mare, you could go swally down a few pints if you felt like it, I bet. Unless, HAHAHA, there was something you were wanting to tell us. HAHAAHAHA."

Awkward pause. Team Leader and I exchanged pained glances.

Excruciatingly, the person then went on, TOTALLY OBLIVIOUS, and grinning like an inane loon. "There isn't anything though right, Mare? That you were wanting to tell us?" Nudge, nudge, wink wink.

See? Infertility Red card, right there.

Since then, I've mentally handed out at least two red cards a day. It's actually quite satisfying. Now if only I could devise a lifetime ban for some of these people...

Unfinished Cookie

I am weaving, like a drunkard
Like a balloon up in the air
I am needing a puncture and someone
To point me somewhere

- Shawn Colvin, Steady On

A fellow blogger astutely observed some weeks ago that I spend a lot of time talking about our "plans", and rather less time discussing how I am feeling about things. So perhaps it's time to redress that imbalance a little bit.

I suppose part of the problem is that I have trouble articulating what I am feeling. For much of the time, I work on not feeling anything at all. This is actually a lot easier than you might think. E. and I are both busy people, and we have, apart from the infertility situation, the usual gamut of other things to occupy our time and and attention. I often wonder, if it weren't for the blog, if I would ever get around to talking about the emotional side at all.

In some ways, "just getting on with it" makes it easier to function. There isn't a whole lot I can do about the situation, other than work on ways to solve the problem. And so I am much more inclined to focus on planning, organising, and scheduling my way out of this mess. Planning is concrete. Scheduling is tangible. Getting out a calendar and cross-referencing my diary with E.'s diary is practical. Having a plan calls to my inner control freak with a clarion call- act, act, act. Do, do, do.

Of course, the most frustrating thing is that there is so much waiting around, and therefore, even that well-intended action plan is limited. But still, I hang my hat on the prospect of being able to logistically organise some sort of solution. And that in itself takes up so much time and energy that at the end of the day, there isn't much left over for long bouts of introspection. Or so I try to convince myself.

Unfortunately, if the subconscious is tamped down for long enough, it has its own ways of quietly rebelling. The best way I can think to descibe it is the "Unfinished Cookie" analogy.

The Unfinished Cookie phenomenon usually occurs when I am in the middle of eating a snacky thing while doing something else at the same time. In other words, I go to the cookie jar, select cookie, start eating it, and then wander off answer the phone, fold laundry, go to retrieve book left in other room, put on extra sweater because I am cold, check e-mail, etc. Off I trot, munching away...and then, because I tend to get distracted even further, I put down half-eaten cookie en route to wherever.

The thing is, no matter how off-piste I go, I always remember a few minutes later that there is a half eaten food item somewhere. Part of my brain says, "Oh, but you finished that, remember?" And my mouth says, "Nuh-uh. Cookie consumption incomplete."

So I roam around until I find where I left it, and lo! Uncannily, I am always right. I didn't finish it, and it is there waiting for me in partially gnawed snack cake form.

In some ways, the emotional side of our infertility problem is like that. I can put it down while I dash off to do other stuff- go to work, grocery shop, watch TV- but in the back of my mind, there is a nagging suspicion that something is left undone. It bubbles and troubles underneath everything else, and from time to time, it surfaces in an unexpected and sometimes ugly way.

Like having a meltdown at work. Or violently losing my temper when I discover that some part of our treatment plan has come unstuck. Like completely freaking out with fits of uncontrollable crying about being invited to a hastily organised wedding, because the bride is "oops pregnant". Or, like last night, having very weird dreams about being heavily pregnant myself, and feeling quite uneasy and distressed when I awoke.

I think I am always going to be the sort of person who bottles things up, or tamps things down. And in some ways, that's what works best for me. It lets me function, which in my own mind is paramount. I need, somehow or someway, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But I do think there also ought to be a better means of relieving the pressure. To create a slow let out of steam rather than being astonished by a sudden ghastly explosion, or being dragged under by an insidious undertow.

And maybe it's as simple as a reminder that once in awhile, I should pick up the unfinished cookie, and talk about how I am feeling.

