As you may or may not know, I’ve been having some digestive issues for, oh, over a year now. The latest in a long line of medical investigations into the problem was to go get a … wait for it … vaginal ultrasound! Yes. Yes I did.
So there I was in the office with the curtain around the door, being asked to get waist-down naked. It was downright spooky, I tell you. The tech was telling me the usual, “I’m going to put some gel here,” etc. And I kept saying, “I know. I know. I know already. I’ve done this about a million times.” I told her about the infertility treatments. She told me that she had just signed up to start them! In the same clinic where Trucker was conceived. It felt cosmic.
It also felt so different to be doing this familiar thing without the pressure of popping out follicles. Without the blood being drawn, or having to remember my donor’s ID number. It felt like a relief. And a little bit sad because that excitement of making the baby won’t happen again. (Though I DO get to plan a wedding, finally.) And I felt a kinship with you, my struggling ladies. I know how many of you are still waist-down naked with your feet up in stirrups holding your breath while the doctor counts follicles. Yes, I do. Once you have been there, a part of you never leaves. Even when your baby is three years old and throwing tantrums because you didn’t let him close the car door that he can’t reach with his seatbelt on.
My thoughts are with you today, TTCers. May you one day have a baby who sings.
