“So, why have you come then?” This was the unbelievable greeting from the registrar at the clinic who said his name was Mr Richards but whose appearance and accent suggested a surname which would be some 20 letters long and unpronounceable in its written down form.
I was gobsmacked as my medical file complete with my GP’s report was on top of the pile of papers on his desk. Why did I need to explain? Was this some kind of perverted security check to ensure that I was the patient whose file he was looking at?
After all, I had just come along to find out the clinical analysis of what my womb had been up to since – was it? – the beginning of the year. This was just a formality, I was sure. Some weeks before getting to this appointment and waiting over an hour past my appointment time, I had had what seemed like the heaviest period of my life. So, surely, this had flushed out what was wrong?
I knew someone the same age as me who had bled for several weeks or months. The solution for her had been a hysterectomy. My case was different. I was perimenopausal (or pre/ante?? – who knows) still menstruating and still wanting to become pregnant. It didn’t matter to me that I was 53 years old. I knew that the probability was low but the possibility was still there. Okay a very small one.