IVF Holidays

I am all about the Plan C and D at the moment. In general, I like to plan things ahead, but also it occurred to me that with long lead-in times for treatments, it really might be a good idea to go ahead and get some alternatives teed up well in advance.

Let's assume that the endless waiting times in Scotland become insurmountable/unbearable. Well, we've always said we would go somewhere else if necessary. And, if we don't seek treatment here in Scotland, this opens up a lot of options- almost too many. I mean, we figure once we've reached the point of having to take vacation time and get on a plane for IVF, we may as well pick somewhere that ticks a lot of the boxes- price, exchange rate, location, treatment options, success rates, nearness to friends and family (read: free accommodation).

The funny thing is, once you start looking around at other countries, it suddenly becomes remarkably like planning a normal vacation, albeit one involving a certain amount time spent on your back with a dildo-cam up the fanoir. And honestly, if such antics are required, why not do it somewhere with better weather?

The concept of "Fertility Tourism" is nothing new, and according to the media, is actually on the rise. With long waiting lists and restrictive legislation in certain countries, people are very willing to travel to get treatments that they need.

But it did surprise me a little to find out that "IVF vacations" really do exist. In Barbados, if you so desire. Take a look at this . Tempting, no? They apparently even co-ordinate your flight and hotel arrangements. You can choose from the Luxury, Premium, or Elite Packages. If you choose the Elite package, you not only get perks like first class flights, all your meals and beverages, but also your own Patient Liaison Manager. That's like my dream come true, my own private IVF lackey. Oh, AND you get a mobile phone to carry around with you, so you don't have to worry about missing the calls with the results while you lie in the sun soaking up the rays. What service!

I love the picture on the home page. The couple on the beach are lying there with blissful abandon, holding hands, as if she didn't have to rush back to the villa for her next Lupron injection in ten minutes. Or the picture of the two couples laughing gaily together, not a care in the world. Who cares if I am barren, at least I'm sorting it out in my bikini in Barbados! Negative beta? Well, at least I got a great tan!

Or, what about an IVF holiday in Crete? Gives new meaning to saying "These medication instructions might as well have been written in Greek." Because they will be! Hahahahaha! Oh, the fun of an IVF holiday before you even get on the plane!

For those whose overriding factor is cost, why not try Eastern Europe? Lower prices and marginally higher success rates. Plus, um, the chance to sample some goulash.

As for us, well, I am now seriously pondering the possibility of going to a clinic in Europe. I won't say exactly where it is yet, but let's just say I have already been rehearsing certain key phrases in my head. For example, "¿Podría usted por favor ser más apacible con esa varita del
ultrasonido? Mis ovarios son absolutamente dolorosos. Gracias." Also, "¿Dónde puedo comprar un jarro grande de sangría?"

Watch this space. Or should I say espacio?

Old blood

I've discovered a wonderful new way to temporarily silence the avid infertile- give her copies of all the test results and other information in her medical file, and plop her in front of the internet.

Yes, it's a Google bonanza here at the barn since I managed to get my grubby little mitts on the pack of test results which Dr Best Friend handed over today. Actually, if I am perfectly honest, it was a bit of shambles this morning. My appointment was at 8.50, and there was somewhere I absolutely had to be by 10.15. Which in theory sounds like it may be enough time, but let me assure you, it is not- when getting to that somewhere involves first going into the office to pick up some papers, then getting in a cab for twenty minutes. Factor in Dr Best Friend running twenty minutes late and you have one very stressed out pony.

So she was in a bit of a flap, and I was in a bit of a flap, and to make matters worse, she hadn't gotten around to making the copies for the pack, as she had said she would two weeks ago.

Oh, Dr Best Friend, what an uncharacteristic lapse!

She went charging off to do it right then and there, bless her. But she couldn't get the file apart properly so there are some very interesting black marks down the side of the copied pages, not to mention what looks like a photocopy of a rather disturbing deformed finger on one sheet. Huh.

Actually, I have to say, having pawed through the pages a couple of times, there is hee haw of interest. That is not to say I have not been very entertained for three quarters of an hour or so, inputting all the random hormone results into the great maw of Google. But much as I was hoping to find something illuminating, I really don't think there are any revelations here.

