This also apparently means, since my follicle stimulating hormone (FSH) was within the normal range, that I am now at increased risk of ovarian cysts, since the stimulated follicle, once large enough to do its thing but unable to release an egg, can easily fill with fluid.
I got the news from my favorite nurse who did nothing to endear herself yesterday, I am afraid. The honeymoon might be over. When I had gone for my Day 21 bloodwork a few weeks back, I was assured that they would review my results and call me back in for Day 3 on the basis of that. In other words, that I'd get a call which could have clarified this whole weird body limbo business and at least put my mind at rest. (Not to mention arranging for the next set of bloodwork, which will now happen only because of my initiative). But no, that never happened. As usual,
Instead, right now I feel deflated and hopeless. That nasty cervical polyp, while not a massive health risk, has downed our chances for this last cycle and added to our already weighty load of worry. And now I have worrisome hormone levels to add to the cocktail. So much for the 'unexplained', huh? I fear I came across a little too smug; I fear I was a little too smug in my estimation that what we're really dealing with is the pregnancy loss aspect of things, because all of a sudden, it looks like a very healthy does of infertility indeed. That's what I get for thinking, even for a second, that we might get on top of the game.
And it gets better, because within thirty minutes of leaving the doctors office, my real period started (and oh, what a doozy), almost as if, once the dirty little secret was out, there was no reason to hold back. So yes, depending on how long this lasts my worry about this period threatening our regularly scheduled programming, er, polyp removal procedure, is once again valid.
This was my last cycle, my last chance of grasping at what feels like an ever-receding dream, before my 38th birthday later this month. As much as I try to release myself from expectations, those milestones still matter, and it hurts. And it's scary as all hell. Despite the fact I
And the icing on the sh*t cake? I got home to a message that the university is cutting the programme on which I teach, due to 'funding strictures and falling student enrollment'; so even my paltry financial contribution to this household will be gone by the end of the month. Since I work on a kind of on-call basis, they only need to give me two weeks notice.
Seriously Universe, WTF?
What I'm thinking now: Lift duvet. Insert inert self.
|Brightly coloured to increase the feelgood factor.|