Aargh!

I am trying to write complaint letter number, oh about 964. It is not going well.

For starters, the papers I have just looked through in order to make them realise I know what I am talking about and they can’t fob me off again are bleakly depressing. I keep seeing pregnancy rates, and live birth rates, and well, let’s just say they’re less than 50%. Significantly so. I don’t want to see that, it’s horrible. I don’t want that to be the truth. I don’t want that to be me. And so I burst into snivelly tears in the middle of the coffee shop I was in (using their internet) and had to come home. The wombats are looking at me very sympathetically, but they can’t really help, being stuffed toys and all.

Also I keep getting angry and screaming at things. Inanimate objects, as himself is still at work. So I can’t even have a cuddle and be told that he still loves me. Darn it.

I don’t seem to be able to say exactly what I want to say, in a measured and eloquent fashion, without descending into a swearing rant as my fingers run away from me, typing my thoughts without moderation from the inhibitions centre of my frontal cortex.

Bastards.

I want a baby. I don’t want this.

Anyone want to write it for me?

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2 responses to “Aargh!

  1. Write the first one here, venom, swear words, rage and sarcasm and all. Hit “post” or don’t hit “post” as seems good to you. Then sleep on it. Then write the more measured version without looking at the sweary version first.

    A doctor of my close acquaintance has suggested you could write a systematic review and get it published in an obs and gyne journal. But he’s obsessed with getting an H-Score higher than his brother’s. (He did also say that he realised you might not feel up to it).

    xxx

    B

  2. It’s already been done. I have a decent systematic review in my possession as I type. It even gives all the statistics. I don’t know why the medical profession hasn’t read it, or has decided “it’s just not true…”
    Plus looking through it for the stats to back up my complaint is scary and depressing enough. I don’t want to be reading it. I want to stick my fingers in my ears and sing “la la la it’s not happening!” I am totally not strong enough, or detached enough from my own uterus and sanity to spend so much time going through the literature.
    By the way, what’s an H-Score??
    xxx

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