What is interesting is what is missing. No estradiol (E2) results. I quizzed Dr BF about that in the frantic two minutes before she scurried off to do the copying, and she said that they don't do that hormone check as standard. Um. Gosh. You know, I have been undergoing fertility investigations for a year now, and I would have thought something like estradiol might have been on the standard checklist. Am I wrong about that? And why pray tell didn't Dr Ticktock ask about it when he was merrily diagnosing us as "unexplained"?

Then Dr Best Friend mumbled, in the midst of all the flurry of activity, that maybe she could ask the lab to run the estradiol test on "old blood". By that point I really was about to be very late indeed, and so I ended up having to run out of the door (managing to snag my gym bag on the door handle, nearly tearing off my left arm in the process). So we didn't discuss that option in any depth. But if I am not much mistaken, an estradiol test, like FSH, should be done on Day 3. Given that my last Day 3 FSH test was almost exactly a year ago, I kinda doubt that my old blood is really all that viable somehow. Besides, why make do with old blood when I have so much nice new blood right here in my equine veins?

On the upside, the tests for HIV and Hep B&C were negative for both me and E. Hurrah.

Change of plan to the change of plan

It's one step forward, two steps back here on the treatment trail. Our recent change of plan has now had yet a further change of plan. This happened a couple of weeks ago, but what with my adventures in Popsicle Land, I am only just getting around to telling you about it. I'll try to keep it simple, but I am beginning to think that if things carry on this way, I am going to need to start using Excel spreadsheets to keep track of what is happening.

To briefly recap where we had gotten to- we felt it was taking too long to get seen at the Ass Con Centre, so we decided to seek treatment in the Other City ("the O.C."), pending a number of other tests which they required of us before we could be seen.

In pursuit of the necessary bloodletting, I went to see Dr Best Friend a couple weeks ago, and I mentioned to her that the O.C. also wanted a record of a "recent" Pap smear test.

"How recent is recent?" she asked. " Your last one was in November '03, and we only do them every three years as standard."

"Um, I'm not sure if that is recent enough or not. E. spoke to them, and all he wrote down was "recent". But I'll phone and ask," I said. "Not that I am keen to deprive yet another person of the chance to rummage around my fanoir, but you know, I'd just as soon skip it, if possible."

Actually, I didn't say that last part. But Dr Best Friend is so good, she is almost psychic, so I am sure she knew what I was thinking and understood completely.

So I phoned the O.C., just to check. Also to make sure E. had not accidentally omitted to write down any other crucial tests which we might need. Whereupon I learned a very valuable lesson. And that is, in future, I need to take charge of the treatment related phone calls.

When E. phoned, he was told that the steps were as follows:

1. See consultant (appointment available almost immediately).
2. See nurse (for reasons we still cannot work out)- 3 week-ish waiting time.
3. Start treatment right away.

So I phoned and spoke to a very nice woman, who confirmed that my "recent" smear test of 2003 was recent enough for them. Oh, goody. She also confirmed all the tests we needed (and yes, there is a rogue one in there which I am not sure I have- E2- gotta check). And THEN she tells me the first appointment with the nurse is not "until the end of April".

At which point I nearly dropped the phone.

"Excuse me, but HA HA HA HA HA, I thought you just said end of April. For the nurse. End of April is HA HA HA HA, quite a long way away."

"Um, yes, it is. But that's the first appointment."

"I thought it would only take a few weeks to get that appointment after our consultation."

"Oh, maybe your partner got it wrong then. Or maybe we've developed a bit of a backlog since then. And after all, you haven't had your consultation yet anyway, have you?"

"Er, no. Because we needed to get all the other tests done first. Ahem. Could you possibly explain why we need to see the nurse? Who, as I understand it, is going to maybe weigh me and then tell us stuff we already know?"

"That's the procedure."

"Oh. I see. The procedure. Wow, that's extremely useful information. Well, OK, I'll get back to you. Assuming I can manage to redial, once I get finished putting my fist through the fucking wall. Byeeee!"

Not good.

The upshot? The appointment at the Ass Con Centre is a WHOLE MONTH before the first possible appointment with "the nurse" at the O.C. Well, in actual fact, it is now only a couple weeks away because, as I say, I'm only just getting around to telling this story now.

So with a headspinningly fast volte-face, we're all about that Ass Con appointment, and the O.C. is placed firmly on the Plan B back burner. However, apart from the fact that they have been a little ditsy about things so far, there is still a six month waiting list for fee paying patients at the Ass Con Centre, and so we might be coming back to Plan B sooner rather than later.

I wish I could laugh about all this, but frankly, I am really beginning to taste desperation at the back of my throat. We are not a kick in the arse away from having been trying for two years, and still, we wait. Wait, wait, wait. Everyone around me and their pet monkey have gotten pregnant while I ovulate and menstruate with maddening, unsuccessful regularity.

Time to get started on developing Plans C and D. Excel spreadsheet, anyone?

Return from the North

And so I am back from the Frozen North, slightly earlier than expected. Well, really only a day earlier. We were meant to drive back today, but for various reasons, as detailed below, there was a change of plan.

It was cold

Holy Loch Ness Monster, Batman, but it was brrrr chilly. Chilly as in a raw numb ache down in the bones.

The freezing temperatures should really not have come as a big shock. I mean, it is March in Scotland. But as we discovered, there is a certain disconnect between looking at pretty pictures (taken in summer) of rental options, and the reality of just how bracing the weather can be. Plus, these old cottages, while incredibly romantic-looking and undeniably picturesque, do tend to lack certain key things, like insulation. The crackling log fire on the hearth, while lending a jolly atmosphere to the living room, failed utterly to lessen the bone-numbing cold. It was like spending a week in an ice box.

Now, lest you think I am a whiner, I would assure you that normally, the cold might not have been such a big problem. Except, and that brings me onto my second reason-

I forgot to bring a bunch of stuff

Clearly I had some sort of brain lock while I was throwing things into my duffel case, because when we arrived and I took stock of both my surroundings and my packing, I realised with a sinking feeling that there were some grave omissions. This irked me so much for days that I actually made a list midway through the week. Here are some examples:

- Long winter underwear & thermal top. Absolute disaster. Made the bracing countryside walks twice as bracing.
- Proper walking boots. Source of gigantic row with E. I was sure boots were in the flat in the Other City, while he was adamant I had left them in the hall closet at home. Had to make do with a pair of his old Timberlands and three pairs of socks.
- Book which I was in the middle of reading. I brought plenty of other reading material, but kept wishing I had remembered to stick Strange & Norrell in the bag.
- Mud mask. Had vague notion that clean country air would revitalise skin tone, aided by home spa-like treatments. Hah.
- Bath salts. See above.
- Soap. Ah. Slightly more crucial lapse. A certain pong developing about our persons, particularly after all those brisk hikes.
- Tweezers. Another absolute disaster. Eyebrows seizing opportunity afforded by unfortunate lapse of strategic planning, threatening to colonize face by third day.

We ran out of food

This was not entirely our fault. On the way to the cottage, we stopped off in Fort William to stock up on a week's provisions at the big grocery store. However, we were prevented from entering by a harrassed looking shop assistant, who barricaded the entrance with his large self, announcing to the growing crowd behind us that the store was closed. Something about "leaking freezer" and "fumes" and "environmental health".

So we had no choice but to join the throng in heading to the small "Metro shop" in town. Clearly the closure of the big store was was the most exciting thing to happen in Fort William for some time, because everyone had to stand in the narrow aisles of the Metro shop discussing it, blocking our access to the wine. It was hell on earth.

Consequently our provisioning for the week consisted of a rather strange mix of items, such as tins of baked beans, a jar of olives, some indifferent rashers of bacon and the odd muffin or two. We ran out of both booze and firewood by Thursday, a very grim state of affairs. We went to bed that night with the wind howling over the loch, a storm approaching.

So in the end, we decided to head home. It was, all things considered, a nice time. We had some lovely walks, and the scenery was achingly beautiful. We saw an otter and some, um, nice birds.

