I have been trying to decide how personal this blog should be. I really enjoy sharing in life's little sillies. And I truly love making those around me smile; it's my favorite thing to do.
But since a few people actually read this, it seems silly not to share some more personal stories, in the hopes that not only smiles ensue, but information is shared with those who need it.
So this will be a series.
When we moved to Florida, David and I decided to stop counting pills and buying protection. No, we didn't abandon vitamins and give up our gas masks. We decided to not not try to get pregnant. That's right. We were not not trying. Totally different from actively trying.
"Are you guys trying to get pregnant?"
"Nope." But we're not, not trying.
A few months after we didn't not try, I realized that something wasn't right. It didn't seem like my body was working properly, and before we continued not not trying, I decided to see a doctor.
Lady Doctor told me it was nothing to worry about. "Lots of girls don't start a regular cycle after they're on birth control pills for months and months." I appreciated her comparing me to "lots of girls", but I still felt like something wasn't right. I asked if we could investigate. She told me she didn't think it was necessary. And being that she was 6 months pregnant, she happily waddled her big round belly into the next waiting room. Bitch. I thought about leaving an anonymous threatening note using letters cut from the 5-year-old magazines in the exam room basket, but I decided it was probably time to start a phone call parade instead.
I began calling the office incessantly, reporting every symptom I had in hopes that they would take me seriously, or, like an episode of House, someone would suddenly stumble upon a diagnosis. (I've got it! She's got a carburetor in her uterus!)
I found one nurse in the office that consistently called me back. I inundated that poor woman with messages. I knew the automated voice system straight to her inbox better than my debit card code. My strategy was to be sickeningly nice. I was so nice, I had to curse at kittens when I hung up just to even out the universe. She pretended to care about my concerns, and finally decided to do something so that "Cohen" didn't pop up on her caller-id anymore. She ordered blood work and sent me off to Quest.
What she didn't mention was that I would be having 10 vials of blood taken in one morning. She also didn't mention that the glucose test I would take could cause me to feel like I had been the boy in that balloon after it landed in a corn field. It was like being beaten up. At about 2pm that afternoon, it became crystal clear that Nurse-Who-Returns-Phone-Calls was punishing me.
A few weeks later, I arrived back at the office to see the stupid, cute little pregnant doctor again. She told me my hair looked cute and that my levels were only one or two points off and that she really didn't see any major problems (in one breath). She recommended I see a reproductive endocrinologist and get a "professional opinion". (So, I'm not really sure what that makes Fertile Myrtle over here, but whatever.)
And so...BabyGate 2009 began.