Never fear my friends, when the puppa-lorum makes it way here, I will post pictures. I was a bit hesitant about discussing the breed in depth, since it is a relatively small community of this type of doggie owners in the UK, some of whom I may have to encounter again, and I was trying to avoid anything that might overtly link to my blog. Still, I know I will not want to deprive the internets of that much cute and furry deliciousness, so wait & see.
In other news, I went earlier in the week to have my FSH checked. I had to opt for an appointment with a different GP, since Dr Best Friend was "away"- for how long, I know not. I suspect she may be some time, since afterwards I registered for the online self-booking appointment thingie, and she was not listed for the whole of the month of August. It occured to me, for the first time, that I have been remarkably spoilt in having such consistently good treatment from the same GP for the whole of my infertility saga. But there we are.
As it happens, they didn't want to give me a doctor appointment at all, insisting that the practice nurse could do the necessary. It was only when I explained in one long breathless monologue that this was not exactly routine blood work and oh by the way it had to be done on a certain day of the cycle, which incidentally if we missed this month would be another two or so before I could get in again because we are going to be traveling and really, how mightily inconvenient that would be, so could we just schedule me in with the first available appointment of the day with anybody qualified to wield the needle and be done with it. Ta.
And that is how it came to pass that I found myself in that oh-so-familiar scenario. Waiting room, condensing an explanation of a year's worth of emotional upheaval into a ten minute consultation, baring my flesh, the needle going in, the small sad bruise on my arm afterwards. Dr Not-Quite-Best-Friend listened patiently, and efficiently did as I asked. I just want to know the FSH, I said. It all seems kind of pointless to even spend one more iota of energy contemplating another round of IVF unless I have some inkling of what's shaking in Ovary Land.
As we wrapped it up, She did ask me, "What do you plan to do with this information, once you have it?"
To which I was tempted to say all manner of cheeky things. I dunno, Doctor. Tattoo it on my abdomen? Plaster it on a billboard, offer it as a headline: "HORMONES SAY: STILL SORT OF POSSIBLY FERTILE!" Write it in a sweet scented love note: "Dearest clinic, if nothing else, my FSH is still reasonable. Be mine?"
Instead, I mumbled something about making another appointment to discuss it further once I had the result. Because that's what happens, isn't it? There's always another appointment, isn't there? Once you get a whiff of a possibility, you're off, like a hound on the trail. Before you know it, you're strapping yourself into the rollercoaster you swore you would never board again. It's like the IVF crack pipe!
Why is it so damn hard to let it go once and for all? Why is always just once more, let's think about it just once more? Maybe, maybe, maybe, just once more.