Meeting a new doctor is always uncomfortable when you suffer from anxiety. You’re afraid to say the wrong thing. You’re afraid one misstep and you end up spilling your guts all over the place. At least, it’s like that for me. On the flip side, after being brushed off by three other doctors, I was afraid to appear too cold; afraid to let my bitterness and lack of confidence show. My façade was calculated. Analyzed. My calmness a masquerade.
He was a sweet man, short in stature. Foreign, though I’m not sure of what origin. His kind demeanor put me at ease. To my anxiety, it unnerved me, but his kindness would grow on me. He shook our hands as he introduced himself, and thumbed through my ever-expanding medical record. I expressed that I wanted my tubes un-blocked, and wished to conceive naturally, or at least with minimal assistance.
Heartbreak, take 230.
As I mentioned in my earlier posts, you can only take Clomid so many times before you develop an increased risk for ovarian cancer. He explained that if he were to open my tubes, and he could, that I could only take Clomid once.
One month. My odds were now being flushed down the toilet along with all my hopes and dreams. He recommended performing another sono-hystogram to make sure everything was clear. He also recommended a D&C (in case you’re not familiar, it’s a dilation and curettage and it means they scrape tissue off the lining of your uterus.) My anxiety was creeping down my spine and paralyzing me. How much more must I endure before finally hearing “Congratulations, you’re pregnant!”?