The tale of the HSG

First of all, thanks so much to everyone who's sent me comments and emails wishing me luck for what happened today. I've gained an enormous amount of support and comfort from your messages.

The next thing I want to say is intended for anyone reading this who hasn't yet had their HSG, and who, like I was last night, is terrified. It wasn't nearly as bad as I was expecting it to be. I got myself into a virtually hysterical state last night - I was so scared of what I believed, having read numerous scary accounts, was going to be pain on a level that I couldn't cope with. It wasn't. It hurt, I won't say it didn't, but it never went beyond tolerable.

The final part of my opening preamble has to do with the results: my tubes are clear! I'm so happy about this as it means that next we can hopefully try a drug to make me ovulate, as it looks as though everything but my polycystic ovary is in order.

After my hysterical outburst, I got drunk last night and watched a stupid thriller. The wine helped me sleep initially, but I woke at 5am sick with dread. After tossing and turning for 90 minutes or so, I got up, vomited, showered and then inanely decided to paint my toenails. All I can say is that when one's legs are destined for stirrups, one wants one's feet to look presentable.

I tried breakfast but it was a mistake as it didn't stay down for long. I dressed in the most comfortable outfit I could find - long, black, stretchy cotton skirt; T-shirt; snug cardi; flat, slouchy boots - and said goodbye to hubby as nicely as it's possible to say goodbye to someone at whom you've just yelled "Would you for the love of Christ stop fucking SNEEZING!"

My mum turned up early and I traipsed out to the car in the manner of a condemned woman walking to the scaffold. I was armed with water and painkillers - I didn't want to take them too early - and I had very little to say.

We arrived at the hospital and I downed my 800mg of ibuprofen in the car. After finding the X-ray suite quite quickly, I was surprised that we only had to wait five minutes before the nurse who'd be doing the test came to collect me. This was a very different experience to the pelvic scan where I nearly ruptured my own bladder due to my appointment being delayed.

The nurse took us to a seating area just outside the room where the test would take place. I told her I was terrified. She then spent 15 minutes explaining every minute detail of the procedure to me in a manner that was warm, kind and patient enough to make me well up now just remembering it. Her name was Joan and I didn't get her surname but she's the most wonderful nurse I ever met. She said that many women arrive terrified and leave thinking that the experience wasn't even a quarter as bad as they'd imagined it would be. She also said that she believes the internet features a disproportionately high volume of scary stories, for the simple reason that women who've had an awful time are more likely to be traumatised enough to write about it.

Joan went through the paperwork with me and I felt myself relaxing gradually as we talked. Partly this was down to the agreeably dreamy zen induced by taking way too many ibuprofen, but a lot of it was down to Joan's skill at relaxing me in the manner that a horse whisperer would calm a frantic pony.

Joan gave me a plastic bag and showed me into a changing cubicle. She told me to strip my bottom half naked, but that it was fine for me to leave my T-shirt, bra and socks on. (Waste of nail polish.) As I was changing I heard her asking the consultant radiologist if my mum could sit in. I distinctly heard him say "Absolutely not" and then I distinctly heard Joan insist. Again, I'm forever grateful.

I emerged wearing the gown I'd been given, which was open in the back, but this was made less embarrassing by the fact that they'd also given me a cotton robe to wear over the top until I got in position. However, the gown was blue and white, the robe was bright blue and really oversized, and my socks were red and stripy (donned that morning in an effort to be cheery; I was also bedecked in tiger's eye jewellery to bring me courage). The overall effect was lunatic asylum meets Ronald McDonald.

There was a flat bed in the middle of the room with steps up to it. I was asked to lie down and put my head on the pillow. They laid a blanket over my hips and thighs - similar to the blanket you get in a smear test. Joan explained that if I could establish a breathing pattern and maintain it, this would help me deal with the pain and keep my muscles relaxed. My mum stood behind my head and started stroking my hair. This really helped, and I started breathing deeply.

There were now three other people in the room in addition to me and my mum: Joan, another nurse, and a female radiologist (the guy had vanished, presumably in a fit of pique after my mum was allowed in). They got the cameras ready and moved them over my stomach. My mum was asked to put on a lead apron so she wasn't at risk from the radiation. The others all wore these too, so for a moment it looked like a scene from Delia Smith Goes Bad.

Joan then said they were ready. The other nurse lifted the blanket and bunched my gown up so that my naked bum was on the bed. Joan told me to bring my knees up, put my ankles together and let my legs fall apart - exactly as if I were having a smear. There were no stirrups, but they placed thick foam wedges under my thighs so that my legs didn't get wobbly from being held in that position.

First of all, Joan said she was going to clean my vagina with a warm antiseptic solution. (I resisted the temptation to tell her it was perfectly clean enough, thank you, after I virtually scrubbed it raw in the course of my morning ablutions.) She took a warm, sopping wet sponge and wiped it down, firmly, the full length of me. She then got a new sponge and repeated it.

