This afternoon, I’ve been looking back through my blog archives for late 2006 and early 2007 when I was pregnant with The Prawn, trying to draw some inspiration from the fact that, yes, pregnancy does, at some point END.

Due to my body’s unfortunately tendency toward miscarriage, I have pretty much been pregnant for all save two months since last January. This has lead me to an enormous sympathy for elephants. (22 months is a long time, ladies.) So, 10 months and counting since I could, in all good conscience, refer to myself in the singular. Oy.

The first mention of any serious complaint in my pregnancy with the Prawn came in February, about a month away from her due date. I suppose it should have come as no surprise that 3 years on, the niggly bits might begin to start a bit earlier. As I included in my Facebook status the other day, I’ve already come to the point where when I drop something that I need on the floor, I tend to take it rather personally. The fact that the Prawn does not know any of the most popular dirty words is a minor miracle. (To be honest, she learned the S-word after The Rock Star dropped a running hard drive on the floor once, but he managed to convince her that “sugar” is a much better word. She now says it exclusively in times of stress.)

Of course, I must add the traditional “how grateful I am for this pregnancy” disclaimer at this point. Other than our early roller coaster ride, the rest has been pretty much a piece of cake up until now. That I can bring myself to complain at all is testament to a ferocious head cold, which, on top of other discomforts has reduced me to being a big whiny girl about the whole thing. (Diminished lung capacity will do that to you. So will heartburn so bad that it’s started eating the back of your tongue.)

The serious waddle is about 3 weeks old at this point. Pain in places I wasn’t aware that I had ligaments started last week. And new for this week, just in time for the head cold, sneezing and hoping I don’t wet myself! Awesome. Of course, I am, in fact, a limber and adept frolicking flower fairy in comparison to my unfortunate sister-in-law, Trumpet, who has spent most of her pregnancy on the couch, wedged into positions that could charitably be called “not as uncomfortable as sitting on a rusty spike” with complex arrangements of pillows and hot water bottles.

Last week, I dutifully made my way to a midwife appointment for the usual pokings and proddings. When it came time to listen in to the heartbeat, the midwife, as is often the case, had to pursue the Squid around her uterine squat in order to get a good reading. When she finally DID manage to get a handle on the little bugger, she said, “Ah.”

“Ah?” I said.

“I was wondering why I couldn’t find the heartbeat where I was expecting it. The baby’s breech at the moment!”

This was not exactly news that I wanted to jump up and down about, even assuming that I was CAPABLE of jumping up and down any more.

People make a pretty big deal about the METHOD in which babies come into the world. I would certainly be the first to admit that this is a VERY big deal to a lot of women and with seemingly unnecessary c-sections on the rise, (more down OBGYNS who are anxious to get back to the golf course rather than a SUDDEN INABILITY OF WOMEN TO DELIVER BABIES NATURALLY. Seriously, I don’t for a minute believe that our pelvises have been evolutionarily sabotaged in the last 30 years.) it’s even MORE of a thing; creating feelings of weakness and guilt for women who are rushed into surgery. It’s taken me a good few years to process the ordeal of the Prawn’s birth but after a few chats with a very helpful hospital midwife, had begun to hope to take the natural route this time around.

However, if the Squid remains resolutely head up, in four weeks, I’ll be scheduled in for an elective c-section 2 weeks after that whether I like it or not.

There are several things wrong with this.

a) GETTING CUT OPEN AGAIN WHILE AWAKE. I can not over-emphasize how fucked up this is. This is something that happens in horror films. (Luckily, at no time during the Prawn’s birth did any of the surgeons gloatingly attempt to show me my lower intestine or severed foot.)

b) 6 weeks is in no way enough time for me to pick enough underpants up off the bedroom floor to fit in a moses basket. Also, there’s a not insignificant mildew problem that needs some serious attention before we end up with sentient fungus.

c) Do you have any idea where our bottle sterilizer went? Cause I don’t. Also, the crib?

d) DID I MENTION GETTING CUT OPEN WHILE AWAKE?

Do I wish for an end to c-sections? Of course not. They undoubtedly give a fighting chance to mothers and babies that under other circumstances, would not have been so lucky. But I can’t tell you how much I don’t want another one.

So I will be spending the next  4 weeks trying desperately to get the Squid interested in the upside down lifestyle. One website recommended putting headphones down your pants and trying to “coax” the baby down with Mozart. (It occurs to me that moving the headphones up to the top of the belly and replacing Mozart with Wu Tang Clan might be more effective.) However, I think I’ll stick to bouncing on our newly ordered exercise ball, spending some time on my hands and knees and maybe joining the Prawn in the enthusiastic dance routine she’s developed to “Single Ladies”.

Or maybe I should just get on with picking up those underpants.

Yeah, you read that right. My last entry was on the 20th of November. I had fully intended to write a “Christmas Card Apology” post at some point, but this was just the kind of Christmas that didn’t allow for little indulgences like, oh, sitting on my ass for longer than 15 minutes, so I must apologize for the delay.

Things started to go slightly pear shaped in Potamus land round about Thanksgiving when my father had what he likes to call “the first of my ischaemic episodes”. (Translated into English, this is a small stroke.) Of course, my immediate reaction was to book the first flight out,  but was told in no uncertain terms by both parental units that this was vastly unnecessary and that they would prefer that I and my burgeoning bump remained just where we were, thank you very much. However, two weeks later, when  he had what he likes to call “the second of my ischaemic episodes” (which was expected, but nonetheless, traumatic) there was little hesitation on my part to book a flight for the earliest possible opportunity that would not cost a small fortune. Of course, I didn’t inform my parents of this decision, deciding that the old addage, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission” would have to do in this case.

Christmas itself was enlivened by a visit from my childhood friend Virginia, who spent Christmas week with us, having a gander around London and amusing the Prawn to no end. It was lovely having her here and even lovelier to have an extra pair of hands for large Christmas related tasks like the inevitable day-before-Christmas shopping trip which is ALWAYS nightmarish, but this year was made worse by pre-Christmas snowfall which trapped people in their homes for some time leading up to the holidays. The crowd in the local Waitrose, which is usually characterized by their relative civility in contrast to the average crowd at Tesco, was VAST and manners pretty much were NOT the motto of the day. One would think that being hugely pregnant would keep people from deliberate ramming you with shopping trollies, but one would be very much mistaken.

Christmas, although somewhat stressful for the rest of us, was utterly joyful for the Prawn, who spent the day being showered by wave after wave of presents. Since we didn’t want to add a whole lot to our “Stuff Footprint” due to the impending move Westward over the ocean, her gifts were numerous, but small and easily transportable. Remember the time in your life when you’d open a pack of SOCKS on Christmas morning and still be excited about it? (Me neither. But my point is, little kids don’t need big, expensive stuff to get excited about.) We managed to stretch out the gift giving until well after Christmas dinner was finished, which, for us, was a serious parent-forethought coup. (This from people who have, on occasion, gone out for a whole day, not realizing that we’ve forgotten diapers. Or juice. Or Mr. Moo.) The biggest Christmas hits were probably her stuffed Tigger (a fabulous sale find at the Disney Store who has now joined the ranked of anointed “friends” who take up 80% of her bed) and her new Brio trainset from PPD, Uncle Duff and Auntie Trumpet. (which she would probably also take to bed if we let her.)

I was lucky enough to have booked a flight to the US on New Year’s Eve that left Heathrow and arrived at Dulles within half an hour of Virginia’s, so after saying goodbye to her in the morning, we met up again 8 hours later on the other end of the planet in order for me to bum a ride back to the homestead. Air travel is weird, weird, weird.

Also, due to the douchecanoe in Detroit with exploding underwear, I was subjected to probably the most stringent security measures I have encountered in my years of flying so far, even post 9/11. Not only was the normal security line fairly painful, but once at the gate, every passenger was patted down and all carry-ons were completely unpacked and searched as well. (did I mention that I only traveled with one rather full carry on? And that while TSA agents are happy to unpack your luggage for you, packing it again is TOTALLY up to you?) Not only this, but once inside the gate area, we were unable to leave to use the toilet without having to go through the whole process all over again. (Imagine the joy of being 6.5 months pregnant and being told that you may not pee for 2 whole hours after having had a large, decaf skinny latte for breakfast.) The flight itself was entirely uneventful; a fact that made it EXTREMELY eventful as I’ve not experienced an uneventful flight for the last 2 and a half  years. There was no one to worry over for kicking the seat in front of her, getting crumbs everywhere and repeatedly asking for juice, so I cherished what is certainly to be the last flight before traveling becomes even MORE complicated with the arrival of someone who might scream for the entire 8 hours for no good reason.

