Last night I went to bed to sleep, but I didn’t. Well I didn’t because I woke up all rigid and muscles all constricted, as if I’d gone through the motions of being asleep. I was cross, and upset. What difference Stuart coming to bed would have made I don’t know, but I wanted him there, a cuddle would have been nice, at least it would have relaxed the muscles. So I awoke from my cardboard slumber, showered and changed, and dried my hair, and added foundation to pale skin. Foundation: -The basis on which something stands or is supported; a base. Today the foundation would serve as a spring board to give off an air of courage, and breeziness with the world.
Where are the hospitals from American soaps? Clean and crisp and ready to serve with cutting edge technologies and procedures, and the occasional George Clooney or Hugh Laurie wandering the halls. The fact is that uk patients’ experience is somewhat shabbier than this. With luck, you arrive at the hospital on time, however due to budget cuts all signage has been removed, perhaps they think there is a war on or a tactic for removing the obligation to see patients. We find ourselves at the Metabolic Treatment Centre rather than the maternity unit. An easy mistake, in fact we may have a more interesting time there.
We’re pointed to a reception, and then directed from one reception to another reception. With our presence barely acknowledged from the overweight, bored receptionist, and told to fill out a form we take a seat. I wouldn’t mind but it’s 8:45am and the waiting room is empty, hardly a harassed, stressful situation, but a welcome smile to ease us through this torture would have helped. I sit down and contemplate the form. Bizarrely the information we are asked to complete is all included - bar a few details on a sticker stuck to the top of the label. I resist the urge to place arrows pointing to the information, and dutifully duplicate the details. Why with anything to do with authority do we become sheep?
We’re called through to a small ante room for weighing and measuring. I guiltily acknowledge that my BMI is not what it should be and hope that with shoulders back and confident smile I can draw some of the pounds in.
We return to the waiting room, and sit. I stare at a large display screen, someone is typing in new details for today’s surgeries. I notice the spelling mistakes, and the poor use of Word skills. Do people really think it looks good to just tap spaces in, rather than use the tab button, or that a full stop will act as a bullet point. I feel guilty about my attitude. I suppose I should be grateful, that I have that skill. I sit and marvel at the fact that I can negotiate numbered lists, and animation settings in Powerpoint, but can’t create a baby. My mood sinks further, husband retreats to his ipod.
We are called through, to find a young girl barely years from playing doctors and nurses with her Barbie, sitting in the treatment room. No explanation of who she is or why she’s there, just - “hope you don’t mind me being here.” Umm what do you say to that, in our British way,” of course not – settle yourself right in and enjoy our pain.”
The consultant breezes in sits down and then asks the girl to shut the door. She takes some notes, and starts to go into details. I notice that she underlines my BMI. Cow. While we repeat all the information that is in the file, she undercovers the reason for our infertility. Halleluiah. Of course we could have saved her five minutes, but as I said before we are just sheep when it comes to authority.
I see a glimmer when she tells us that she’s going to do an examination now. That I hadn’t expected, but am undressed faster than she can say duck billed platypus!.
So one examination each later, and a host of tests called for, and we’re ready to set off down this yellow brick road of IVF or are we? Yes we’ve seen someone, and yes they’ve written on the form that we are officially infertile, however I’ve not had the opportunity to ask all my questions about ICSI, about sperm donation, success rates etc. I feel like a sheep on a farm with a case of confirmed foot and mouth disease. I nod dumbly at this doctor.
So why do we feel so let down and upset. Possibly because yes the tests have been booked for us, but no real explanation about how or what these tests are for, how they fit together, or when we get the results. We leave the consultant’s office and head back to the main reception. Still no smile, just plain surly. I notice that on the form that the consultant has given us there are arrows from the sticker indicating the information required. Oh to be in a position of authority and to be able to draw arrows.
We ask for a follow up appointment. Yep, you’ve guessed it the next AVAILABLE one is…in four months time.
Seriously.
What’s more frustrating. The fact that the appointment, bar having a physical examination, went exactly as expected, the fact that we still are months off having treatment, or just that ever growing recognition that you are not in control of your own destiny.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Doc's Office
The doctor thought that she was wasting his time. She could tell, with that bored grin he looked at her and gave her a perfunctory nod. But she was here on a medical professionals’ say so, she wasn’t a hypo. She tried to convince herself and go back over the script she’d rehearsed in the waiting room.
"Honestly it hurts, when I type. It burns inside the joint….the nurse said I should get it checked out".
She tried to looked pained as he lazily examined the wrist and put some flinching into her expression, but his eyes burned through her just as her thumb burned as he rotated it. It really did ache, and it did really hurt when she typed or tried to hold things.
“Have you taken anything?”
“No”.