Joan then inserted the speculum, all the while telling me what she was doing and what sensations I should expect. It went in fine and she cranked it open - always an uncomfortable moment, but nothing I wasn't familiar with. She then said she was going to insert the catheter, and that it might take a minute or two so I wasn't to panic if it didn't go in right away. I was staring at the ceiling during this and focusing on my breathing, but my mum told me afterwards that the catheter was blue and about the girth of a drinking straw.

This was the part I was most scared of, but I honestly didn't feel it pass through my cervix. I was amazed when Joan said, "That's gone through first time, sweetheart". After every stage - the speculum going in, the speculum being opened, the catheter going in - Joan, the other nurse and my mum told me how well I was doing. That really helped me too.

Joan explained that she was going to inflate the balloon on the end of the catheter, and that this part would cause a sharp period-type cramp to come on suddenly. This was absolutely accurate - it came really quickly and built to the level of a bad day one period pain. It hurt, but it was tolerable.

Joan then said she was going to start putting the dye through, and that this would cause the cramping to intensify a little. Again, this is exactly what happened - the cramp sort of wrenched slightly and got a bit worse. I wanted to gasp but I felt that if I interrupted the steady breathing pattern I'd established, I might lose it altogether and suddenly lose my handle on the pain, so I didn't. I just kept breathing. I'd been lying with my hands folded on my chest like a corpse, but at this point my mum took my left hand and the other nurse took hold of my right hand. (She'd previously told me to resist the urge to clutch my stomach when the cramping started, so maybe this was to make sure I didn't - it was nice of her, though, whatever the reason.)

After about 15 seconds - literally, it couldn't have been more than that - Joan said, "That's it - that's great - we're done". I couldn't believe it. I'd been on the bed for about 15 minutes, but most of this time was spent waiting for them to assemble the equipment. The nasty part - from speculum going in to Joan saying we were finished - lasted about four and a half minutes.

Everyone told me how well I'd done, and I just felt overwhelming, dizzying relief. Joan deflated the balloon and removed the catheter, and the cramping subsided immediately. She then removed the speculum and pushed a big, pillow-like pad up against me to stem the flow of dye.

I stayed lying down while I gathered myself and they moved the camera off me. It took about five minutes before I felt able to sit up, and when I did, my mum came round and they tilted the screen so we could see the pictures. Joan explained that they'd only had to use 3ml of dye, and that the test had gone so fast because it had immediately shot through both my tubes and spilled out the ends - i.e., my tubes are clear.

She then took us through around 12 moment-by-moment pictures which showed the catheter and balloon in place in my empty womb, then my womb full of dye, then both tubes filling up, and finally the dye spilling out the end. One of my tubes was really long and straight and the other was more bunched up, but Joan said this was simply because of the position of my insides on this given day, and that she was happy both tubes were perfect.

When I felt the headrush subside, I got up and was shown to a bathroom where they'd put my bag of clothes ready, along with some soapy solution, wet wipes and dry wipes, plus a sanitary pad. I cleaned up, stuck the pad in my pants and got dressed.

Since my mum was with me, I was allowed to leave straight away - but not before I thanked Joan profusely for being so nice and patient with me. I had to resist actually hurling myself at the woman and hugging her, I was so grateful.

For the rest of today I've felt sporadically crampy - some of them quite sharp - and sore, and I've leaked dye and gunge. I'd probably have had an easier day if I hadn't sucked up my day's entitlement of painkillers in one go, but I remain glad that I did, because perhaps the during-cramps would have been much tougher to take if I hadn't. However, the after-cramps have been easy to deal with as I've been chilling at my mum's, eating comfort food and watching Pretty Woman.

I'm so grateful to Joan and the other staff for making this as easy on me as possible. I'm also grateful to my mum for coming with me, putting up with my uber-bitch mode this morning, and watching what must have been the difficult sight of her daughter undergoing a distressing gynaecological procedure.

I'm also soooooo hugely relieved that my tubes and womb are clear. Hopefully this will mean that we can make some progress really soon!

I've booked my massage tomorrow to reward myself for being brave and going through with it. But take note - I'm the biggest wimp going, so if I can do it, anyone can.

Now what?

Oh dear, this week is not going well. For a start, hubby crashed the car today. Not badly - he's fine, which is the main thing, and it's really no more than a shunt and a dented bumper - but it's not what either of us needed.

Back on topic, my period has dwindled to virtually nothing. I basically only bled properly for one day, Sunday. Yesterday I was surprised at how light it was - my usual pattern is at least three days of heavy flow - and today it's all but gone. This is unheard of for me after two days.

I can't work out whether it's just been really light as a result of me being so stressed out about all the tests. The fear has really kicked in about Friday now. I certainly don't want to have the HSG if this hasn't been a proper period, for three reasons:

1) My cervix won't be properly open if it wasn't so the catheter bit will be more painful.

2) I haven't had a proper period since 25 February so my womb is likely full of endometrium and other crap. Surely this would skew the results of the HSG, which needs an empty womb to determine if there are any lurking gremlins?

3) I suppose there's an outside chance that the pregnancy test I did on Saturday was too early and I might be pregnant. Dreams can come true and all that.

Mind you, don't think that I just want to cancel because I'm scared. This actually couldn't be further from the truth. I'm terrified but also sort of psyched up for it now, and it will be a crashing disappointment if I have to put it off for anything other than The Best reason.

It's just so hard to get advice - the relevant department of the hospital is only open between 9 and 5, and I work in an open plan office. I suppose the best thing to do is ring them tomorrow and explain the situation.

I briefly considered phoning NHS Direct for guidance this evening, but they're really more for people who are urgently ill right now. They'd dismiss me as a nut-job if I rang up asking whether my period had been heavy enough to justify having a catheter rammed up my hole at the end of the week.

I then checked for infertility helplines in the wild hope that someone manning one of them might have at least HAD an HSG and be able to offer an educated guess as to what I ought to do. Sadly there aren't many - the one I did find quoted an out-of-hours number that was clearly residential. Still, desperately, I rang it anyway and the phone was answered in an aggrieved tone by a man whose mouth was full of food. He denied all knowledge of there being an infertility counsellor in residence, and I felt like a prize tit.

Why oh why couldn't I just have had a normal period?!

It doesn't seem like a massive amount to ask.

Update on my extremely stupid body

Well, still no bastard period.

I finally did a test this morning and, of course, it was negative. But where is my period? It's never done this before - it has started and then retreated for a day or two before returning with a vengeance, but it's never started then vanished for four days.

We're now in a position where one of three things can happen:

1) My period arrives today or tomorrow, behaves itself, and finishes on Thursday in time for me to have the HSG on Friday morning. As by far the best option, this is pretty well guaranteed NOT to happen.

2) My period stays away until later in the week, thus ruling out the HSG by being still in full flow when it's supposed to take place. I have to cancel the HSG, cancel my day's leave from work, and basically cancel my LIFE until my turn on this hellish merry-go-round next month.

3) My period stays away full stop. I have to cancel the HSG because I can't have it till I've had a period - aside from anything else, it's been six weeks now and my womb will be full of endometrium crap, so that'd skew the results anyway. I then have to exist in a state of semi-derangement wondering if I'm magically pregnant (though by now, if I were it'd be the next Messiah since hubby and I haven't had it off since mid-March) or if in fact my entire reproductive system has somehow crawled out of my vagina and disappeared on a Ferris Bueller-style jaunt without my knowing.

FUCK. I hate this. It's ridiculous because, as scared as I am, I actually want the HSG now. I want it over with, I want to know the state of my tubes, I want to have made some progress. And I suppose a small, dark part of me wants to punish my lazy, useless, incompetent collection of rude bits, in a sort of "you've messed me around so much, so let's see how you like THEM apples" motif.

The grumbling crampiness and sore boobs of this time last week have all but vanished and I don't feel the least bit periody. Could I somehow have just missed one? Of all the months for that to happen!

Now that I've tested and categorically know there's no baby, I'm going to head to the gym and pound the crap out of myself to see if I can kickstart it that way.

If that fails, I've officially run out of ideas.

Are you kidding me?

A pregnant bloke?

A PREGNANT BLOKE????

I'm sorry, but are you HAVING A LAUGH?!

It's really a sad state of affairs when it's easier for a man to conceive than it is for me.

I got my period in the early hours of Wednesday morning. Saying that, what I mean is I got a smear of blood on Wednesday which I assumed was my period, so after a) crying so much my eyes puffed out and b) having a massive fight with hubby about the fact that I'm scared of the HSG, I got up for work and, on the way, rang the hospital to book in for the hideoussalpingogram itself.

The lady I spoke to was lovely, and I'm in next Friday at 11am. However, my period never actually started. Aside from the nocturnal smear of blood and a little bit of brown sludge over the past few days, I've not started bleeding properly.

What the fuck's it playing at? I'm booked in now, and if it doesn't start flowing tomorrow, it won't have finished in time for the HSG to happen.

It's one thing to have polycystic ovaries. It's one thing not to be able to conceive even after two years of trying harder than I've ever tried for anything.

It's quite another when your own body seems hell-bent on making life as difficult as possible.

How do you wage war against yourself?

A sucky situation gets suckier

I phoned the fertility clinic this afternoon. They'd told me to reschedule my April follow-up appointment if I hadn't had the HSG, as there was no point discussing treatments and next steps until they've determined whether my tubes are OK.

The follow-up was booked for next Tuesday. This morning when I got up to no period again, I finally accepted that there isn't physically enough time between now and then for me to get my period, finish it and also have the HSG, so I called them to explain as much.

It turns out the next available appointment isn't until 20 May. I'm so upset we're going to have to wait another six weeks. I know six weeks doesn't seem like much in the context of two years, but it's just so frustrating. The receptionist implied that if I'd wanted an earlier appointment, I should have cancelled earlier. I pointed out that unfortunately, since I have no more been blessed with the powers of clairvoyance than I have with a fertile womb, I was unable to do this. Anyway, the stupid hospital didn't even send me the HSG summons till a week or so ago.

It's just - argh - May?! I fear at this rate I'll be menopausal before I actually get any treatment. After our January consultation I felt a stab of disappointment when we were told our next appointment would be April - it seemed like months away. (Nothing gets past me.)