I was, as you might imagine, reluctant to leave The Rock Star and the Prawn for a whole week but knew that I’d certainly be happier to see my Dad for myself and reassure myself that everything was indeed okay. My arrival was unexpected, which was slightly unnerving. Not because I thought my parents were going to be out carousing to ring in the New Year, but simply knowing that THEY didn’t know I was coming made me slightly nervous. I chose to withhold this information until I was about a quarter of a mile from the house when I phoned and asked my mother to put the kettle on. This of course made no sense to her at all, but she heard Virginia laughing in the background and immediately assumed that we were BOTH still in England and HOW IN GOD’S NAME DID SHE MANAGE TO MISS HER FLIGHT? I then had to gently explain that Virginia was NOT in England and that /I/ was in fact in America and basically at the front door, so how about a cup of tea?
So, it turned out the only thing I needed to ask forgiveness for was making my mother cry.

I had a tremendously relaxed week with my parents. I was indeed glad for the opportunity to see my father for myself. He’s doing well, all things considering. The most hated of all of his post “ischaemic episode” symptoms; a hideous case of the hiccups, had just abated when I arrived, (Yes, brain swelling can cause hiccups. A new one on me too.) so he was happily enjoying life post persistent diaphragmic spasms. Even his word recovery was much, much better than I would have expected  and will continue to improve, no doubt. In the meantime, he can competently talk “around” words that escape him until those new little connections start forming again.

As for myself, I rather enjoyed the novelty of sitting on my rapidly expanding posterior on a new and tremendously comfy couch IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY reading books and covered in cats. I also got to indulge in some shopping at Target, lunch with Virginia at the orgasmically nom-tacular California Tortilla Kitchen (words cannot describe how happy a giant burrito and yummy chips and salsa made me) and spending time in my parent’s lovely home. The weather during my visit couldn’t have been a whole lot colder, so remaining indoors at all times was high on the list of all of our priorities. I managed to speak twice a day with The Rock Star and the Prawn, who, of course put on her best puppy eyes and pleaded with me to come home and reiterated many times over that she’d “lost” me. Parental guilt overload.

All too soon, it was time for me to get BACK on a plane for the return journey. Strangely enough, during the week of my absence, I discovered that I had become slightly more uncomfortably pregnant, so dragging two suitcases around Dulles at 6.30am became  more of a chore than it was when I came over only 6 days earlier. (Well, the second suitcase was my own fault. The siren song of Target overcame me.) My only moment of levity during the morning was noticing that the TSA rep who gave me a pat-down in security was called “Agent Wang” and trying not to let him know that I was sophomoric enough to find his name patently hilarious. The actual flight was not quite as restful as the one before it; an hour of prolonged turbulence, worry over whether or not the plane would have a place to LAND due to snow in the UK and a mentally ill seatmate put paid to any restfulness that was to be had.

So I am once again home and have realized that now that the holidays and my traveling are past me, the next big thing on my personal schedule  is having a baby, which is harshing my calm a bit. The baby was always that thing that I’d deal with after the holidays; that thing I didn’t really need to think about just yet. However, it is now starting to dawn on me that there might be some things I need to take care of between now and mid to late March. Like finding that elusive black sack full of 0-3 month old clothes and washing them. And buying a new Moses basket. And PBA Free bottles. And trying to get the Prawn used to the idea of someone else coming to live with us forever and ever who might be kind of disruptive for a while before she gets cute and play-with-able.  I hope that she will accept the arrival with good grace, although, at the moment, virtually NOTHING she does, (being a two and a half years old) is with good grace, so I’m not holding my breath. Perhaps more calm will descend the closer to 3 she gets. Or perhaps not. At any rate, I’ll keep reading “Big Sister Dora” to her and see if it does any good.

This little missive has now rambled on sufficiently to classify as self-indulgent so I will simply end by saying that I hope I can get a few more entries in before the world as I know it goes completely haywire.

Since we have already somewhat touched upon the subject of pregnancy rage, I will simply begin with this thought in mind and leave it up to you, dear reader, to imagine what I may or may not be feeling at this moment.

The Rock Star has been working his pants off on a particular work project with a deadline of 2 pm today for some time. Unfortunately, other projects got in the way and he spent this weekend feeling a bit like a small thundercloud and having to work mornings before the Prawn woke up and evenings after she’d gone to bed. (Of course, on Saturday night, she staged an “I don’t want to go to bed” type protest, depriving him of further working time.) All things being what they were, The Rock Star was one big ball of stress come this morning.

And now we rewind briefly to a midwife appointment that I attended last Wednesday.

