Well, there
I was. Battered and breaded and bruised up like a heroin addict[1]
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[2]
*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.
