In Which We Receive Good News, but are Subjected to a Minor Annoyance

First and foremost: the HSG that I was so nervous about went really well. When I say "really well" I mean "did not hurt like a mofo" and also "had a good result."  I do think these two are related; I've had 3 HSGs in my life. Two of them were mildly uncomfortable, and deemed normal. One was excruciating and most definitely abnormal. It makes sense; stretching scar tissue is a lot more hurty than stretching a healthy uterus.

Anyway, the doctor said it was the best post-Asherman's HSG he'd seen, which made me feel a bit better about being so OCD about seeing a specialist, avoiding D&C, etc. Here's hoping it's a good sign!

The minor annoyance, on which I will of course expend a lot more text:

I went to have my teeth cleaned yesterday. I walked in and got my least-favorite hygienist, the one who seems to blame me for having a small mouth. As soon as she saw me she said "oh, are you pregnant?"

Me: ...no

Inappropriate Hygienist: Oh!

Me (coldly): I just carry all my fat on my abdomen.

IH: Oh, so do I, blah blah blah so hard to lose blah blah blah crunches blah blah.

Me:  You know, that's really not a good question to ask.

IH: I thought it was going to be a happy thing!

Me: I've had two miscarriages recently. I'd rather not hear that.

IH: Ohh... sorry. how are you doing? With all that.

Me (arctic): Fine.

IH: Do you have any kids?

Me: I have one, he's four.

IH: Well then, you're blessed.

Me: Yes.

IH: But you still want more?

Me (desperately): Can we please just not have this conversation?

IH: Oh.

IH leaves the room to get some supplies, comes back a few minutes later and asks about summer vacation plans. I spend the rest of the visit trying to pretend that she doesn't exist, which is pretty difficult considering that she's poking me with a sharp piece of metal.

The thing is, I do carry weight around my tummy. I have a Pooh-bear belly, and always have even at my thinnest. I mean, right now I'm less than 10 lbs over the NIH-sanctioned "healthy" weight, and I still have a gut. I ain't ashamed but I also don't find it particularly aesthetically pleasing, so I usually wear loose tops. This of course leads directly to pregnancy assumptions, because any woman wearing a loose top is probably pregnant, or at least would be pleased to discuss her reproductive status with complete strangers.

It's just one of life's little jokes that polycystic ovaries lead to both central obesity and difficulty achieving and maintaining pregnancy.

As the kids say on the internet, smh.

Here we go.

HSG is scheduled for tomorrow at 1:45 pm; I have to be there at 1 to rock the backless hospital gown.

I'm nervous as hell. Not only was the last one quite amazingly painful, but it was when I got the news about the Asherman's. It sucked. I'm not really looking forward to being in that room again. In fact, my last few visits to this particular hospital campus have not been the funnest experiences ever. Well. It already is what it is in there, it's just me knowing, right? And I always have to know.

In a few more months it'll be a cool two years since we started TTC #2. I won't say it's been a miserable two years, far from it! Over this time Small Boy has transformed from a toddling baby to a sturdy preschooler, full of ideas and plans and words and strategies. He's got enormous grey eyes and delts sculpted from playground tumbling and long, long legs on a rather short torso (sorry, kid, that one's all me). Sometimes it hurts how much I love him.

Other good stuff has happened. We got another four years of Obama, and my state got marriage equality, which means a tremendous amount to me.

It hasn't been the easiest two years, either. It's certainly had its moments. The ultrasound moment when the doctor said "I don't see a heartbeat. I'm sorry," feels like it's preserved in amber, but I hope that someday it will quietly dissolve.  The actual aftermath was not as terrible as that moment. In retrospect, it is something I'm kind of proud of. I worked, I researched, I stuck to my guns about the misoprostol. I was given a humane amount of pain relief and it was over quickly. I'm even glad I got to hold those two rather revolting little sea monkeys (although the positive nature of that experience was perhaps influenced by the aforementioned "humane amount of pain relief"). They were grody, but they were mine. I don't know if they were people. I know to some they would've been. But it's possible that they just weren't equipped to be people, they simply didn't have what they needed, there was no world in which they would've been people because they were just missing some vital ingredients.

I mean, it's also possible that they were perfect and my stupid Asherman-y uterus killed them, but whatevs. I can't know. I could've known, maybe, if I'd gone ahead and had the D&C so I could've had an analysis of the fetal tissue. But what would it have changed? I'd have been risking a future actual child in order to know more about what happened to these. So I guess I don't always have to know.

So here we are. In a lot of ways I'm in the best place I've been for two years. Calmer, happier, healthier. Ready to roll the dice two more times, and then, if I must, to put them down and walk away.

Gulp. Tomorrow I start rattlin' the bones.