Let's get a little help from Glenn Miller, mmkay?
Sing along, now:
Baby, here's a five-and-dime
Baby, now's about the time
For a string of pearls a la YOUR BROKEN OVARIES THAT WILL NEVER WORK RIGHT EVER NO MATTER WHAT YOU EAT AND HOW FAR YOU RUN AND HOW MANY SUPPLEMENTS YOU TAKE AND HOW WELL YOU MANAGE YOUR INSULIN LEVELS DOOT DOOT DOOOO BAAAAHHHH
So. I went in for my wanding this morning, at a place so calming, so elegant, so womanly that I actually had to check myself for a leather-and-beaten-silver bracelet reading LIVE-LAUGH-LOVE upon leaving. I mean, there was a swoopy-lined abstract picture of a woman on the glass door! And a dish of tiny dark chocolate bars at reception!
More important, there was a changing room with a reed diffuser, you know, so you can get "waist-down" before the wanding in peace and without having to smell your own chooch, which you and the tech both will spend the next twenty minutes you don't actually have. Oh oh but MORE important than that is a giant monitor on the wall so you can SEE what your wanding reveals, without having to crane your neck or rely on the dismayed expression of the ultrasound tech.
Now. As any of you who have endured a wanding can testify, the tech is not allowed to say what's popping up on the screen. Dead baby? Set of car keys? None of your business, lady. That's for the doctor to interpret and explain to your stupid little layperson self.
But I have spent enough time with a plastic rod in my cooch to know an ovary when I see one, and more to the point to know an ovary riddled with cysts. (Not mine, but exactly like mine.) Of which I sport two -- and I counted at least six or seven cysts per ovary. That's many moons worth of not-quite-ovulatory cycles, of eggs insufficiently fired to burst through a tough-as-hide thecal layer into the vastness of my inner space.
In other words: that IUD was pretty much just for fun, as no actual babies were in danger of being conceived.
Also, now I understand why my ovaries hurt so much, midcycle. And why, after a while, there ceased to be a midcycle, or a cycle at all.
All my health was an illusion. I don't know if it was the reduced dose of metformin that set the cyst formation in motion -- allowing enough of a hormone surge for follicle development but not good follicle development -- or what. I do know that I'm going to see a reproductive endocrinologist for follow-up, because nobody without a bunch of specialized knowledge is getting anywhere near me with a birth control prescription. I am Out of Your Ken, internist and certified nurse-midwife. I am a Special Case -- in that I am not satisfied to mask symptoms and call it good, in that I am not willing to let things slide now that my fertility is not of paramount concern.
And also in that I am a total dick about this stuff, so you're probably just delighted to pass me off to someone else.
Hey but I didn't see any fibroids in there so yaaaay. Then again, I might not know a fibroid on ultrasound if it bit me in the myometrium.
In any event: I am angry and disheartened and frustrated and smugly satisfied that I knew what I'd see and then I did in fact see it. I'm girding my loins (because that's where the action is) for the next round of masterminding good health care aimed at protecting not my fertility but my overall health, and wishing like heck we could get this all settled out before school starts.