The Mystery Continues...

Hey there, cyber friends! Long time, no write. Many of you know that I am a teacher, and I have been swept away in the back to school tidal wave! So long, summer, I’m gonna miss you. Sniff, sniff.


Anyway, last Friday was somewhat of a monumental day in our fertility adventure. I had a hysterosalpingogram (HSG)—a procedure where they shoot dye into the fallopian tubes to check the pipes and make sure everything is working properly. My gyno and two radiologists performed the HSG at the hospital.

Prior to the procedure, my gyno (bless her heart) prescribed me one valium and Motrin. She called me and messaged me three times reminding me to take it, which, honestly, had me a little scared that it was going to be super painful. Eric had to drive me, since I was a little tipsy and goofy from the valium.

When we arrived, I changed into the uber-fashionable hospital gown (ties in the front) and positioned myself on the table. Eric stayed to witness the torture, because I wanted him to remind me what the results were in case I was too loopy to remember later.

At first the procedure was similar to a pap smear, forceps, prodding, swabbing, etc. Then the doctor inserted a catheter and we had to wait a minute or two for the radiologists to arrive. It was pretty uncomfortable (though not unbearable), so I was hoping they weren’t on a coffee or smoke break. Soon they arrived dressed in chic protective vests (zebra striped and sparkly disco material), positioned the x-ray machine over my lower mid section, and my doctor began to insert the dye.

That was the most painful part, but it basically felt like extreme pressure. On the monitor we could see my uterus fill up with the dye, then the left fallopian tube and finally the right. I’m glad to report that everything was in working order! Eric told me later that they said that was one of the quickest HSGs they had done.

And viola! HSG complete.

The doctor said I might have pain and should avoid nookie for about two days. I had a teeny bit of spotting that day, but absolutely no pain! In fact, I felt great and got some special treatment from Eric, as he was a little traumatized by the poking and prodding he had witnessed!

So, the mystery remains unanswered and the waiting resumes.

Believe It Or Not

It’s official. We finally crossed the line. The state line, that is. And quite possibly the fine line dividing normal folks from raving lunatics.


This past weekend Eric and I ventured off to the mullet capitol of the South-- Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It’s a small town in the Smoky Mountains packed with family fun and adventure (my grandpa deemed it a “tourist trap”). Opportunities abound for simple, unadulterated, redneck fun (not that there’s anything wrong with that)!

For me, this trip was a sort of pilgrimage. You see, I’ve visited Gatlinburg before—circa 1992 for a high school band trip (yes, I’m THAT girl), and I never felt the burning desire to return until this summer. Not to relive those band camp memories (remember that?), rather to behold the presence of the popular Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Fertility Statues.

That’s right. We drove six hours and stayed in a grubby motel to rub on some statues.

Carved from ebony wood, the statues originate from the Ivory Coast, around the 1930s. Rumor has it that over 2,000 women have become pregnant after touching them. There are two statues, a king and a queen. The king holds a mango and a dagger, while the queen carries a baby.

Upon arrival at the Ripley’s Odditorium, we discovered that they offered a military discount for active duty, allowing us access to all eight Ripley’s amusement centers for only fifteen bucks. So, after checking out the statues we visited the 3D movie theater (where I banged my head and may or may not have sustained a slight concussion), mirror maze, aquarium, and the Guinness museum (the book—not the beer).

I couldn’t have had a better time streaking through the trailer park. It was a blast!

There might have been a fleeting moment or two where Eric would have disagreed; he tends to get a little irritated around throngs of hillbillies. In fact, at one point, he proclaimed that God was testing his patience by strategically positioning him behind large, slow women (ok, that’s not exactly what he said, but…). Nevertheless, he had a great time, too.

Today we’re back to reality in the Palmetto state. Eric starts the graveyard shift tonight and I go back to school on Friday (the 13th).  Now, I’m just waiting to see if that statue mojo rubbed off on us...believe it or not! 

Frankie Says Relax

Today at work one of my colleagues commented that I just needed to relax and then I will get pregnant. Since I’m nice in real life, I smiled and said, “Hmmm…maaaybeee.”


On the inside I was thinking, “Just ‘cause you got knocked up on accident while you were wasted doesn’t mean I will, too.”

I’m glad I edited that in reality.

But, as I’ve mentioned in a previous post, that comment irks me. Simply because I want to plan the conception of my (our) baby does not mean I’m tense or uptight. Planning and relaxing aren’t mutually exclusive.

I AM RELAXED, DAMNIT!

:)

Open Wide

After jumping through hoops and performing miraculous feats for our insurance company, I finally scheduled my HSG (where they shoot dye in the fallopian tubes to check the pipes) with my favorite gyno (Dr. Gwyneth Paltrow—ok, that’s not really her name, but you should see the resemblance) here in Chucktown instead of at the dreaded fertility clinic in Savannah. When I called the nurse, she informed me that my pap came back abnormal again and I have to get another colposcopy (where they take a bite out of the cervix to test for cancerous cells).


Dr. Paltrow has been after me to get a LEEP procedure (where they remove a layer of the cervix), but getting pregnant within a year after that increases the risk of pre-term labor. She knows we’re TTC and previously told me that six months (plus an additional nine if I get knocked up) is the longest I should wait. Now I’m afraid she’s going to pressure me to move it up. On the bright side, I guess I’d be able to drink mimosas again (bad joke).

On another note, I just ovulated (not right this second, but yesterday). Eric and I decided that more (not less) is more, so we did the baby dance everyday for all of the fertile days preceding ovulation as determined by the OV watch. I also decided that ovulating makes me hungrier than usual, as evidenced by the empty pint of Ben and Jerry’s in my trash can (no, that’s not on the fertility diet). It must take a lot of energy to lay that egg!

Ode to Mimosa

Mimosa, my sweet, how I long to hold you, to taste you on my lips. I’ve missed you since we’ve been apart. Especially on those lazy weekend mornings I reminisce about the brunches we have spent together. Your bottomless goodness, bubbly personality and sparkling spirit have left me light headed.


These last few weeks we’ve spent apart are not in vain. I’m trying to start a new life; one whose chances are better without you. For now, I must leave you behind, but we will have our day in the sun once more. One day I will toast you again.

Until then, I will think of you and your shapely fluted glass fondly as I pass our old meeting spots which advertise your never ending bliss. When that time comes, return to me and let me drink you in.

Intoxicatingly yours,

Annie