Perhaps when we were first married, The Rock Star and I might have toyed around with the idea of a bigger family. I liked the idea of three children. However, as it became apparent that we wouldn’t be able to start our family for some time due to fiscal concerns, we decided that two was probably a more reasonable number. This has been our thinking for at least 6 or 7 years now. So, one of the questions I had prepared for my midwife was the question of a tubal ligation, since I will most likely be having an elective caesarian this time around due to the manner of the Prawn’s arrival. This is a decision that I don’t really feel like debating with anybody. Do I wish they hadn’t cut me open the first time? Yes. Do I want them to cut me open again? No. Do I think it’s the best option for the baby? No. But do I need someone who lives on the other side of the ocean to come and look after my daughter during the birth? Yes. Do I trust my body to do something that it BLATANTLY wasn’t going to do the first time around despite three days of labor? No way. So, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of my debate.

She let me know that yes, that is an option, but that I needed to bring my husband to the consultant’s appointment today so that they could be sure that both of us were on the same page.

This was one of those statements that completely went in one ear and out the other until I set foot outside the surgery when Pregnancy Rage caused an enormous mental pile up causing me to go, “HANG ON JUST ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE….if I want to be in control of my fertility, I have to ASK PERMISSION from my partner?”

Self Control sits in a much smaller office since Pregnancy Rage took over the company. It nervously put it’s finger on the little buzzer.

“Erm….really? It’s not that big a deal. A little…um…ignorant, but probably not worth getting…erm…too worked up about since we know that our partner is totally on board the no more babies train?”

“WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION, I’LL ASK FOR IT!” roared Rage.

“Yep, yep, okay, that’s fine…” Self Control conceded.

 “GO GET ME A DOUGHNUT!”

“Yep, that’s cool, I’m going….”

So, the situation this morning stood this way. The Rock Star desperately needed to work but I was of the equal belief (as was he) that he needed to accompany me to the appointment to validate a choice that I’m OBVIOUSLY NOT QUALIFIED TO MAKE ON MY OWN. Our only consolation, the 11am appointment wouldn’t last long and we’d be back to the office so that he could get on with things.

Around about the time the little hand was between the 11 and the 12 the big hand was on the everloving 9, both of us were starting to get a little stressed out. By the time the traitorous clock informed us that it was in fact 12.40, I kind of thought about calling the nearby Psych ward for the Rock Star, who looked like he might ACTUALLY burst into tears at any moment.

Of course, spending all of that quality time in the waiting room, we got to observe all kinds of domestic and familial drama, the chiefest being a 16 year old who’d come in for an early emergency scan who’s mother loudly informed the entire waiting room (on the pretext of informing her daughter) that if anyone gave her the eye for being the youngest person in the waiting room that we could all “just shove it.” and then proceeded to use extremely colorful language while leafing through a redecorating magazine (who would have thought that different kinds of wall paper would have required so many different uses of the F word?) despite the presence of a good number of children. Stroppy daughter then began complaining loudly about having to pee (despite the necessity of a full bladder for a scan) and I spent a good 15 minutes watching the rolling of eyeballs around the room as well as the sigh of relief  that went up when she was finally called back. I then got the giggles inappropriately thinking of Mom from Futurama, the supposedly sweet industrialist, zipping up her old lady suit and informing her advisers, “I’m off to some charity BS for knocked-up teenage sluts!” (I’m terribly sorry. It was a very, very difficult morning and my brain doesn’t know from appropriate anymore. I’m listening to Rage Against the Machine at the moment, so all is lost.)

For any of you not acquainted with my previous experience of baby birthing at this particular hospital, let’s just wrap up a whole week into a neat little parcel; it blew. It both blew and sucked, making a mockery of physics. (If anyone is bound and determined to read at least the sanitized version of events, it’s in the archives under March 2007) At the time, when I wrote my “birth story”, I think I put it this way:

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

With the benefit of sober reflection nearly 2.5 years later, I can honest say that probably 60% of all that went wrong was just bad luck and couldn’t have been avoided. However, the remaining 40% comprised a significant portion of the stuff that was the MOST mentally scarring. It was because of this 40% that have made me think long and hard about the birth of the Squid and exactly want I DO and DON’T want to happen. I am not the 17 year old girl in the waiting room. I am a woman and a mother who knows what’s best for her and her family based on past experience, research and circumstances. To be treated as such is not, I think, an unreasonable expectation.

But, my NHS trust always has ways of surprising me. “However low the bar is, don’t worry, WE’LL SET IT LOWER!”

I like to be fair to people. My consultant was not a bad person. Nor was she a bad doctor. But she clearly had the idea that I needed hand holding or coddling and that I probably hadn’t really thought anything through very carefully.

Exhibit A: The c-section  I had three major points.

a. I have had a previous caesarian.

b. We need my parents to look after our daughter and obviously they need to know WHEN to come.

c. Being 12 days past my due date and after 3 days in hospital with more drugs pumping through my body than were found in Janis Joplin’s autopsy, my body did NOT want to give birth naturally. If you think I’m going through that again, I could do with whatever you’re smoking.

