Hard to Forgive
6:16 p.m. -- 2010-01-21
Victoria took time off from work to visit the doctor�s yesterday. A very healthy, happy girl... this is the first time she�s been to her GP in ages.
An hour later, she was back home, and in tears. The new doctor had been simply horrible to her, brusquely asking questions and then ignoring the answers. Asking the same question twice. Talking across her as she tried to answer... and then dismissing her worries out of hand. Sending her away.
My dear, brave Victoria had finally got up the nerve to go and ask a doctor for help, since we�re growing concerned about our failure to conceive a child.
Now, I get it: this is an imprecise business. And we�re not talking about some painful or debilitating ailment... but is that any reason to get your questions dismissed out of hand?
We�re not expecting miracles, here. All we wanted was to make some gentle, initial moves towards finding out if pregnancy is going to be a possibility. The basic blood test for her, sperm analysis for me, and see how we go from there. Naturally enough, Vicky didn�t want to discuss these questions with her regular doctor, since he�s a male. She made an appointment with the female partner... and came home crying in frustration.
�You haven�t been trying for nearly long enough,� was the verdict. �You have to try for three years before anything can be done.�
It was the manner of this doctor that Victoria found upsetting, rather than the news; but when we did a little investigating, we found that this information (delivered in an extremely hostile manner) is incorrect. In fact, my wife and I are perfectly entitled to begin this process at this point. To wait until this arbitrary three years has elapsed would not merely be frustrating, but would substantially reduce our chances of ever having a child.
Tick tock.
This from �An Integrated Approach to NHS Funded Treatment of Subfertility: Eligibility Criteria�...
The National Institute for Clinical Excellence �... defines infertility as �failure to conceive after regular unprotected sexual intercourse for 2 years in the absence of known reproductive pathology� (excluding couples using contraception and those outside the reproductive age range) The guidance advises that �couples who have not conceived after 1 year of regular unprotected sexual intercourse should be offered further clinical investigation including semen analysis and/or assessment of ovulation�.
Where there is a known cause of infertility or there are other risks, such as the health of one of the partners, or where the female partner is aged 35 or over, earlier investigations should be offered.�
Vicky�s fertility is likely to dwindle if we allow a rude, disinterested GP to dream up hoops that we have to jump through. Sex for three years sounds like fun, but... let�s find out if I�m firing blanks first, shall we? Why waste any more time?
As I say, we�re not asking for miracles; just the initial tests to find out if we can leave it to fate, or if we�ll just be wasting our time. To have the one female doctor in your medical practice apparently take a dislike to you (or humanity in general) and decide to limit your chances of reproduction... is a bit harsh. To make my dear wife cry in the process, at this difficult time... is something else again.
Such is life, with the National Health Service. This is what we refer to, in the UK, as the �postcode lottery�. At its most extreme, it means that living on one side of a street gets you free access to life-prolonging drugs, and living on the other side, you get nothing.
I understand all that. I get it; resources are limited. But Vicky and I have placed no demands on the health service for years. Then we ask for a little bit of information, about the possibility of having some tests... and you come up against this f�hrer of the fallopian tubes.
My immediate reaction was to think: we�ll go private. I can pay to have those tests done, if I have to. Maybe that�s the idea, in Gordon Brown�s Britain: make public services so fucking unpleasant that you take your burden elsewhere. Maybe I�ve been na�ve. Still... God damn it. I know the cost of living is ridiculously high here; I didn�t realise that this included the cost of creating life in the first place. I mean, where are all those future taxpayers supposed to come from?
I note that our region�s healthcare leaflet includes the word �pregnancy� exactly once... in the context of reducing the number of teenage parents. Confused by the apparent disinterest in one of the most important biological processes there is, I searched the document again: this time looking for the word �mother�. It, too, appeared just once. It�s in the middle of the word �Chemotherapy�.
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We have a work-around. As I�ve mentioned before, Vicky still has a �spare� house, from before we married. So we have an extra postcode... which buys us another chance at the �lottery�, in a different town. Not very fair on everyone else, perhaps... but we pay council tax on that house, too, so why the hell not? It will be interesting to see just how different the quality of experience might be.
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Now, I need to get one thing straight. I don�t actually like children. I dislike their drool, their smells, and their general grubby stickiness. I don�t like anybody who doesn�t cover their mouth when they cough. I don�t believe that children have much that�s interesting to say; and their infinite capacity to embarrass you could be a bit of a drawback, too, if you were thinking of ever having any kind of social life again.
I think their drawings are awful. Their singing is worse. Their TV programmes are such utter brainrot, I shudder at the idea of ever having such things playing in the same building as me. Especially that �In the Night Garden� dross.
I�m not sure that children improve with age, either. They just get more calculating, and more mercenary. They only really get better once they become adults, and only then if they seem sufficiently responsible that you don�t have to worry about them all the time, and if they don�t sponge off you too badly.
All I�m saying is... I�m going into this with my eyes open. Rather than la-la-la ours will be different... And that thing where everybody thinks their child must be some kind of prodigy. Pardon me while I vomit.
In spite of these reservations, a year ago I finally agreed to give parenthood a chance. Not because I had warmed to the idea of turning a noisy, destructive puke-thrower loose in our house, but because it mattered to Victoria. It seemed to me that she should not be denied a chance to experience this aspect of her potential, if that was what she wanted.
All that GP had to do was hand over a bloody leaflet, and wish her luck. Anything else would have been a bonus. Instead, Vicky got disinformation and obstruction.
I find that hard to forgive.
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