Well, there I was. Battered and breaded and bruised up like a heroin addict following a series of blood drawing, wanding, MRI-ing (now with contrast!) and even some iodine-dye-ing, for
FUN good measure. (Ed. Note: during this time there was also birth control. ten VERY IRONIC days of birth control which I obviously had blocked out of my mind as a psychological coping mechanism until now. and during which time I ate-all-the foods-in-the-house-and-cried-all-the-tears-in-my-eyes because I basically just PMSed for 10 solid, miserable days). And so, I was probably a little too excited for my second meeting with the doctor man and the
delivery of my DIAGNOSIS
*cue horn section.*
Anyway, after an hour that felt like thirty seconds, during which time big words were thrown around, pictures were drawn (ohmygoddoctor please stop drawing GIANT follicles on the back of my official medical record), and instructions were given (
when a man and a woman really love each other,
sometimes they will show that love by….
ok, not those kind), I left the office with two prescriptions, a confusing
looking chart, that is obviously just a list, and was clearly made on Word
Perfect in 1991, and which coldly instructs me exactly when to have sex, not
that I can really read it friendly-sounding “cycle calendar” and basically,
not a clue what any of it meant.
So, the next day, in an effort to “take charge of my body!” and “know what’s going into it!” and probably something about women’s empowerment and our over-medicalized-world (preach!) I decided that I could, nay I must!, turn to the all knowing interwebs. Because we all know that the numerous, competent, and still-totally-licensed-physicians trolling Yahoo Answers have deep, insightful things to say about my infertility. And because I am married to a doctor, I know one thing for sure: doctors love it when you disregard their advice in exchange for the crowd sourcing wisdom of ask jeeves (seriously though, what ever happened to ask jeeves?! Resist-urge-to-make-joke-about-whether-he-returned-to-his-day-job-as-a-butler).
So there I was. Deep in the throes of a google search that would open the door to Wisdom! Insight! More pictures of expectant mothers and their pixely facebook ultrasounds!
And so, making believe that I understood the precise chemistry and purpose of prescription number one (which I don’t, Clomid wuzzhisname), I turned straight to prescription number two, the more menacing sounding: OVIDREL (yes, obviously, that is a prescription that basically shouts ALL CAPS. It’s a drill sergeant of a drug). Anyway, where was I. OVIDREL (pronounced in a vaguely eastern European accent like AH-VAH-DRILLLL!) Okay, seriously, though. What is it, why does it only come in needle form (I-am-a-human-pincushion) and why is a deliveryman bringing it directly to my house on a Tuesday evening?
And also, is the deliveryman hot because these prescription hormones are
really getting the better of me? People, let me just say, the Internet did
NOT disappoint. The Internet is a BASTION of useful information. According to
the all-knowing web-o-sphere, Ovidrel is actually made from (wait-for-it)
genetically modified Chinese hamster ovary. Read that again. Also, it is “used in young boys when their testicles have not dropped down into the
scrotum normally.” And this is all, of course, excellent news for me.
Because now I know the gems of totally relevant information that an hour-long intelligent conversation with my Harvard trained physician could not and did not reveal. Please excuse me while I thank my kindly physician for my newly descended hamster testicles. #onestepclosertobabyhamsters
 (Oh dear, I know, addiction is Not Funny) but I did and do routinely find myself self-consciously wearing long sleeves during this, um, ODYSSEY.
 Which, dear reader, is, look no further: hypothalamic pituitary dysfunction! Yes (to those who are furtively searching the interwebs posthaste!), this can be caused by an eating disorder (nope, all clear, see multiple references to cookies) or regular exercise (probably and at least according to my RE, would not be reversed if I stopped exercising altogether. Although I did try. Alas, no dice) or a whole bunch of other things like geneticdisorderstumorsbleedinginfectionsurgerytoomuchiron. Anyway, worry not my friends. It's nothing a little clomid+OVIDREL+there-are-hormones-coming-out-my-ears can't fix! (I hope).