The next step is getting The Dude to phone the fertility nurse tomorrow morning to book me in for a prodding, which is likely to be on Friday. I'd phone up myself but unfortunately I work (I typed "live" at first...Freudian slip) in an office that is never empty. I've tried phoning the nurse from my office before, attempting to be subtle but ending up extraordinarily unsubtle in my subtlety.
Me: Hi Nursy McNurserton, it's MsPrufrock. Yes, I have been in before. Yes, I've been undergoing...errr...treatment for a year or so. I see you each time, you know, about three times a week for two weeks. Yes, the American. It's time for me to come in again...uh, for the...thing.
I'm not sure how it works in the US and elsewhere, but I go for ultrasounds on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays during IUI time. My appointments tend to be in the morning, so as an employed person this can be quite difficult. I suspect the people I work with either think I'm dying, or bunking off to go squirrel hunting under the guise of being ill. When I come back to the office everyone is really quiet, and no one will look at me. Oh, if only they knew of the cooter poking that goes on when I could (and would rather) be sitting at my desk getting on with work.
The Dude takes advantage of their ignorance, as when he occasionally picks me up for an appointment, he comes into the office and acts somber. He helps me get my coat on and says in a calm, soothing tone, "Are you ready to go?" while stroking my arm. My co-workers pretend to tap away at their computers, but their minds are clearly racing as to what my problem could possibly be. He laughs at his deception as soon as we leave the building, evil bastard. I'd vastly prefer to give them a slight wave and a smile, parting with, "See ya ladies, I'm off to get my cooter poked. Godspeed." Maybe next time.