I went to a fertility specialist last week. We’ve been trying to get pregnant for about a year now, and nothing so far. The doctor asked a lot of questions, and they ran a lot of tests, including a complete blood panel (normal), hormone levels (normal), and a vaginal ultrasound. A WHAT, you say? Vaginal ultrasound — and it’s exactly what it sounds like. They stick a a probe up your cooter to get ultrasound images of your ovaries. Turns out mine have a few cysts on them. This, in addition with some other unpleasant symptoms (like the sasquatch hair that would be sprouting from my chin, if not for my obsessive tweezing ritual), gave me a diagnosis of polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS).
I am now on medicine called Metformin, which in addition to the Femara, should help coax the eggs down. Before, it was just me, my calendar and a few ovulation detector sticks waging this battle. Now, I’ve got science on my side. In about a week, I have another dream date with the vaginal probe (helloooooo, friend!) to see how big my eggs are, and if they are ready to come out and play. Then the doc will give me a shot to release an egg. Pharmaceuticals. Gotta love ’em.
As part of this science project, the doc also wants to test you-know-who’s spoo. The process goes something like this — after untitledhusband gets up close and personal with a specimen jar, I rush it to the lab in less than 30 minutes so they can see if the boys have their sea legs. This has been tough to schedule, with our busy lives and such. Since he was working from home the other day, I decided to run home over lunch and get the sample, which I would then run over to the lab. Perfect, right? Well, I get home and there sits the brown paper sack, which contains the collection jar which contains the spoo. Next to it are some heart-shaped candies, which I thought was a romantic touch, given the situation. It would’ve been a Hallmark moment, if not for the fact that the specimen had been sitting there for the past hour. My mind raced back to when I was seven years old, watching a plastic aquarium full of dead Sea Monkeys.
All foibles aside, my gut tells me that one of these months, we’re going to be successful and all this trauma will take a backseat to bouts of morning sickness (which always hits me at night) and heated discussions on the name Owen versus Octavius. Of course, if we make it happen, untitledhusband will have to break it off with Little Miss Rubbermaid. But I’m sure he’ll adjust.