It never occurred to me that there would be any interest in the blog beyond the inevitable cliffhanger inherent to our IVF attempt - but a handful of people have expressed a desire for the blog to go on. I imagine that, in the main, these requests are a manifestation of polite kindness - but, if even one person really would like to be involved for a little bit longer, it would be my very great honour to nurture that attachment - the embryo(s) and this wannabe-Mummy know a precious gift when we see one. Besides, I'm certain it will surprise no one to discover that I haven't suddenly run out of things to say! I am not going to dwell, any longer, on our gratitude for the kindness and support we have received because I don't want to bore you with repetition - suffice it to say that, together you have cast my world in the most beautiful array of my favourite colours and banished some ghosts that had threatened to linger for a lifetime. You may have been mostly silent but, collectively, you have imparted great and powerful wisdom and, as an impoverished scholar regarding the meaning of life, I am forever indebted. Anyway, enough of that - let's get back to my vagina and it's most recent public appearance. We came back from Croatia to find a letter offering us a gynaecological appointment for today regarding an unrelated minor complaint that has long since resolved - but it occurred to me that, rather than cancel, we could use the opportunity to have my ovaries given a quick once over and get some feedback re. the old OHSS. I told Archie that when they found out that we had been to Europe for IVF they would be snotty with us but he was sceptical and I could see him silently filing this under the category of 'progesterone-induced-paranoia'. I should have been grateful to the good lady doctor for making her disapproval so eminently undeniable - it is a rare occasion that I get to prove Archie wrong - but I'd be lying if I said that gratitude was my overwhelming emotion. You would have been proud of me though - I bared my best gritted teeth smile and played dumb as she dangled her tantalising bait. Having explained the circumstances and assumed the pre-scan spread legged position she delivered her exasperated lecture on people going abroad for IVF, (sigh). I applaud her tactical restraint, she could've launched in earlier but she held back until I was at my most vulnerable which enabled her to be both literally and metaphorically below the belt. Pretty impressive you have to admit. The problem with people going abroad for IVF, (sigh), is that they're not under anyone's supervision if there are any complications when they get back, (sigh). I resisted the temptation to suggest that, if her feelings on the matter were so strong that she couldn't help but pass unsolicited judgement, she could always open up an ethically priced clinic, or indeed, commit her life and her income to the reversal of the ageing process so that the 2 year waiting list didn't pose such a problem - and I will similarly resist the temptation to 'inadvertently' email her a link to this blog. Anyway, she was unwittingly disarmed by the state of my ovaries, which were sufficient to merit the beckoning in of a student, thereby enabling her to don the eminently gratifying role of benevolent, all-knowing, superior, (with the emphasis on 'all-knowing' and 'superior'). Before we started the IVF process my ovaries were about 3.3cm wide - they are now 7.7cm wide and filled with cysts - 7.7cm doesn't sound that big but I suppose if my liver or my arm ballooned to more than twice it's normal size I might be a bit concerned. They are a centimetre bigger than they were when we left Croatia and she seemed to think that I must be lying about my level of discomfort - which I wasn't - the pain is not constant, sometimes it's so bad that I can hardly move or breath and other times it is much more manageable, (besides which, I have read about some people's ovaries swelling to 14cm so it can't be THAT bad). She also noted an increased build up of fluid in my abdominal cavity. The upshot is that I am to ignore my internal barometer and desist from all activity forthwith - just because I don't think it feels 'that bad' doesn't mean that I can get up and take the dog out. I am to stay horizontal, keep guzzling excessive amounts of water and take myself to hospital if the pain gets severe for any prolonged length of time, (I am just grateful Archie wasn't given that advice a few days ago). We are to go back in two weeks when we will 'have to be seen by a different doctor due to the timing of her rotation' - obviously we are distraught to miss the opportunity for more moral guidance but we will, somehow, find the strength to endure.