What she responded with: “I understand that you might have had a difficult time last time around, but we don’t like to do Caeserians for  purely social reasons.”

Pregnancy Rage was in the middle of taking an axe to the door “Shining” style when Self Control pressed the panic button.

“EXCUSE ME, LADY?” Rage screamed through the now splintered door. “WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO WHAT I JUST SAID? SOCIAL REASONS? SERIOUSLY?” Luckily, the watertight door between offices slammed to the ground and Self Control breathed a small squeak of relief to hear only muffled thumps coming from the other side.

Exhibit B: The tubal ligation I had only one major point.

a. WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN. EVER. PERIOD. We’ve been married for 10 years and this has always been our plan since we began to think about a family seriously. I’m not 24. I’m 34. This is my fifth pregnancy. I’m done. Finito. Finished. Two kids.

What she responded with: “Well, tubal ligation is very PERMANENT and not easily reversible. I appreciate that this is your plan, but circumstances can change. I don’t want to comment on your social situation in any way, but there are much less invasive forms of birth control.”

A faint blowtorch line was beginning to appear on the watertight door and Self Control reached into her desk drawer, hands trembling, for the tranquilizer darts as she could just begin to hear,

“I’M SORRY, DID I NOT JUST MAKE MYSELF FUCKING CRYSTAL CLEAR ON THE POINT THAT WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN? I’VE HAD TEN FUCKING YEARS TO THINK ABOUT THIS! I DIDN’T JUST WAKE UP THIS MORNING AND DECIDE OVER A CUP OF TEA AND CHEERIOS TO GET MY TUBES TIED!”

At this point, I made one last ditch effort to impress NICELY upon this well meaning woman how indescribably awful my previous birth experience had been and how I needed some form of control over my situation this time around, but as I feared, I became a blubbering mess, as I always do when I try to talk about The Prawn’s birth, thereby eliminating any credibility I may have had as a mother-to-be not to be messed with.

I could almost hear Rage calling me the most awful names.

One of the worst features of the antenatal unit at our hospital is that it’s in a port-a-cabin outside, so nothing is really designed for privacy, thereby forcing me to endure listening to the phone call that she placed in her next door office to the hospital’s “Afterthought” service, politely explaining to them in nice terms that she had a very nice, but confused lady who needed to “talk to someone” in order to “process previous birth issues”. The Rock Star (who suddenly realized that his presence at this appointment was, in fact, entirely unnecessary) and I contented ourselves by waving middle fingers at the closed door and giggling with insane disbelief.

So, the upshot of the interview- Sorry we gave you a c-section the first time, but no, you probably can’t have another one because you don’t have a good enough reason. Neither can you have a tubal ligation because you obviously haven’t grasped what “never having any more kids” means. Oh, and finding care for your existing kid? Well, that’s your problem.

Self Control is sleeping with one eye open.

So, we have chicken pox.

By we, I mean the Prawn, as illnesses of children tend to tip the whole family into chaos. We noticed one or two quite revolting spots on her back during her bath a few night ago which have since bloomed into a rather magnificent crop of pox that cover her entire body, concentrating most heavily and cruelly on her ladybits, which seems most grossly unfair. Strangely enough, The Prawn seems less than bothered by the repulsive boils all over her that I have to spend every waking second fighting the urge to pop. (I’m kind of a monkey that way.) In fact, she is in great spirits and takes tremendous pleasure in cuddling the both of us despite the fact that she looks like the creature from the Zit Lagoon.

We have discovered a few things about the Prawn in the last few days. One of those things is that she has a deep and abiding fear of doctors. Strangely, none of them have ever done anything heinous to her;  like sticking something up her butt for example. If this were the case, I could totally understand the unrestrained screamfest that accompanies every visit, but so far, none of the doctors she’s ever seen has done anything worse than attempt to listen to her heart or look in her ear, both of which are near impossible when the subject in question is wailing like a banshee and squirming like an angry squid. The nurse, however, who, every time we see her, gives the Prawn a jab….she has no fear of whatsoever. Go figure.

We have a really lovely GP who actually gave us a diagnosis at first of hand/foot/mouth, but who, when consulted today with the Prawn’s multitude of spots, was like, “WHOA! Sorry about that. That’s DEFINITELY chicken pox.” He probably couldn’t get a good enough look due to the extreme wigglage of my offspring.

