I don’t know how to write this post. Heck, it’d be a little easier if I at least knew what I wanted to say or what I wanted you to take away from it. But alas, nope.
As it is, I have serious period brain fog and I just want to sit and stew in my own self-pity and drink a giant mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream.
But I can’t because January.
And now the only thing running through my brain is thoughts about how long the whipped cream in our fridge will last because we never have whipped cream in the fridge and hence I have no idea.
I’m also thinking back to a time, as a kid, when we had whipped cream in the fridge and I went to use some and coated whatever delicious sweet delight I was about to eat in mouldy whipped green fuzz.
So, on that note, I’m just going to ramble. To brain dump, to get all the little thoughts and wisps of ideas dumped out of my brain and onto a page. As if I was offloading to a pal over a glass of wine, because I don’t know another way to process my thoughts right now.
I had a doctor’s appointment last week. Or, I had a nurse practitioner appointment last week, if you want to be specific.
You see, when I rung my GP’s office to get the results from an ultra sound for suspected Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a week or so before Christmas (full post on that over here), I was told that I needed to book a follow-up appointment with whoever had referred me for the scan.
And it just so happened that my referral had actually come from the good ol’ nurse practitioner because they’d cancelled my doctor’s appointment last minute and blah blah blah, this was my quickest option of getting seen.
The nurse practitioner actually only worked a couple of days a week, and then there was Christmas and New Year and hey whaddya know, I couldn’t get my follow-up appointment for nearly a month.
Anyway yeah, last week I got it.
And so now I know the details about what my ovaries look like. I mean, on the good side, my womb is apparently looking pretty dandy, so there’s that.
My ovaries, however, are both riddled with cysts. The right one is, in fact, nearly double the size it should be. So that’s cute.
I treated the news as though someone had told me there was a programme about crocodiles on BBC2 that evening.
Great story bro, ooh wonder if I have any new Instagram followers and what should I have for dinner and I wonder if I have any blog comments on today’s post and omg I should totally go to New York. (I cried about it later in bed ’cause there’s nothing like delayed reactions, eh?)
Then I got handed a 5-page document detailing what PCOS is, and left the surgery with my only real advice being to lose weight.
Because really, right now, there’s nothing I can do. Nothing.
I could go on the pill to help my skin and regulate my periods, but tbh they’re not so bad I can’t cope as is. I could take some meds if I was actively trying for a baby, but I’m not.
And so I am stuck in this limbo.
I feel as though it shouldn’t matter. That it shouldn’t play on my mind. That I should be 100% OK, rather than just 80% OK.
But it is this fear of the unknown, this fear that my body might not be able to do the one thing it is supposed to. Aside from y’know, breathing and digesting and thinking.
For every PCOS sufferer that has reached out to me to tell me that they too freaked out and omg throw away all the condoms and let’s start trying for a baby right now only to get pregnant a few weeks later, is someone else who’s reached out to tell me that they GET it, because they’re a healthy twenty-something who’s on their second round of IVF.
How do I know which girl I will be?
How do any of us know which girl we will be?
And I want to know. I want to know so bad. And the fact that it’s not just like doing a survey online or having a blood test that can tell me how long it’ll take me to have a baby, freaks me the eff out.
I don’t want a baby today. I just need that known. I don’t. I mean, I don’t think I do. But I want to know when I can and if I can and how I can.
Feeling out of control of my own fate and my own body makes me feel constantly preoccupied.
It makes me feel like I can’t focus, like I am confused about life and what I want and what is important. It makes everything feel muddled.
Y’see, my whole fertility thing rests on whether I ovulate or not. I have periods pretty much every month, they just sorta don’t always come at the same time, because what’s life unless your womb lining is keeping you on edge, eh?
But that doesn’t necessarily mean I release an egg.
SORRY IF ANY BOYS ACCIDENTALLY CLICKED ONTO THIS. Not that sorry. But maybe a bit.
So yeah. I am good and I am me and I am so full of excitement and optimism about what this year will bring, but at the back of my mind I feel like I am stuck. I am stuck and don’t know what the answer is.
Is the answer to max out my credit cards on a Harley Street fertility MOT for hope of peace of mind? Is the answer to try and forget about it and move on?
So whilst I dwell on the fear of the unknown, I’m going to eat my weight in froyo and fruit and pray to the gods that when I want a baby that isn’t coated in fur (soz Rudey, soz Granger), my ovaries will do their thang.
God I’m an annoying little wimp and I need to move on from this.
Thanks for listening. ‘Ppreciate it.