Now there's just more waiting. My stupid, evil, twisted bitch of a period still hasn't turned up and until it does I have the spectre of the HSG hanging over me. When it eventually DOES turn up, I will not only have the usual despair to deal with but also the terror of the imminence of the HSG. And then another interminable wait to progress any further.

To top it all, hubby went berserk when I arrived home tonight and broke the news to him. He started ranting about how the system is unfair on us because of my useless cycles - we have no way of predicting when I'll menstruate, but the NHS seems to want us to plan procedures months in advance based on exact period maths.

He then started bellowing about letters of complaint - about what?! They haven't done anything wrong - it's just bureaucracy, and the fact that there's a very long queue. All in all he behaved like a little boy who'd been told he couldn't have the sweets he wanted. I can understand his frustration - Christ, 'Frustrated' is my middle name - but I could have done with some comfort rather than a big rant. After all, it's MY useless system that's screwing us over.

Of course, this degenerated quickly into a fight which featured lines such as "It's me lying there in stirrups while they erect scaffolding up my fud - I don't want to complain about them yet!" He kept moaning about how "unfair" it is. Ha! He's a fool if he hasn't yet got to grips with the fact that this entire situation is UNFAIR.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say that this sucks more than I ever thought it was possible for a sucky situation to suck.

Bollocks to everything.

Return to sender

I thought long and hard about the title I'd give the post announcing the news that I'd finally received the HSG summons from the hospital.

"Oh no, wait a minute, Mr Postman" sprang to mind, as did "Signed, sealed, delivered - up yours". However, I've decided to go with the Elvis classic since returning to sender and pretending it doesn't have to happen is what I'd really like to do.

Things I like about the letter:

1) It's really long and detailed. There's loads of information about what will happen to me on the day, moment by moment, and it's written in quite a friendly, colloquial way that recognises I am a human being not a lab rat.

2) It's honest. It says it'll hurt, it says I'll probably be distressed enough afterwards to need someone to accompany me home, and it says I might have to wait for ages on the day if they have an emergency to deal with.

3) I really wanted to like three things, but I can't think of a third. Oh well.

Things I don't like about the letter:

1) It's a TAD patronising. (I know I said above that I quite liked its colloquial wording, but you should know by now that I'm a contrary bitch.) For instance, it opens with the following sentence:

"Your doctor has requested that you have an X-ray test of your uterus (womb) known as a HYSTEROSALPINGOGRAM (HSG) examination. This rather long word describes a fairly simple procedure..."

This reminded me of the Billy Connolly routine in which he rants about the childlike way TV meteorologists read us the weather. "This is the country where you live," he exclaims in a baby voice, "and this is a wee cloud!"

I mean to say, if I'd got this far without knowing what a uterus is, I'd be in trouble. Also, the jovial "rather long word" thing rubbed me up the wrong way (as the catheter will no doubt also do). I'll decide when we do the jokes, thank you Mr Radiologist.

2) Even though it says, several times, that the procedure hurts, it doesn't mention taking painkillers beforehand. Now, the consultant at the clinic was very clear that I should do this, so it's not as if no-one has given me this instruction, but I really do think it's important enough to be reiterated in the appointment letter. In many of the hellish accounts I've read online, one of the issues common to those women who'd had a bad experience was that they hadn't taken any painkillers beforehand. Bit of an oversight, that.

3) At one point it lists the benefits of the procedure, and these are shaky at best. For instance, it includes the fact the test is done without local or general anaesthetic as a benefit, whereas I'd categorically class that as an officially shitty aspect of the affair.

The pros list also says that "the results of the test are needed to determine the next stage of your fertility treatment". Really. You don't say. And there was me thinking I was undergoing this for my unbridled passion for speculum-loving.

They didn't need to slip the word "fertility" in there. I fucking KNOW that's why we're doing this. They might as well have included a triptych (now THERE'S a word) photo of a big scary catheter, me on a bed with my legs akimbo, then a grinning baby, with the caption "THIS plus THIS equals THIS!"

To be fair to the letter, it also lists the risks - my eye was immediately drawn to this paragraph due to the close proximity of the words "cervix" and "perforate", which I feel should never share a sentence. I shan't dwell on this.

It concludes by saying I will be given a "large pad to soak up the excess dye" until I "can get to a toilet", and that the hospital will provide me with a panty liner for going home. I don't think so. I've seen NHS-issue "panty liners" before and I've slept on thinner pillows.

There's some dodgy wording that I could make light of elsewhere in the letter. One bullet point explains that I "will be covered with a sterile cover". Do they mean all of me, like some kind of shroud for the unclean barren bint? Or just the business end? Surely they can't mean that whole "dignity blanket" fiasco you get with smears. I mean, to be honest, my dignity is the least of my concerns. My dignity went out the window months ago. I'm much more worried about searing agony.

I've kept my favourite bit of the letter for last - this actually made me giggle. In the bulleted list of what will happen to me on the day, it states:

"The nurse will ask you to sign a consent form or, occasionally, the doctor, which is a legal requirement."

My question is: Where do I sign him? Is it some sort of pervy notches-on-bedpost, cervixes-on-table tally he's keeping, evidenced by scrawled signatures on his white coat? Why only "occasionally"? Does he only let the pretty girls sign their names across his heart?

Ah, it helps to be silly. I actually feel a lot more OK about getting the letter than I thought I would. Perhaps this is because I'm still in relaxed mode after a week off work and some good times recently.

Or perhaps it's because the bizarre hope I mentioned earlier in the week hasn't yet left me. I fear I'm approaching the HSG with a sort of misguided "yeah but it's fine because I won't ACTUALLY have to have it" nonchalance.

Who knows. Period due tomorrow. We can but wait and see.

The ramblings of an insomniac

The weirdest things are making me think of the HSG (though still no hospital letter). At the gym I was on the machine that works your inner thighs by you spreading 'em wide and then using the weight to bring them together. To get started you have to sort of straddle it and open your legs as wide as you can - a position at which I am becoming increasingly adept.

Anyway, as I assumed the pose, I was immediately transported to a dramatic visualisation of the HSG. The soundtrack to this increasingly vivid scene is eels' 'Novocaine for the Soul' - "you'd better give me something to fill my hole" being my reimagined version of the lyrics, in response to the lack of anaesthetic on offer.

So then last night I couldn't sleep, and I started thinking about other reimagined song lyrics and titles. Once I started, I couldn't stop. It reminded me of that scene in Roxanne where Steve Martin reels off 20 different jokes about his nose to shut up a big, fat idiot in a bar who insulted him. (Read them here - very funny.)

So. While I can't pretend to be as funny as Steve Martin, and while some of them are just plain tragic, here we go with my list. Any additions would be most welcome!

1. Obvious: "Bye bye baby, baby goodbye" - Bay City Rollers
2. Literal: "I keep bleeding, I keep, keep bleeding" - Leona Lewis
3. Emo: "We'll carry on, we'll carry on, though we're broken and defeated" - 'Welcome to the Black Parade', My Chemical Romance
5. Determined: "Success is my only motherfucking option - failure's not" - 'Lose Yourself', Eminem
6. Crude: "And I don't wanna make love to you" - Etta James
7. Self-pitying: "Why does it always rain on me?" - Travis
8. Instructive: "Knock me up before you go-go" - Wham!
9. Gloomy: "I told you I was trouble, you know that I'm no good" - Amy Winehouse
10. Helpful: "You raise me up so I can reach the stirrups" - Westlife
11. Desolate: "I walk this empty street, on the boulevard of broken wombs" - Green Day
12. Demented: "2, 4, 6, 8, ovulate" - Tom Robinson Band
13. Nihilistic: "I want to be someone else or I'll explode" - 'Talk Show Host', Radiohead
14. Cryptic: "But I feel something is wrong, lately I feel this cake just isn't done" - 'Northern Lad', Tori Amos
15. Upbeat: "So no-one told you life was gonna be this way. Your womb's a joke, your ovary's broke, your sex life's DOA!" - 'I'll Be There For You', The Rembrandts
16. Wistful: "Wouldn't it be nice if I were pregnant, then we wouldn't have to have it off" - The Beach Boys
17. Frustrated: "Give me a minute, a girl's got a limit, I can't get knocked up if my egg's not in it" - Oasis (from 'The Importance of Being Fertile', no less!)
18. Dark: "Twisting and turning, the speculum's burning, it's breaking the girl" - Red Hot Chili Peppers
19. Pleading: "The drugs you gave me, nothing else can save me, IVF" - 'SOS', ABBA
20. Angry: "Oh, look at all the fucking babies" - 'Eleanor Rigby', The Beatles

Come on, fellow bloggers - together we can get to 100! And there's a Creme Egg in it - I mean it, I shall post one - for any that make me laugh out loud.

Mother's Day - pah, bah and grr

The subject of today's rant was going to be Mother's Day. As you might expect, I am sick to the crusty ovary of adverts for it, of pink posies everywhere I turn, of entreaties wherever I look for mums to put their feet up and relax in a warm bath of self-congratulation.

So that's what I was going to moan about. But then I thought no, it's not exactly fair of me to complain about a day that recognises the achievement of having a child. After all, it IS an achievement - I can't manage it, can I? - and I can't call for the cancellation of a world event just because it pisses me off. And, crucially, I also appreciate my own mum, and I imagine Mother's Day is a lot harder for people who've lost their mothers (or their children) than it is for people like me who've never been mums.

I was also going to bemoan the fact there isn't a Barren Women's Day, where those of us going through fertility treatment are given flowers and chocolates in recognition of our efforts.

Fortunately, before going off on this tangent, I did some research and discovered that there IS a National Infertility Day in the UK, on 19 July - though I don't think Hallmark have cottoned on yet. (Hmm, business opportunity? "Roses are red, violets are blue, your ovary's fucked but I still love you.")

In other news, still no letter from the hospital, so definitely no HSG this month as my period has now tapered off and this would be the ideal few days in which to do it.