I’m pleased that she’s got them now, to be honest. Better now than in October, in time for Trumpet an BoyRacer’s wedding. Better now than if I get pregnant again in the future, forcing me to abandon her and the Rock Star until the pestilance subsides. But….did I mention that I’ve never had them?

Despite being exposed numerous times as a kid, I never came down with the dreaded poultry lurghy, so I suppose now is the time to test my theory that I have a natural immunity.

If my theory should prove incorrect, I am in for some VERY unpleasant times indeed.

I have, in the past, expressed my extreme displeasure with the state of our particular NHS trust. During my pregnancy, this point was driven home on a regular basis as I was passed from midwife to midwife, had appointments cancelled, was called in for appointments that I didn’t need and generally treated like a hugely rotund piece of driftwood, being tossed about in the healthcare system. For anyone living in the UK, they’ll probably remember the giant “THE NHS KILLS BABIES” headlines that appeared earlier this year in the papers, oh, RIGHT BEFORE I GAVE BIRTH detailing how by neglecting continuity of care, the NHS was failing to pick up warning signs in pregnancies resulting in deaths of both mothers and babies. This is, of course, not the fault of NHS staff, but rather the large and bloated bureaucracy involved in its upkeep.

I suppose I have this crazy idea that medicine should be, I don’t know, helpful in some way. My beef on the bone of contention today is the simple fact that I should be able to see my doctor. MY doctor. Not one of 12 at the practice or one of the 25 locums that come in to cover shifts, but MY BLOODY DOCTOR. The one who knows me, my history and the one who I picked because I actually didn’t really like any of the other ones all that much due to the fact that they always seemed more interested in getting me out of their offices so they could have their tea break than listening to what I had to say.

I’m not actually sick at the moment. I really just need to speak to my GP about a prescription that I need a higher dose of before we take off. That and to get some advice on the best way to safely incapacitate my daughter for 7 hours as not to be lynched by other airline passengers. So, yesterday, I call for an appointment.

“He’s full up today and he’s off Wednesday.” the surly receptionist informed me.

“Well, can I schedule an appointment for Thursday?”

“You have to call tomorrow to schedule an appointment for Thursday.”

This is probably the height of NHS wankery I’ve encountered so far. To make government targets of every patient being seen within 48 hours of contacting a surgery, our health trust has decided that you can only make an appointment 24 hours in advance. Never mind that you might have a schedule. Never mind that you might actually want to talk to YOUR doctor at your leisure, you either take what they have, when they have it or go get stuffed.

So, forcing the bile back down my oesophagus, I called again this morning at 8.20am.

“Sorry, his clinic is full tomorrow.” Surly McSurlison told me.

“But,” I stammered, “I was told yesterday if I called today, I could see him.”

“Well, it IS already 8.20 ma’am. You should have called earlier.”

The surgery opens at 8.

This is the point where I always get the urge to smash the phone against the wall.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do should I call back tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock to find that I had to sacrifice a chicken or something in order to get my desired appointment. I am hoping that The Rock Star will be there to clap a hand over my mouth before I get myself banned from the practice altogether.

It’s all go on the dental front around Prawn Central.

After 7 months of blissful gumminess, there is, at last some signs of toothy development in the Mouth of the Prawn, discovered after some random parental finger chewage suddenly started to feel a little more vicious. The Prawn is fascinated with her new mastication device and chooses to express it by gnawing on anything hard just to hear the impact of her new tooth against different surfaces. (This is especially difficult with her doidy cup, as it tends to involve a thorough soaking and a change of clothes.) She is also constantly surprised when foods she used to gum quite happily now break off in her mouth.

I am hoping that she has a different dental inheritance waiting for her than that of her parents. I’m not sure quite how many thousands of dollars went into my mouth as a child, teenager and young adult, but I’m guessing the figure is substantial. I was a thumb sucker for far too long and earned myself 3 long years of orthodontics for my pains. Braces, besides being social death, were hugely uncomfortable and resulted in at least one week out of every month after tightenings that I couldn’t eat anything more difficult than a piece of toast. (Not to mention the obligatory total loss of eating rights to gum, corn on the cob and popcorn.)

After the braces, wisdom teeth threatened to undo 3 years of metal mouth torture, so those were soon removed in my very first encounter with dental surgery. I’m not sure if they still allow dentists to carry out surgery in their offices anymore, but I’m pretty sure that if not, my case probably sped that little bit of medical procedure. I was given a fairly substantial overdose of anaesthesia and had to be wheeled out of the office, barely conscious, blood dripping from my mouth, had to endure 2 weeks of chipmunk face and hallucinogenic pain killers and finally woke from my drug induced stupor to find that I was dating a guy called Greg. (He might have looked like George Clooney what with the Demerol, I don’t know.)

