Saturday, February 12, 2005

ready, steady.

I had my first appointment with Dr Alf A Bett (Get it? Alphabet? He's not quite the quick brown fox but he has so many letters in his name, he may as well be) and my day 4 bloods came back with an FSH of 9.1. The upper limit is 10 so it looks like I'm heading into perimenopause.

I'm old. :(

The irony is that the worse off I am in the fertility department, the better off I am legislation wise. If I'm found to be ovulating with functional fallopian tubes, I can't access their donor sperm program. He told me more than once that he was on my side and would do what he could to find a way to help me, but somehow I felt really, really alone.

I met with the nurse person and after all the lovely warm people I've met there, well, all three of them so far, Karen was surprisingly cold. After the doctor, she's the first point of contact in an institution where desperation, hope, elation and disappointment run riot, so you'd think she could rustle up a bit of warmth, wouldn't you? Hmm.

More blood was drawn today and Alf also wants to check the integrity of my fallopian tubes. He gave me the option of a laparoscopy or a hysterosalpinogram. I went with the latter because we can always go back to the surgical option at a later date if we need to, and because my belly button is something to behold. I'm old (my FSH tells me so) so I wanna hang onto anything young I've got for as long as I can, and my beli butone (tht's french for belly button) belies (hee) my years. It's seriously cute. The hysterosalpinogram needs to be done sometime between day 5 and 11, so I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of my period. I just can't wait to have some dye squirted up my cooter. There's also more bloods to be drawn sometime between days 3 and 5.

This waiting thing is gonna drive me nuts. Overnight, I've turned into a mucus (oh deal, we all have it) reader. I have no idea what I'm reading. I'm dyslexic. I can see the words but have no idea what they say.

Last night I dropped into the supermarket a squeak before closing time and got stuck in the queue behind a woman with a trolley full. I sent her karmic daggers (of course) but took them back when she asked if my three items and I woulld like to go before her. The checkout chick had already started on the trolley load by then, so I waited my turn, sans daggers and quite peacefully. I'm glad I did too because her trolley was a sight to behold. I gazed in wonder at the delights she'd piled in there. Fresh coriander, lemons, olive oil, asparagus...all the makings of a glorious, glorious salad. So I commented and so we got talking. Her husband passed away so she and several girlfriends are having a Valentime's day dinner and she's cooking. It sounds nice, huh? Not the dying and all, the dinner. Anyway, as we were leaving, I don't know what possessed me as I'm chatty, not nosey, I asked when he husband had died. One hour and a new friendship later, we parted company with each other's phone numbers safely installed on our respective phones.

My back is feeling better today. Geez though, yesterday I was buzzing with the stress hormones again, squiffing my Resuce Remedy and worrying all over again that this pain was going to continue for ever, I'd ahve to quit my job, my prenancy (heh) will be painful and I'll be bedridden......oy. Aria was busy, and as my personal mantra is if what I'm doing isn't working, do somethng else. So I went to my chiropractor. I haven't seen him since July last year and he was impressed at my muscle strenght and stabilty. Now this time off with injury has seen me lose a lot of condition-and I'm still in good shape. Go me! He's never seen my sartorious hold so well (huh?) and despite the pain, this is still only a category 1 strain. That means my adrenals were dealing with it thankyouverrymuch, and the pain hasn't stressed my whole system. Just the joint. Whoopee. All in all, I'm doing well and despite this four and a half week set back, am still very resilient. Since I'm not working Monday, it'll work out to a four and half days break, so I think this will be the last we see of this stupid back thing.

My chiropractor, Bill, is The Most Handsome Alive™ so in many ways, it's a darn shame my back isn't the disaster area it once was. Must commence planning. What will take to have his hands on my arse on a regular basis? Ideas people, I need ideas.

Bill's receptionist is the wife of one of the stupid soccer players (last year, long story, involves violins) and since seeing her with him at Stef's stupid Christmas barbecue, I feel a bit weird about seeing her there. She's The Most Beautiful Woman Alive™ btw, not that it has anything to do with this story. This isn't really a story anyway, so, the end.

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