I went for my bloodwork and ultrasound again this morning--the experience is bitter and possibly sweet--although after my 4th attempt, my optimism dissipates. Let me start with the inevitable stress of getting into the fertility clinic at 7am in hopes of getting out of there with 'promising' news and making it to work on time. This time no one will notice me slipping in late through the backdoor. NOPE. And no note will be filed pointing out employee's lack of punctuality. Not me, nah-ah.
Prior to the doors opening, women line up outside the clinic as if in line for the next Twilight flick or worse yet Black Friday sales. We are herded in, monitored by the nurses as to not cut in line. What, I going to pull out my taser to get past the bushy eyebrowed Pocohantas ahead of me in line. REALLY. Not only am I exhausted, but apparently so are my ovaries. I was told that my ovaries are overproducing FSH and are exhausted. Hence, this is why I am here!
Once seated, I keep myself busy and distracted by people watching. I wonder what percentage of the chics also suffer from my diagnosis--are they also perusing the DoNoR site--are they also cataloging the same prospects. If so, bring it. Ok, that is not the spirit of donor selection, I retract that last line.
Finally, I am called over to the Vampire Station--the bloodwork never gets easy. "Honey, are you ok?" Not quite sure why the nurse would bother to ask, my face must have fallen to the paralysis I experience prior to giving blood. I want to breathe fire into her face, "No bitch, I am not OK, I fucking hate needles and I my ovaries are exhausted!" But I smile pleasantly as not to bring shame to my family, and reply most cordially, "Yes, I just don't like needles, but everything is absolutely (fucking) OK." I do leave out the f-bomb. Afterall, I will be seeing the pretty nurse on many more occassions--not by choice. She does her thing and tries to make conversation with me about the weather and I briefly escape to my happy place... I'm frolicking through sunflower fields... SHIT, that doesn't work, OUCH. Try seducing the Thelma and Louis Brad Pitt, that's better.
Afterwards, I'm invited into the ultrasound room equipped with the stir-ups and computer monitors. Another pretty nurse instructs me to take off my clothing from the waist down and wrap the sheet around me. "Make yourself comfortable on the table. The doctor will be in shortly." Sweet, I can't wait to see the doctor NAKED! A dream come true and I get to getty up true cowgirl fashion! I glance around for a cowboy hat. I make a note to bring one next time. I attempt to calm and lie to myself... typical sarcasm floods my consciousness... I adore my naked bod and am not a bit paranoid about my shankalicious sides or cellulite infested thighs. The best part is the paper cover up which is soft and smells like my favorite flav of Downy. I opt to leave on my red polka-dotted, knee-high socks--I am a true fashionista regardless of the circumstances. Five minutes pass. In an effort to continue to calm my nerves, I remind myself of how considerate I am... I did a bit of lady-scaping in preparation for the stir-ups. I didn't bedazzle or vagazzle, just conservative trimming.
The doctor comes in. More uncomfortable chit-chat. My responses are appropriate and cordial. No 'motherfucker' escapes my control. I am asked to get comfy... slide down the table, spread 'em farther apart, and get adjusted into the stir-ups. Fully loaded and exposed. For the second time this morning, I find myself desperately fantasizing. I save sexy Brad for later. Again, I am frolicking in the sunflower fields. Where the hell did the unicorns come from? The doctor abruptly ends my randevou by pointing to the spot one the monitor where there should be follicles on my right ovary. Then, he continues to venture to my left side and again discovers no follicles on my left ovary. I am no longer in the sunflower fields but back at the fertility clinic. I am reminded that I have ZERO follicles again and that my diagnosis is confirmed again despite my run with various bouts of fertility drugs.
Later on, the nurse calls and reveals my numbers--my FSH level is 32.6. I don't bother to ask her if that is good or bad because I already know the answer.
I've googled it more times than necessary as if my reality will change: http://www.advancedfertility.com/day3fsh.htm
It is one of those things--there are no stupid questions. Technically, there are. And the sooner we share the truth with our children, the sooner they can stop sounded retarded in schools. I am again devastated by the news which conforms my POF diagnosis. (The normal Follicle Stimulating Hormone level for fertile chics is 2-10.) The nurse tells me that my fertility specialist will contact me today; he wishes to set up an appointment to discuss our options.
I've googled it more times than necessary as if my reality will change: http://www.advancedfertility.com/day3fsh.htm
It is one of those things--there are no stupid questions. Technically, there are. And the sooner we share the truth with our children, the sooner they can stop sounded retarded in schools. I am again devastated by the news which conforms my POF diagnosis. (The normal Follicle Stimulating Hormone level for fertile chics is 2-10.) The nurse tells me that my fertility specialist will contact me today; he wishes to set up an appointment to discuss our options.
My initial appointment was in March and after a month of testing, my nurse has cautiously implied my diagnosis. I have survived the last month, living in denial and devastation since.
