Artist's impression of my doctor at the clinic.
I don't know what I expected but the most high-achieving and competent 12 year old in the world wasn't it. I looked her up on the web, and there she is, getting her qualifications in South Africa in '95, and therefore, despite all appearances, not 12, but rather in her thirties. Yet, she is TINY, like a preteen dressed up as a adult in black tights and a dress, I tell you.
The child Doctor told me that my tests are looking good, apart from the scan which shows my Whoppers, (the Monster-endo-cysts). She recommends a lap and then IVF, given my advanced age. (I, at any rate, am not 12, more's the pity).
So there's that to digest. I think I'll have the cysts out anyway, to improve "the environment", as she called it. (I felt like suggesting putting a few trees and a recycling centre in there, but resisted the urge).
IVF, I don't know. I am afeared of it, still, but, there you are in the clinic, and there they are telling you what they can do for you, the momentum alone is liable to carry you along.
I had a blood test then, after a quick crossant with the JB, and trotted over to the GP where I waved my arm up and down as much as that is possible. She agreed that it is "bad", and on the road to being a frozen shoulder altogether, and referred me to a Sports Surgery Clinic in my neighbourhood, where apparently they are all state of the art and whatnot, (although the word "surgery" in their name is not filling me with confidence).
Thus endeth the update.
(I do this for posterity, you know.)
Your duly examined,