Here’s a warning before you get any further into this post.
If you are my Uncle Terry or a man NOT married to me, or a wayward student who has randomly found me (please God not that), or someone who is skeeved out by talks of vaginas and periods and other gross things, don’t read this post.
And I might say the “eff” word, or a quasi-“eff” word.
So if you’re my mother and you keep reading, no pearl clutching.
I’m facking pissed, people.
I started my period today. 19 days after I started the last one. If you’ve been around here for any length of time (and there’s what, three of you in this category?) you know that exactly three years ago today, I was diagnosed with PCOS.
This is pretty much what happened then, too.
Basically, I went off the pill and then didn’t have a period for over 60 days. Then I started having a period every ten to twelve days.
I would be all out and about and having a grand ol’ time and then, oh, what’s that? My period. Again. For the third time in a month-ish.
So I went to the doctor and he did a transvaginal ultrasound with the condom-covered camera and found that my ovaries look like bunches of grapes. He put me on progesterone which caused me to sweat like a whore in church.
(Just so you know? I still sweat like that. Three years later.)
Suddenly, I had a reason for the pubescent break-outs and facial hair. (Hot, right?)
PCOS? Was the most not awesome thing I could imagine happening to me aside from that first postpartum poo where I needed an epidural and broke the toilet.
Three years ago, I was writing about my diagnosis with mild infertility. Struggling to call it that, even, because my experience pales in comparison to that of others who travel much, much harder, longer roads than we did.
(Can I pause for a minute to point out that this is National Infertility Awareness Week and if it is always the last week of April each year that means I was diagnosed during NIAW and am experiencing those same symptoms, once again, during NIAW? Can we just revel in that little nugget of full-circle for a minute?)
What’s great–and by “great” I mean “not even close to great”–is that I thought I’d be ovulating today according to my chart.
Obviously, my vagina and reproductive system hate me. So that ovulating thing? Is just not happening.
Stubborn betches, those ovaries.
Tonight I ate my feelings by way of a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and some salty fries.
There might be jelly beans in my future.
There will definitely be wine. And Advil. And a heating pad. Because MY GOD the cramps.
But really? I just want to cry.