I spoke at length this morning to a family member who is also going through fertility investigations. She's a little older than me, so the clinic's moving faster, and she's learned this week that she has to have a laparoscopy, during which they will also perform the HSG. The benefit of this is at least she's out for the count during the procedure, but the drawback is of course that it's abdominal surgery, which has its own risks and painful recovery process.

By a weird coincidence, we've been seeing the same consultant at the clinic. She also endured the scan with the condom-clad Espace, except they "couldn't find" one of her ovaries. (How? HOW? Surely there are only so many places it could be? It's not going to be in her ear, is it?!) It looks likely she has fibroids and potentially another issue underlying that, hence the surgery to investigate further.

We had a good old natter and wry chuckle about how pants the situation is, and how "hilarious" it is that our respective life plans are all ballsed to hell. We also had the "I hope we get pregnant at the same time" conversation - because we both recognise that any joy we felt at the other's happy news would be diluted by anguish for ourselves. I'm not ashamed to say that a little part of me dies whenever I hear that someone is pregnant. I don't think that makes me a bad person. I just think it makes me a woman who is going through a very difficult time.

Living in limbo-land

The dreaded bug is much improved by a day of rest, thankfully. Having eaten little since Saturday night, my appetite has been restored by some magic ginger biscuits and I've just indulged in tuna with salsa verde and spinach, which hubby (bless him) made when he got back from work to cheer me up.

However, my [insert suitably enraged expletive] period has retreated into the hills once again, after nearly breaking my heart when it arrived unexpectedly this morning. It's been an odd one all round as I've had no major cramps - usually on cycle day one I'd be doubled up. I suspect it's executing the trick where it comes, disappears and then returns with a "this time it's personal" vengeance three days later, bringing with it extra-strong cramps just so I realise what a lucky, lucky lady I am.

Earlier, while it was still in full flow, I thought I'd take the opportunity of being off work to ring the fertility clinic. I'd been instructed to do so on the first day of my next cycle so we can get the infernal HSG booked once and for all.

After being put on hold for a small eternity listening to the fucking score from The Piano (I mean honestly, do they REALLY think that's going to calm women in my position? The way I am feeling right now could NOT be addressed by soothing Michael bloody Nyman music!), I was told that my referral letter had only gone off to the local hospital's X-ray department on 14 February, as they had to wait for the results of my epic collection of swabs and bloods to come back first.

I learned it can now take up to six weeks for the X-ray department to pull their fingers out (no doubt of some other poor bitch's bits) and get in touch. Evidently I have to wait for them - I did ask if I could ring and see if they could fit me in since my cycles are so unreliable, but "it doesn't work like that". I asked the nurse point blank if it was likely to be this cycle and she said no. She said I'd probably get the letter with the instructions in "a few weeks" and should then make contact on the first day of my NEXT period.

Quite apart from the fact that we have our follow-up appointment at the clinic scheduled for 8 April, and will have to cancel it if by that date I have not yet had the HSG, which is now extremely likely given the nuances of my cycle, have I mentioned that I am FUCKING PETRIFIED of having this test? Having it dangling in front of me like some sort of perverse speculum-carrot, and getting psyched up for it only to be told it'll be at least another month, is like a form of torture in itself.

I just feel I can't go through this again. We tried so hard this month, and hoped so much. I wept and wept this morning when my period came - but then, as usual, I picked myself up and got on the phone to sort next steps, only to be told I have to do it all again.

It's like climbing a mountain and giving it your all, only to reach what you thought was the summit and see an infinite line of ever-larger peaks that you have to surmount. At which point you'd be sorely tempted to swig the last of your hipflask of gin and chuck yourself off the precipice.

A 28-year-old, nulliparous lady

Got a letter from the fertility clinic today. It was an interim report on our referral appointment, addressed to my GP, but we'd been sent a copy. It's good that they're keeping us in the loop and progressing things, but the way the letter is worded sums up everything that's clinical and inhuman about this whole experience.

I am described as "a 28-year-old, nulliparous lady". Bonus on the lady front - my private education ensures I articulate myself well even when inside I'm chanting "fuck, fuck, fuck" - but even I, with my two English degrees, didn't know what nulliparous meant. Turns out it means "has never given birth to a child". Bit of a sledgehammer to the heart, that one - though I suppose it's better than "childless" or, my own blog moniker, "barren"!

The letter goes on to recount my medical history ("nothing significant of note"), smear history and summary of menstrual issues. It does the same for hubby (though with fewer references to periods and more references to sperm). It then says, and I quote:

"As a couple they have a history of primary sub-fertility. Their coital frequency is normal and they deny any sexual dysfunction."

Do you see what I mean about how it's worded? I'm not saying I'd have preferred it to state baldly that we "shag three times a week and aren't into kinky stuff", but come on.

It then talks about my blood pressure, which was "raised at 142/95, but that could just be the stress of attending clinic". She's not kidding. In my defence, I'd say anyone's blood pressure would be raised if they'd just been informed they were to have five vaginal swabs and a scan with a Renault Espace. (Also, little does the consultant know my blood pressure is always high. Like my dad, I exist in a perpetual state of semi-apoplexy.)