There was also time to rest and reflect. Whereupon I discovered that in the current circumstances, I feel better when I don't have quite so much opportunity to sit around brooding about "things", getting too deep into my own head. Like how the cottage would have been so much cosier if it was occupied by a family. Like my worry that this is it, for the rest of our lives, the two of us rattling around trying to fill time. Like realising how much I was missing my computery friends.

It's good to be home.

Excess baggage

Having wooed my readers and muffins over to the new site, I am now promptly going to piss off on holiday for a week. I'll be back on 13 March.

[Aside: I realised awhile ago that the term "piss off" can sometimes be confusing for some of my American friends. Here, it means "go away". Skedaddle. Beat it. Make like a tree and leave. Hasta la vista, baby. As opposed to "I'm pissed off, which means what you think it means. It can get a bit complex if I were to say, for example, "I'm so pissed off that I pissed off". But please, let's not tax our tiny minds too much for one afternoon.]

The holiday plan was originally to go to Marrakech for a week, to stay in a luxurious boutique hotel. Wander the market places, soak up the sun and the atmosphere. Then we looked at how much all this was going to cost. Then we looked at how much upcoming ART and other assorted medical expenses may cost.

And then we promptly booked a week in a scabby wee cottage in the north of Scotland in Auchterfachterdrumachter on the shores of Loch Ochayethenoo. A cottage with no phone, no television and no broadband.

We've been trying to talk ourselves into How! Much! Fun! this will be. A great getaway from everything! Note my emphatic exclamation points! We'll be taking lots of books, our coziest sweaters, and our wellie boots. As well as my old Yahtzee! game and some nice food. And most importantly, a crate of whiskey.

E. keeps mumbling something about "fishing rods" and "bracing walks and fresh air", but LALALALA, I am ignoring him. HE can go for bracing walks if he so chooses. I will be napping. I'm also going to take a pen and paper and write stuff down the old fashioned way, which should be very amusing and rather novel.

All of these holiday plans raise a topic which has irritated me for some time. And that is an assumption, frequently vocalised by people with children- namely, that aren't we childless couples so lucky, because we can go on all these "exotic European vacations". How fortunate we are that instead of being weighed down by the tedious baggage of family and responsibility, we can flit off at a moment's notice for shagtastic mini-breaks in delicious Parisian guesthouses and palatial Italian villas. Cruises! African safaris! Hot air ballooning! River rafting down the Nile! Ah, the world is our oyster and we can roam at will wherever and whenever it takes our fancy.

Now. I don't know about you, but personally, being childless has neither absolved me of all responsibilities in life or turned me into a multimillionaire/five star jetsetter.

Yes, it is true that we do enjoy a certain amount of freedom to take trips. And, apart from the looming financial doom of IVF, E. and I do have a certain amount of disposable income to spend on such jaunts. But despite all that, and despite having generous amounts of vacation time, we aren't in a position to gallivant off whenever we feel like it. We have our own excess baggage to contend with.

For one thing, going away gets hellavuh expensive. The cost of flights and travel generally has gone up recently, and even to go away a few times a year on a short break becomes a very pricey endevour.

Secondly, like most people, there's a certain amount of stuff that has to get dealt with, both day-to-day and long term. We both have heavy work commitments that mean we can't just disappear on a whim. Any time off we take has to factor in our obligations to our employers and colleagues.

Plus, shit happens to eat into the holiday time, and that's before we even get to inferility appointments and treatments. Weddings and funerals, for example. Staying home one afternoon to let the repair guy in to fix the leaking roof. DIY projects that entail a solid block of time, like re-decorating the whole of E.'s flat in the OC.

Leaving all of that aside, tell me. Do these people really mean to suggest that two weeks sipping pink cocktails at a seaside resort in the south of France once or twice a year is meant to compensate for an entire lifetime without children, if in fact children is what you desire ? Sure, for some, particularly those who actively opt to live childfree, the whole travel freedom thing is a major perk. I'm talking about people like myself who would quite happily trade a big chunk of that freedom to be able to have a family.

I'm not saying I would want to be shackled to the confines of my house with a baby forever. But last I checked, giving birth did not mean automatic house arrest. Surely people with kids get out once in awhile?

I bet they even sometimes rent scabby wee cottages in the arse end of Scotland, and go away for a week, packing games, fishing rods and wellie boots.