Then came the 2 crowns and 3 root canals which were all very unpleasant and boring, the upshot of which is that if I smile under blacklight, I look like I’m missing two teeth.

The Rock Star’s teeth are not quite as complicated, but cavity filled. So, given the choice between the Prawn getting his teeth or mine, I suppose having her father’s would probably prove to be less expensive and less likely to earn her an unexpected boyfriend in the process.

Back when I was in high school I had an interesting and dynamic sociology teacher, who, looking back on things, was so good an educator because he was genuinely interested in the things he was talking about.

We did units on war, horror movies, societal morays and other unusual human phenomena . One of the more interesting lectures I recall was one into events surrounding a full moon. There are a fair amount of documented studies out there conducted by emergency services (police departments, A&E, firefighters) revealing that all sorts of increased and unusual activity tends to coincide with the occurrence of a full moon.

So, it was of little surprise last night when we walked into A&E for The Rock Star’s raging mystery facial/ear pain that we found ourselves under a lunar curse.

Emergency rooms are never empty. I know that the dozen or so times I’ve been in them that they are always about 10% full of people who actually need to be there (i.e. bleeding and oozing) and the rest of the 90% are usually either worried mothers of small children, people who have gotten into fights (i.e. whining and boozing) or some guy who’s mysteriously got a fork sticking out of his head. (i.e. got caught by angry ex-wife while snoozing)

Last night, the Stoke Mandeville A&E was heaving. The Rock Star is the sort of guy who takes pain very stoically, so when he said he actually thought he needed to go to A&E at 12am, I had no doubt that his pain levels were reaching extremes.

Right off the bat, the nurse let us know that there would be a significant wait. 3 hours or more. The Rock Star looked incredibly pained, but rather determined to be seen by a medical professional, so we decided to tough it out in the sub zero waiting area until 2 or so. I went in search of sustenance in the long and deserted corridors of the hospital and finally encountered some snack machines in the newer portion of the place nearly half a mile from the 50’s era A&E. The best place for them, obviously.

We were surrounded by the A&E regulars- the rugby guy on crutches. The surly teenager with a dislocated____________. The crying baby. One surprise was the guy from the comic book store on the Simpsons, who strode in round about 1am with nothing apparently wrong with him. 2 hours later he was able to force open the automatic doors to A&E when they became stuck shut, so not exactly sure what the nature of his affliction was.

While my husband was wincing with pain every few seconds, I’m sad to report that I fell asleep. I didn’t come to until 4am when the nurse came out to tell us all to go home because they were so understaffed, they wouldn’t be able to see anyone, a fact, that I might add, was pretty obvious from the moment that we walked into the place, but for some reason, it took them four hours to get around to getting that information to us.

The Rock Star bravely sucked it up and whisked me out before I could go all Angry Pregnant Woman on someone. (I must admit that my tolerance for stupidity and inconvenience of all kinds has been drastically deduced by my current incubatory state)

There was a beautiful moon last night. It’s a shame we couldn’t properly appreciate it.

So there’s been a bit of a hoo-ha going on in the news about a drug trial in London that seems to have gone horribly wrong.

We’ve come a long way since bloodletting and leeches; pharmaceutical companies spend vast amounts on research in order to make even vaster amount pending approval from administrative bodies. All sides in this debacle are already getting all lawyered up.

Now, forgive me if I’m wrong, but human drug testing is voluntary, yes?

And these tragically incapacitated 6 healthy young men were not kidnapped in the street, strapped down to tables and injected with drugs which may or may not have caused permanent organ damage, no?

The miracle of medicine seems to have blinded us to the fact that WE DON’T ALWAYS GET IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME. Human test subjects know the risks and sign a whole elephant’s worth of paperwork before hand to say just that. I am absolutely astounded that these 6 people, 4 of whom are not even CONSCIOUS yet, are already well on their way to landmark settlements against Parexel, the company testing the drug.

Certainly, if it turns out there WAS some wrongdoing on Parexel’s part (i.e. cover up of the fact that animal tests hadn’t been carried out properly) then these volunteers entered into an arrangement under false pretences and deserve all the protection the law has to offer. However, if this accident was simply the result of an unforeseen reaction within the human body, it seems ludicrous that these men, who signed legal documents and were paid for their time, should be able to sue the company due to their cavalier disregard for the dangers that drug testing can hold.

Today is just one of those days that begs to be broken down into a list.

