Pass the parsnips, we have a plan

I started crying on Christmas Eve, and couldn't stop for awhile. I cried through "The Princess Diaries" and "Shrek" on BBC1. I cried through "Chocolat" premiering on BBC2. And I wept through numbers 40 all the way up to number 1 on the "100 Greatest Christmas Moments" on Channel 4.

E. was at first bewildered, then alarmed, then consoling during this weepfest. It took him a while to notice, so engrossed was he in the orgy of telly watching, but he finally realised I was not simply just upset at Johnny Depp's faux French-Irish accent.

"What's the matter, sweetie?" he asked, giving me a cuddle.

And I blurbled something along the lines of: "WhyforunexplainednobabynofamilyChristmas
whatforClomidbabynoIVFclinicWHAT!"

So. What brought all this on? Well, I could go through the minutiae of our last appointment and what Dr Ticktock said, but honestly, it's too dull, even if you like reading about other people's infertility treatment decision-making process. Let's just say, he talked a lot, for half an hour, and most of it was garbled. It was also like "Infertility, Dick & Jane style", whereas I already have a degree from Google Medical School.

What it boils down to is this:

1. Carry on trying and do nothing medically.
2. Try Clomid for a few cycles.
3. Do an unmedicated IUI.
4. Do a Clomid IUI.
5. Do IVF.

That's it. Our clinic won't do injectable IUIs, so we would have to go someplace else if we wanted to do that. We also have to pay for any treatment from now on, unless we want to wait three years for NHS funding.

These were the things we needed to think through. Namely, where, when, and what.

The "where" comes from the realisation that if we have to pay out of pocket, there is no reason to necessarily stay with our current clinic. We may as well pick a place that suits us in terms of appointment times, waiting lists, location, reputation.

That "when" should become such an issue surprised me. Once upon a time I thought that we would head, all body parts blazing, into an IUI cycle. However, I discovered that I was more than a little taken aback by two things. The first, that we were really going to have to do this, to have medical intervention to get pregnant.

I don't really know why this should have come as a revelation- after all, I have slowly been coming to that understanding over the last year. And for months now, I have been completely embedded in the infantry of others' infertility wars, albeit wearing a flak jacket and clutching a press pass. So I thought I knew exactly what to expect and how to feel about it. But finding out that this is no fire drill, but is really happening- to us- was a shock.

The second thing is I realised I resented the hell out of entering into, and paying money for treatment for a medical problem that is UNEXPLAINED. Never mind the lack of a guarantee it's going to work, nobody can seem to tell us why we need to go through it in the first place. So that was hard.

However, and this is where the "when" merges into the "what" and the "where", there are timetables to consider. We're clearly not ready to embark on IVF. But if we stay at our clinic, we would need to get IVF teed up some months in advance. Dr Ticktock suggested that, regardless of what we decided in the long run, it would do no harm to get a consultation set up at the Ass Con Centre, with a view to starting IVF at a pre-determined date. Say January 2006. Everything else in between could be arranged at relatively short notice, whenever it suited us.

And so the tears, as I pondered all of this. Clomid. IUI. IVF. Statistics. Costs. Clinics. Timetables. My period showed up on Christmas morning, just to add to the sense of frustration and doubt.

Finally, E. and I sat down at Christmas dinner, and talked it all over, as you do, between the brussels sprouts and the roasted potatoes. We agreed to stick to our current clinic. At the end of the day, the options for going elsewhere are somewhat limited in terms of staying in Scotland, and at this point neither of us can quite face the logistical nightmare of treatment down South.

Then E. said what I had been thinking, namely, that we should wait just a few more months. If only so we can feel, with some sort of closure, that we have done our best, and that it is now time to try medical assistance. Agreed.

Finally, "what", in terms of treatments.

"I think we should do a Clomid IUI," E. said.

"That's easy for you to say, " I told him, helping myself to more gravy. "Apart from the whole idea of getting on the treatment rollercoaster, I approach Clomid with a certain amount of dread."

"I know," he admitted. "If you don't want to do it, you don't have to."

For a brief and tantalising moment, option 1-"do nothing medically" danced appealingly in the air. Oddly, there is something so compelling about just carrying on as we have been. About throwing my hands up to the whimsy of egg & sperm, or of fate, or whatever you wish to call it. Of relaxing into the idea that we don't have to be parents, if it never happens on its own.

I looked at E. He looked at me. I took a deep breath.

"OK. March 2005. Clomid IUI. Let's do it."

He reached a hand across the table. And we shook on it, in a strangely business-like, yet comfortingly decisive manner. Forming a contract. Sealing the deal.