I’m sick of being sick. Not anything like “woe is me” (although I have my moments), but I now have two conditions that involve the nether regions (if we’re including infertility), and by golly, there is nothing savory about that.
I am on progesterone supplements, or, as a woman of my standing likes to call: “vagina pills”. Classy. I insert them three times a day, one of the times in the mid-afternoon at work. Some people get coffee at 3 pm. I get down and dirty.
My latest ultrasound showed…nothing. No eggs (or, they call them follicles). Which makes me think: “Can a woman shoot blanks?”
It did show some scar tissue and small puddles of liquid from my Crohn’s. Now, instead of viewing my pelvic cavity as a desert, I tend to think swampland.
Due to my work trip, I missed a critical monitoring week, and have to start over again. This enraged me as my long cycles tend to transcend seasons, so at this rate we’ll figure what’s going on sometime near Thanksgiving.
Infertility is very easy for the guy – when did a guy ever bristle when he was told he needed to have sex? I’m sure even giving a semen sample is rather enjoyable. I hate men. They get higher salaries, more clout, and they can pee anywhere.
Oh well, I guess we get them in the end since we tend to live six years longer. Nevermind they can be lonely years in a body that doesn’t work too well. That’s what I cling to as I swagger to the bathroom with, yes, those vagina pills.