I have almost finished with my complaint letter. This is good, as I am leaving the country in 5 days, and I really should send it off before then. So far, I am fairly pleased with it. It has proved to be somewhat of a catharsis, as in most parts, I feel I have managed to express my anger without being rude. There are a few phrases I need to change, but that is what my ever-diplomatic and lovely husband is for. I hope that when they read it, they will realise exactly what an effect they have had on our lives.
I am also pleased by the lack of room I have given them in which to manoevre. My facts are backed up with cold, hard evidence, with which they cannot argue. I have demonstrated, using their own consent policy (I knew there had to be one somewhere. I found it, I quoted it) that my consent was uninformed and invalid. They cannot argue, therefore, that they did no wrong, as I have demonstrated that they did not meet their own guidelines. It helps that these particular guidelines state that if they are not met, they may leave themselves open to legal action, and claims of negligence.
I have never been particularly litigious, and I suspect that even if I tried in this case, it would be difficult to prove in the end. But now that this has happened to me, I understand why some people head down that path. This is a really distressing problem, and although nothing can change it, I feel that I need something to happen. I want justice.
Which brings me to the only part of the complaint I haven’t been able to write. The Healthcare Commission, to which the complaint is addressed, advise you to state what you want to happen in response to your complaint. The problem is, that I don’t know what I want to happen.
I can’t really say: “I’d like those involved, especially the surgeon, to be shipwrecked on an island populated by hungry cannibals with spears.” Or “I’d like to be left alone in a room with them and a baseball bat.” Or “I’d like the same thing to happen to them.” Because I don’t really want any of those scenarios. Although I’m angry that this had to happen to me, that this has to happen to any woman, I don’t want that. I’m not that angry. Or violent, or psychopathic, quite frankly. And I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Not even them.
I also can’t say “I want a million dollars.” Because where would that get me? Admittedly, most people would like a windfall, a lottery win, and I’m no different. But we don’t need money. We have a house, a car, we have each other. And no amount of money would make this better. Admittedly a fertility treatment fund would be useful, but money cannot take away what has happened. No amount of money can give me what I really want, which is a healthy, functioning uterus, and the chance to have a baby.
All I suspect I can ask for is an investigation, an apology, and more importantly, acknowledgement that they have messed up, that they have caused this, that this is potentially an unnecessary complication that I was not properly informed about and should not have suffered.
And then I have to find a way to move forward with acceptance, to conserve my sanity, and to try for a child again, to go through whatever fertility treatment is required with an open heart and an open mind, and the hope of a miracle of our own.
Slightly off-topic, I have decided that, since whatever embryo we need to produce will have to be extra-tenacious in order to manage to implant and to survive, we should expose his testicles to more radiation at work instead of less. In the hope of producing a super-hero…