The next paragraph describes my "normal, anteverted uterus" - which research tells me means "tilted forward" - and my crazy right ovary, which "displays multiple small antral follicles arranged around the periphery". I liked that term, arranged. Made it sound like an exhibition - like it had made an effort to dust off the old follicles in preparation for the scan.

The same paragraph goes on to state, somewhat intriguingly, that "there was no evidence of hirsutism". Whether this means simply that I don't have a beard, or that during her miner's-lamp explorations the consultant was also checking my most intimate crevices for hairy patches that put me in mind of the transformation scenes in werewolf films, is not elaborated on.

That particular paragraph concludes that "both ovaries were accessible". (Yes, but not without serious manoeuvring by the Espace. Everything was accessible to the four winds after that thing withdrew. I travelled home feeling not unlike the Dartford Tunnel.)

The letter finishes up by surmising that our "primary sub-fertility" is likely a result of "an ovulation factor", i.e. PCOS. It then describes what has to happen next - that is, bloodwork (done) and HSG (aaaargh).

It says nothing about the process for booking in for the HSG, though, which I'm a bit concerned about. My period's due next week, on my birthday (but of course) - it's unlikely it'll come, as it likes to string it out for weeks, but if it does I need to get the appointment sorted pronto or we'll miss another cycle.

Oh well, Valentine's wine to drink and chocs to nibble. Hubby's card this morning simply said, "I hope that this is the year". I wept into my Special K.

More scaredy wuss-ness

I'm not sleeping brilliantly these days, plagued as I am by images of catheters plunging into the depths of my uterus and spewing twin jets of dye into its every crevice.

And it's just occurred to me that my grand masterplan of chomping a fistful of ibuprofen an hour or so before the pingu-pillage might be foiled by the hospital's somewhat lackadaisical attitude to timekeeping.

Before I went for my pelvic scan in March, I was issued with written instructions urging me, several times and in block capitals, to drink copious amounts of water beforehand. Having a full bladder evidently pushes all the relevant organs to front stage, thus making for a clearer picture. I followed the instructions to the letter; my mum, who accompanied me to the appointment, adopted a military attitude towards my water consumption, even bringing a bottle in the car with us to "keep me topped up".

The scan was scheduled for 9.20. Had it taken place at the appointed time, everything would have been fine. Unfortunately, we were still sat waiting at 9.55, by which point I can confidently say I have never needed a pee more in my life. You have to wait for such scans in the radiology suite with all the pregnant women - which was nice - but my stomach was so distended by my groaningly full bladder that I could easily have passed for six months gone.

Nerves didn't help - this was my first diagnostic test in a properly clinical setting. I suppose I was scared the scan would reveal some sort of gurning gremlin, squatting in my tubes like a germ in the S-bend of a toilet cleaner ad and chuckling malevolently.

By the time we were eventually called in, I'd taken to dementedly pacing the corridor and thinking for the first - and hopefully last - time in my life that I wished I'd brought some Tenalady. It's actually quite painful to need to pee that badly. I'm certain that had I laughed - admittedly unlikely in the circumstances - coughed or sneezed, there would have been an embarrassing accident.

The nurse who scanned me actually had the gall to tell me off for having "too full" a bladder. She said she was scared to press on my tummy with the scanner - presumably in case the slightest pressure caused me to issue forth a steaming geyser of wee. This was a fear I wholeheartedly shared. She instructed me to go to the loo and "pee a bit - but not a lot" - a feat which requires a pelvic floor like a steel trap. However, I managed it - but not before having to hop off the bed and hobble down the hall clutching my aching bladder like Gollum. "Tricksy little nurses - they advises us to drink but they lies!"

Anyway, to return to the point - my latest witching hour concern is that, should I be compelled to wait an age for the pingu-pokery, my painkillers might have worn off before I even go in. Argh and thrice argh.

Rampant dread about the HSG

Thought my period had started yesterday, which would mean I'd need to book in for the HSG this week as it has to be done within 10 days of a new cycle starting. My plan was to call into the fertility clinic for my day2 blood tests tomorrow morning and while there book in for the procedure, probably for Friday.

That spurred me to do some more detailed research about what the HSG actually entails, and I have to say I am now absolutely sick with terror. I want to cry whenever I even think about it.

I've read a few blog sites where women have posted about their experiences, and a disconcertingly high proportion have used phrases like "the worst pain I've ever experienced", "excruciating", "100 times worse than delivering twins vaginally" and "I passed out it was so bad" to describe it.

I'm a big wimp at the best of times and have been lucky in that I've never experienced severe pain in my life. I've never had a tooth out, have only one filling, have never broken a bone or had surgery, and until all this started, the most invasive procedures I'd ever endured were routine smears. I've never found smears to be that bad, and while speculums are cold and uncomfy, I've never felt that they actively hurt, so I'm really hoping that stands me in good stead for this...

The consultant at the clinic told me that I should take 800mg of ibuprofen beforehand to "ease the cramps". She said I'd feel these when the dye is pushed through my tubes, and that they are like bad menstrual cramps. OK, thought I, period pain is nothing I haven't dealt with before, and there was something reasonably reassuring about it being a familiar type of pain rather than something unexpected. But from reading some of the comments on the web, it seems these "cramps" in actual fact resemble late-stage labour contractions, and that DOES scare me.

