Before my doctor’s appointment, I made a list of things to remember to ask. This was especially important, because I’d be by myself for this one. Adam’s been able to attend most of my appointments, which is good, because it means that I can take Ativan before the ultrasound, and therefore not waste everyone’s time by sobbing throughout. And thanks to the Gonal-F, there’s been plenty of sobbing, partly because of hormones and partly because I was in unbelievable amounts of pain, in the midsection region.
“Honestly, I wish they’d tell me I can’t take these drugs anymore,” I told Adam grimly, while gathering my materials for the next day’s appointment. “I’d never be so happy to waste thousands of dollars.”
I’m pretty tired of crying, I have to say. I wouldn’t characterize myself as a crier or a non-crier in ordinary life: I believe I cry a typical amount for a female person with circulating estrogen – in other words, a person who has been encouraged by society to let it all hang out, provided I don’t ask for anything in return. But since we’ve been doing this, Jesus, there’s just so much crying. The other day, I didn’t realize I was even leaking from the eyeballs until Adam asked me what was wrong.
“Oh, you know,” I said. “The usual. Just ignore it. It’ll stop in a minute.”
I was not going to cry at this appointment and I did not cry, and I felt pretty good about that. Unfortunately, I also lost my ability to stop talking, as well as my filter, and chose to sublimate my nervous energy by babbling at the doctor until she very nicely asked me to hold my thoughts for a moment while she measured follicles.
Which is probably why her poker face slipped for a second when she saw all the follicles on her screen.
“What day did you say this was?” she asked.
“Three.” I paused for a minute, trying to hold in the torrent of words. “That looks like a lot of follicles. Are those from the Gonal-F?”
“Probably,” she said. “Are they putting you on birth control before the next cycle?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said.
“I’ll be curious to see what my estrogen levels are,” I said.
“Yeah, me too.” She frowned at the screen and moved the wand. A throb of dull pain pulsed through my left side.
“Sorry,” she said. “Did you know, when you press on the ovary like this, it’s just like pressing on a testicle? That’s why it hurts so much. I’m sorry to hurt you, but I have to get the wand close, so I can see the follicles.”
“I know you’re not doing it for fun,” I said.
She looked alarmed. “Ha. Ha ha ha ha, no. No. Absolutely not.”
I have no idea if I really was making her uncomfortable, but thanks to my talking problem, I couldn’t stop. By the time we were finished, I was pretty sure that I’d come off like a drug-seeking pervert who shouldn’t be left alone near a school or a pharmacy. I’m 85 percent sure that’s in my head, though.
The good news is that I have 20 ovarian cysts, and the reason that’s good news is that I can’t possibly do another cycle right away. See that? I sort of got my wish, and I didn’t even have to waste thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs. Who says dreams don’t come true?
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