Oh Lord. It just never seems to end, this three year battle with broken innards.
I haven't been back to my OB or to the clinic since I had the post-miscarriage blood work last fall. I was endlessly paranoid about a clotting disorder, given the bloody drama that was my D&C, so I insisted upon some additional blood work to ease my rapidly disintegrating mind.
It all came back normal. Yeah, can you believe it? Some part of me is actually normal.
Anyway, since it's been 7 months since we last discussed the state of my lady bits, I decided I needed to do a bit of a "where are we at now and where should we go from here?" check-in with my OB. We met yesterday.
He was so kind. He always is, but yesterday he really seemed to have time to listen to me in a way he sometimes can't because he has waiting room full of 42,000 other busted uteruses waiting to bend his ear.
It was both a comforting and a disconcerting visit. Comforting because he listened and because I know he genuinely cares about what happens to me, disconcerting because for the first time he gently suggested we may be coming to the end of the road.
There's another test he wants to run (a delightful sounding syringe up the duff/ ultrasound combo dealie) to rule out inter-uterine scarring, and he suggested a couple of cycles of monitoring just to make sure I'm still ovulating and still as thoroughly hormonal as I need to be.
So it sounds like it'll be another summer of great big infertile fun.
I want a baby. But I want all this to end too. So much. So, so, so much.
I'm strong. I am. But come on now, everyone has a limit.
Apparently someone thinks I haven't quite reached mine yet and is having a good old laugh while watching to see just how far I'll actually go.