Tomorrow we trot off to our 'specialist number 2'.
While I love the idea of that sounding like a turd with a purpose, it's not, it's just our second reproductive specialist.
With cycle 15 due to come to an end (or not) at some stage this week, we were hoping for one of those funny stories folk tell where we could say we went to a fertility expert only for him to announce we were up the duff.
Kind of an 'oh we've just adopted a bucketful of Chinese babies and now she's preggers' type thing.
Well, guess what? That's not happening.
Cycle 15 has left the building in such a hurry she forgot her purse. And shoes. And underwear.
It's so many days early I can't even compute, but whatever the story, we will be bringing Auntie Flo to the clinic with us tomorrow, the bloody wench.
That should make any physical examination all the more, ahem, interesting.
So spare us a thought tomorrow, eh ?
I believe there is a real possibility that we may get treated for free, just on the basis of us being so pathetic.
The midget couple where the husband has missing teeth & braces and the wife is bleeding profusely from stirrups.
We will get to answer the same intimate questions about our sex life again, whether I had both my testicles upon birth again, and whether she ever had any sexually transmitted diseases again.
The only new answer we can give will be to how long have we been trying.
'16 cycles now doctor'.
16 you fucker.