Don’t Call Me Moon Face.

After Wednesday’s appointment I walked to my car thinking that I was Capital-D-Done.
Done.
Done before I had even started, actually. I know you are probably all laughing at me, but it really seemed like too much, and I was tired of working so hard towards something and hearing again and again “We don’t know what is wrong with you, and we can’t do anything about it.”
I have had two miscarriages–and I know that many of you have been through years of treatment, scads of miscarriages, but truly, truly I say unto you: I am petrified of going through another one. And without medical intervention, I feel sure that I will.
And I am frustrated by the proposed timing—30 days until a new testosterone draw, then a monitored cycle to prove that I don’t ovulate, then reevaluation and planning and “What shall we do?” so basically 2 cycles—70 days at least–that lead us in a circle, right back to…here.
I got home from the appointment, and The Nearly was all expansive arm gestures and support. “We will do whatever it takes!” he said, flinging his arm sideways as if what it would take was somewhere West of us. “It will be worth it, it will all be worth it!”
I grumbled and snuffled unattractively. I whined about the money—just that afternoon I had received a $500 bill for tests, and I wasn’t even diagnosed yet. I started listing the costs of various procedures that might be in our future, and when I got to “An IVF cycle at our clinic could cost as much as fifteen thousand dollars.” The Nearly chuckled and said “You mean fifteen hundred.”
And oh, the LAUGHTER!

Anyway, the upshot of that afternoon was that I wasn’t going to do this anymore–repeat testosterone level be damned, I would go off the Yasmin but go straight back on the mini-pill, take a month to regroup, and then…well my plan was to think about that later.

Two days later, I was at my desk at work, idly counting how many paper clips I could fit into an Altoids Cinnamon Gum Tin, when the phone rang:

PHONE: Brrrring! Brrrrring!
ME: This is Alexa.
DR. DOCTOR: Hi Alexa, this is Dr. Doctor.
ME: Oh…Hello. (Thinking: Not a nurse or an assistant or a receptionist calling?)
DR. DOCTOR: I was just sitting here looking over your charts and thinking about your case.
ME: Silence.
ME: Really?
DR. DOCTOR: Yes, and I am still concerned about your insulin. And looking at some of your other symptoms—the fatigue, stretch marks, anovulation–it occurred to me that you may have Cushing’s Disease.
ME: You were just looking at my charts?
DR. DOCTOR: Yes, I have them right here. Anyway, it is very rare, and you lack some of the observable clinical symptoms, but it could be of recent onset. It’s a long shot, but I’d like to do some tests.
ME: Of course…(Flipping through calendar several weeks ahead) When did you have in mind?
DR. DOCTOR: As soon as possible—a nurse will call you within an hour to schedule the tests, and luckily the results come back really fast for these, so you and I will talk next week.
ME: Really? I mean, yes, splendid, next week.

Before I go any further with this story, I would like to make one thing perfectly clear.
I DO NOT HAVE A MOON FACE.
Nor do I have anything at all resembling a “buffalo hump” (she said distastefully). So when you Google Cushing’s Disease (like I know you will, you googlewhores) don’t go getting any ideas. I have a lovely face—a little too long, perhaps, but fine. And as for buffalo humps—well, if anyone knows buffalo, and their humps, it is I, having been on many a childhood vacation to the badlands of North Dakota. I could not possibly resemble a buffalo less, I assure you.

So, to return to the story—Saturday I picked up two little vials of injectible something for Monday’s test, two little vials, I assume, of liquid platinum, as it cost me $77 (after insurance!) to procure them.
Monday, fasting, I reported for my test. A phlebotomist drew two vials—one for Cortisol levels and one for 17-OHP. Next they injected me with the priceless nectar from the aforementioned vials (Cortosyn, or something), and left me alone to read P.G. Wodehouse for an hour. Then they returned and drew two more vials of my life’sblood—again, one Cortisol, one 17-OHP.

In the middle of all of this, they had the nerve to give me a pregnancy test.
You see, after the nurse gave me my injection, I turned a pretty mauve and mumbled something about asking her a question, and proceeded to tell her that the previous night (day 2 of my cycle, such as it is) I had two very large clots—much bigger than a quarter—about the size and shape of a club cracker. Also, they were tough and fibrous, rather than easily dissolvable. The nurse asked if I could have been pregnant, and I laughed gaily and said no, and if she didn’t believe me she could look at my ultrasound report from six days prior. She couldn’t find said report, and insisted I pee in a cup, which I did, and which was negative, and eventually I heard Dr. Doctor outside saying “Pregnant?—there is no earthly way she is pregnant, I just gave her an ultrasound a week ago and she was clearly pre-ovulatory.” So I was told to watch my bleeding and that was that.

My blood tests will be back tomorrowish, and I shall return to the clinic to collect the equipment for my next test, which involves me collecting ALL OF MY URINE for 24 hours.
They would like me to do this on Thursday.
I told them I would wear a peasant skirt before I would bring a giant pee vat to work, and we reached an impasse.
So we shall see.