(And I'm sorry if you have Boy George's "The Crying Game" stuck in your head for the rest of the day. Better that than "The Macarena." Or "My Sharona.")
When I made an appointment with my OB a few weeks ago, I explained to whoever it was I was speaking with: I have questions for her about fertility. I've been trying to get pregnant for a while and ... nothing is happening.
I guess I assumed that, armed with this knowledge, the appointment-person would set me up with a non-standard meeting with the doctor, during which I could explain my basal rate temperatures, ovulation tests and suspicions about what I think is going on. With that assumption, I wrote down about ten questions for the doctor, packed my temperature charts in my purse and headed off to war. I mean, the gynecologist.
The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back with my legs in the air and a speculum in my nether regions and couldn't remember half of what I'd wanted to ask. In the past, my doctor's cheerful brevity and ruthless efficiency have been extremely welcome. That woman can do a breast exam and papsmear in five minutes flat, and before you know it, you're back in your car and feeling the least molested you've ever felt following a visit to an obgyn.
I tried to relay my concerns -- tried to convey that I'm not just some silly girl who's been bopping her husband and doesn't understand why she's not pregnant. I mean, I have charts! I've read books! I pee on sticks!
So you're having timed intercourse? the doctor asked cheerfully.
Timed intercourse is the least of it, woman!!! Timed intercourse is for amateurs! I deserve an honorary doctorate from Stanford! is what I was feeling. "Yes," is what I said.
Well, you're healthy. You're 32. Sometimes these things just take longer for some people, she said.
For her to say that was basically an indication of just how much she does not understand my level of obsession. I don't know whether to love her for making the situation seem like it's not a big deal or hate her for not trying harder to get me.
It's not as though she did anything wrong. She ordered up all the necessary tests, which is all I could have hoped for. I guess I'll stick with loving her for now.
So here's the plan. I'm on Day 19 of my cycle. I'll likely welcome Aunt Flo on Day 30. On Day 3 of my cycle, I get to have some blood drawn. Around the same time, my husband will also donate his own sample. Hopefully this will reveal something. Anything, for godssakes.
You never know. Maybe it will happen this cycle! my doctor enthused happily.
Yeah. And monkeys might fly out of my butt.