“Well I suggest antinflamatories taken regularly and not just when you have a bit of pain, and if you say that it gets better by not doing mouse work then - don’t do it. Not much point referring you at this stage, unless it gets worse of course”.
Sanctimonious git.
He smiled again. She regarded his photos of presumably his pretty wife and pretty kids, doing pretty things. She went to pick up her bag. Doing the obligatory thanking for his time, she prepared to swan out and slam the door so that the office rattled, but as she reached the door:
“So how have things been then…………?”
How had he orchestrated that? In that second he’d turned things round, and now wanted to treat her as a patient not a time waster. Wasn’t he meant to keep to his seven minute appointments slots, and only discuss one hypochondriacal ailment at a time. There was a notice in reception stuck up with surgical tape that told her so.
"Fine".
Curt. She sat down again and sighed.
“Not good. But we never thought that it was going to be".
It was her turn to smile and give the look, the look that most people had learnt – meant back off, I ain’t talking about it. He carried on smiling. His pretty wife carried on smiling.
“Actually I want to drive into a tree, does that help? We are both crying out for attention but having to provide balance to the other? My heart has been ripped out of me. My partner has cheated me out of motherhood, and I’m supposed to be supportive and loving while he’s being an ostrich, and at times I’ve wondered about unbuckling myself from this rollercoaster, but I love him and wouldn’t be without him and we’re in this together and have to get through it”.
Breathe
"It’s part of the marriage trial, that we chose to be bound to. It’s a question of holding onto the wreckage of a pedallo while a storm rages about you, and you can see a tornado on the horizon as you start the long pedal to shore. The only way you’ll get to shore is if you both pedal together".
It all gushed out. Sod the anti-inflammatory.
“Pretty tough then..”.
“Yep you could say”.
She tried to steer the conversation round to talking about treatment options, then they’d be on safe ground. Talk about how the men in white coats could help them.
The ruse worked for a moment or two, but she could see through him. He didn’t really care, he was a nice guy, but there was a patient coming in next who really needed his time, an old lady with a dodgy hip, that Nurofen just wouldn’t work for.
So instead, she stood up and moved to the door, and instead of rattling the door as she slammed it. She left it slightly open and it was only her heart that was rattled.
"Honestly it hurts, when I type. It burns inside the joint….the nurse said I should get it checked out".
She tried to looked pained as he lazily examined the wrist and put some flinching into her expression, but his eyes burned through her just as her thumb burned as he rotated it. It really did ache, and it did really hurt when she typed or tried to hold things.
“Have you taken anything?”
“No”.
“Well I suggest antinflamatories taken regularly and not just when you have a bit of pain, and if you say that it gets better by not doing mouse work then - don’t do it. Not much point referring you at this stage, unless it gets worse of course”.
Sanctimonious git.
He smiled again. She regarded his photos of presumably his pretty wife and pretty kids, doing pretty things. She went to pick up her bag. Doing the obligatory thanking for his time, she prepared to swan out and slam the door so that the office rattled, but as she reached the door:
“So how have things been then…………?”
How had he orchestrated that? In that second he’d turned things round, and now wanted to treat her as a patient not a time waster. Wasn’t he meant to keep to his seven minute appointments slots, and only discuss one hypochondriacal ailment at a time. There was a notice in reception stuck up with surgical tape that told her so.
"Fine".
Curt. She sat down again and sighed.
“Not good. But we never thought that it was going to be".
It was her turn to smile and give the look, the look that most people had learnt – meant back off, I ain’t talking about it. He carried on smiling. His pretty wife carried on smiling.
“Actually I want to drive into a tree, does that help? We are both crying out for attention but having to provide balance to the other? My heart has been ripped out of me. My partner has cheated me out of motherhood, and I’m supposed to be supportive and loving while he’s being an ostrich, and at times I’ve wondered about unbuckling myself from this rollercoaster, but I love him and wouldn’t be without him and we’re in this together and have to get through it”.
Breathe
"It’s part of the marriage trial, that we chose to be bound to. It’s a question of holding onto the wreckage of a pedallo while a storm rages about you, and you can see a tornado on the horizon as you start the long pedal to shore. The only way you’ll get to shore is if you both pedal together".
It all gushed out. Sod the anti-inflammatory.
“Pretty tough then..”.
“Yep you could say”.
She tried to steer the conversation round to talking about treatment options, then they’d be on safe ground. Talk about how the men in white coats could help them.
The ruse worked for a moment or two, but she could see through him. He didn’t really care, he was a nice guy, but there was a patient coming in next who really needed his time, an old lady with a dodgy hip, that Nurofen just wouldn’t work for.
So instead, she stood up and moved to the door, and instead of rattling the door as she slammed it. She left it slightly open and it was only her heart that was rattled.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)