Warning: This post may be TMI for many readers. You may feel free to move on.
For those still reading, I will try to be delicate. In truth, I was leaning toward not writing about this latest biological escapade, but the irony this week became just too much not to share.
Yesterday was surreal. My doctor insisted on giving me a pregnancy test.
“A positive pregnancy test is about as likely to happen today as the second coming,” I replied with something of a snort, even as I dutifully stepped into the restroom to provide the requisite sample.
I’ve been getting too familiar with the absurd lately. It started in March … when I began taking birth control pills.
Okay, my Internets, you can get up from the floor now.
Lest you think I’ve completely lost touch with reality, I was taking them not because there was any need for the big guns to prevent pregnancy (my body figured out how to do that all on its own), but for a different reason altogether.
The tiny hormone-packed pills in their cheerful pink three-month container were meant to reduce some annoying female plumbing problems and related uterine overproduction. Enough said.
Weird as it was (and I do mean downright bizarre) to pop a powerful hormone each night before bed, all went well … at first. The freedom associated with said hormones led me to buy a white dress and wear it with confidence. Heck, I could have starred in a TV commercial skipping and dancing through a field in that lovely white dress — that is until a few days ago when my drama queen of a uterus decided to overtake the hormones and reassert her dominance.
That’s what brought me back to the doctor’s office.
Grumpy did not begin to describe my mood. There I sat surrounded by pregnant women awaiting my turn for the transvaginal ultrasound (better known in the infertility world as the “dildo cam”). Silly me. I thought those invasive instruments used to peer into the uterus and snap photos were a thing of the past. My uterus rather liked getting her privacy back.
Tomorrow she’ll be the star in the surgery center undergoing a different type of assault — a flamethrower of sorts — as part of an endometrial ablation procedure. I know the drill. Fast at midnight, IV insertion at 11:30 am … pain and discomfort to follow.
There is one silver lining: the very high likelihood of no more visits, ever, from Aunt Flo.
Although the battle I began waging against infertility some 20 years ago has long been over, the conclusion is now absolute. These past few years have done their work preparing me for what otherwise might be a traumatic procedure.
As of tomorrow, I’ll be bona fide barren (reproductively anyway). And, you know, I’m really okay with that since the rest of my life is bountiful, lush and fruitful.