There are also lots of people who found the insertion of the catheter through the cervix unbearable. That bit really worries me - after all, the worst part of a smear isn't the speculum but the bit where they scrape your cervix. It's not active pain, it's more a sort of unpleasant, fingers-on-blackboard sensation of what the FUCK are you doing touching one of my ORGANS?!

I almost want to be cross with the women who've posted comments featuring words like "agony" and "excruciating" - but then I suppose they are just sharing what the experience was like for them in an effort to prepare others.

Having said all this, my period has now vanished altogether, so I don't think it was a period after all - perhaps just some spotting as a hangover from the travails of the Espace earlier in the week. I need to ring the clinic tomorrow to find out what I should do. Part of me wants to get this horrid HSG over with - spending the next couple of months sick with dread over it doesn't appeal to me. And of course, even if it's horrible, it's worth it to find out what's going on.

However, there's a really big part of me that just wants to have one more cycle before getting it done, in the desperate hope that a miracle will occur and I'll conceive without having to go through it.

In the words of Eliza Doolittle: Not bloody likely.

First consultation at the clinic

So, 'tis done. What now follows is an honest and candid account of what happened to me this afternoon, in the hope that sharing is both therapeutic for me and helpful for others. I have before me for sustenance a lovely, juicy, large glass of red wine.

I shall also try to be as witty and caustic as I can, but bearing in mind I spent much of the afternoon with what I can only describe as a Renault Espace parked up my bits, I may falter!

First, the main news: it looks like I have a polycystic ovary. Just the one - my left one looks fine, but my right one appears to resemble a barnacle-covered rock. My uterus is present and correct but filled with a whole raft of endometrial crap owing to my not having had a period since November. But the possible revelation about PCOS is enlightening to say the least - and also treatable, or at least surmountable, with ovulation stimulating drugs.

We had to wait nearly 45 minutes before being called in for the consultation proper, although I was weighed (took my boots off - every little helps) and measured and blood-pressured during the wait.

We were asked if we minded a medical student sitting in, and I said why not - after all, what's one more pair of eyes in an embarrassing situation like that?! When we went in, the consultant took a detailed medical history first from me - age at first period, menstrual cycle habits, dates I was on the Pill, any medication or allergies etc - and then from hubby. We were then asked a series of questions about our sex life - which I answered while he stared at an invisible spot on the wall.

The consultant then announced that since I was due a smear anyway, they'd do that to rule out any cervical conditions. She also explained the clinic's blanket policy of testing for a series of STIs through taking swabs at the first visit. I was tested for chlamydia after a previous relationship with a slightly seedy cad, and told her as much, but she was adamant: I was having the swabs. After that, there'd be a vaginal scan to determine the health (or otherwise, as it turned out) of my ovaries.

Right. So. The gory details. I was shown into a small consulting room - the doctor said hubby had to stay behind (to his profound and obvious relief, I might add) - which contained a small bed (avec stirrups - oh joy), a sink, a TV screen which was about to broadcast the contents of my vagina to anyone who cared to watch, and a series of instruments reminiscent of the scene in the horror movie where the psycho opens his satchel to reveal his murder kit. No, not really. The instruments came later!

The smear proceeded fairly ueventfully. The highlight was the moment where she'd opened and fastened the speculum but then tutted and said she'd have to "slip it in a bit further. It's because you're so tall - you have a long vagina," she mused. Does a girl take that as a compliment?!

So, smear and swabs successfully completed, the Renault Espace was brought out of the garage so we could commence the scan. She put a condom on it - really - and then squidged a big glob of good old KY onto the end. And then in it went - and because this is an honest account, I'll say that it entering wasn't entirely unpleasant - but I have to admit that I did experience the promised "pressure and discomfort" when she started moving it around in order to broadcast my organs.

The scan was much more thorough and in-depth, in the literal sense, than the rather basic "yep, you have sexual organs and are indeed female" slimine swipe I had at the hospital back in March. The consultant was also massively more helpful - she tilted the TV so I could see it, and explained what the various blobs were - perhaps in an effort to take my mind off the Espace doing a three-point turn, but nevertheless it was interesting. It wasn't actively painful - but it was uncomfortable, and there was pronounced discomfort when she pulled it this way and that trying to get a better picture.

The upshot of it all is I likely have a polycystic ovary. I need to have a series of blood tests taken over the next eight weeks, as well as a procedure called a hysterosalpingogram. This is to happen within 10 days of my next period, at the hospital. Basically they drive the old Espace again but this time with a slim catheter-type thing on the end which is inserted through the neck of my cervix so they can inject a load of dye into my womb and tubes, thus determining if there are any blockages. More on that later, depending when I get a period...

All in all, then, a slightly traumatic experience but one that was easily copable-with and which may also have given us a much-needed diagnosis. If it is PCOS, they can give me ovarian stimulating drugs and hopefully we'll be on the road to parenthood (albeit possibly of twins!)

Here's hoping...