1) The Rock Star is ill. He’s usually the king of Fighting Off Lurghi, but this time his little white blood cells were all looking at girlie magazines while the enemy stormed their barracks. I’ve spent most of my time today plying him with soup, smoothies, ibuprofen and enough of that nasty Buttercup syrup to gag a horse. (He’s been self- medicating with the syrup, to be honest. It’s one of those “drinking straight from the bottle” kind of coughs.) I just left him downstairs looking pitiful and watching the old “Starsky and Hutch” series on his laptop. Against my better judgement, I’ve continued sleeping in the same bed with the gurgling monster that my better half has become. I’ve been packing away as many vitamins as I can over the last week or so, in the vain hope that I can avoid his phlegm-filled fate.

2) Anyone who read my “Adventures in Medicine” posting will be pleased to know that after the fuckery of last week, I managed to actually get an accurate ECG reading from the surgery this morning. Totally normal in all respects. I discovered in the course of the week that my father suffers the same annoying “ectopic” heart condition; entirely non-threatening, but intensely irritating. So that’s one less thing in my life that I have to worry about.

3) I received my US tax return last week and it’s been sitting like a small, flat, ugly accountant on my desk, fixing me with a burocratic and disapproving look ever since. I haven’t even had courage enough to take it out of its wrapper. One would think that since I don’t earn any money in the US the need for a tax return would be near zero. Well, one obviously doesn’t think like the IRS. For any of you who have never SEEN a US tax form, rest assured, they can make grown men sit down and weep. The most ridiculous part of my situation is, I have to sift through these mind bending forms to JUST TO FIGURE OUT WHERE TO PUT THE ZEROS. It makes me want to throw things.

4) Just so that I don’t sound like a big bundle of negatism today, I’m rather excited by the prospect of our summer holiday. My parents are generously letting us travel with them again this year. (We spent last August in Florida doing Disney, Cape Canaveral, etc.) The West Coast is our destination; our route being from L.A. up to San Francisco, down to Yosemite National Park, (hurrah again for National Parks, say I.) out across Death Valley to Vegas, up into Utah and ending with the Grand Canyon and Phoenix. It’ll entail rather a lot of driving, but the scenery out of the windows of the car will be something else.

I think I may now retreat for a nap…a safe distance from The Rock Star.

So, I’ve not been completely well lately and I went to my ever efficient local surgery to find out why.

I am a month shy of 30, a woman, a non-smoker, and, while not as fit as I should be, not so grotesquely unfit that people make oinking sounds at me in the street. There’s really not much chance that there would be something wrong with my heart, but my GP said I had a “twitch”. Everyone has had a strange muscle twitch that they couldn’t stop for love or money. One in the eyelid is especially socially unacceptable as it makes people think you’re winking at them which can be either advantageous or dangerous, depending on the wink-ee.

Well, supposedly, I’ve got one in my heart that will, I’ve been assured, go away on its own. “It’s just a muscle, like all of the others,” said my slightly wet GP. However, a discernable heart twitch that makes you feel like the whole damn show is about to stop is much more worrying that a fluttering eyelid for the individual concerned, so, to make both of us feel better, she ordered an ECG.

The timeline of my ECG:

• Take off shirt.
• Get little sticky suckers stuck all over most ticklish areas possible.
• Nurse realizes she has no idea how to use the machine, as it is new, unfamiliar and laden with technological foreboding.
• Gets other nurse, while leaving me lying topless, cold and sticky-suckered on table.
• Other more surly nurse arrives and explains that she’s done it all wrong and has to re-do the whole thing.
• Ripping off and re-sticking on of sticky suckers resulting in little tears forming in the corners of my eyes. Jiggling of cables.
• Patient in next room over collapses because the silly bastard came in to have a load of blood taken without eating breakfast first, so am left again lying topless, cold and sticky-suckered while nurses attempt to revive him and comfort his traumatized 3 year old.
• Original nurse returns, presses a button, smiles, and says, “You’re done.”

Imagine my total non-surprise when I returned to my GP to find out the results and she informed me that the scan had been lost. Upon my return home, I was contacted by the not- quite- sheepish- enough surgery.

Secretary: We really are very sorry about all of this. When would it be convenient for YOU to come back to have to scan again?

Me: How about tomorrow?

Secretary: There aren’t any slots open tomorrow.

Me: How about Thursday?

Secretary: There aren’t any slots open on Thursday either. How about Friday?

Me: I work on Fridays. So this really isn’t about what’s convenient for me, is it?

Secretary: I’m sorry?

Me: Nothing.

Secretary: We can fit you in on Monday.

Me: That’s dandy.

NHS, WTF.