Mar
30

Have A Scintillating Root Canal!

Yesterday I had to leave work because of the pain shimmying from my Lady Parts down my thighs, through my hip joint to my back. All morning people kept saying things like “Wow, you look really…tired,” and “Why are you curled under your desk, keening?” until finally I called it a day at 11:30 and staggered home.
I know it has been written about before, but if an Always commercial entreats me to “Have a Happy Period!” one more time, I am going to leave a uterus with a knife in it on their Marketing Director’s doorstep. “Have a Happy Period,” indeed. Always can have a delightful time sucking my cock.
Here is a list of the ways I am not having a happy period:
1. I cannot button my goddamn pants. Also, the scale says I have gained four pounds since Tuesday. I look pregnant, only I know I am not, because of ALL THE BLOOD. I am seriously considering investing in a Bella Band.
2. Last night, when I was bent over the arm of the couch making a breathy “iiihhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” sound, I found myself wondering if maybe it is…abnormal to faint on the bathroom floor once every few months from pain. Then I tried to remember why I never had that laparoscopy in September. Then I had a panic attack.
3. I have attractive red burn marks on my lower abdomen from the stick on heating pad I must wear in order to be ambulatory at work. These pads do not help the pants-buttoning situation.
4. Last night I felt like I had to pee every six minutes—only I didn’t. Nothing makes me happier than a persistent uncomfortable urge I cannot relieve.
5. Today I went to the cafeteria to get a cup of soup for lunch and returned instead with an order of French fries and some ranch dressing. I have no recollection of how this happened. Generally these mini psychotic breaks occur only at home upon returning from a work day so busy I skipped lunch entirely. Much like those episodes of Law & Order where the suspect claims to have no idea how he ended up standing over a corpse wielding a scythe, I go into the kitchen intending to have a small piece of cheese and come to five minutes later, having eaten a small piece of cheese, three pickles, a Girl Scout cookie, an Oreo, and a can of mandarin oranges.

The one bright spot I have been able to find in all of this is that my period brings me that much closer to the cycle after this one, the cycle during which I hope to find out whether the Metformin is working its witchy magic on my recalcitrant ovaries. The cycle after this one I will be charting in order that I may report for a progesterone draw seven days past “ovulation.” Or rather, I will be scrutinizing all available signs in search of something that resembles ovulation, so that I may call Dr. Doctor, schedule blood work, and wait heaving by the phone for the results. If I ovulate, the Nearly and I will have the novel option of trying on our own. If I don’t, I am right back where I started, only with testier intestines.
Dr. Doctor isn’t hoping I will ovulate, she is merely hoping my insulin will be down and my hormones will be comporting themselves like proper young ladies instead of unruly nap-deprived toddlers. Dr. Doctor doesn’t think I will get pregnant with Metformin alone.
But then what does she know? She is only a “doctor” with a “degree” in “medicine” and a specialty in “reproductive endocrinology.”
Whereas I, on the other hand, am an editor with a high-speed internet connection and access to PubMed.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |