After a morning of driving through thunderstorms and taking photos of doggies and their owners, my husband and I headed out to my doctor’s office here in the DFW Metroplex. It was an overcast day and we could see low-hanging, black cloud shelves that preceed a weather front. Tornado weather.
There’s nothing friendly about having an ultrasound like this. But the doctor saw a couple follicles that looked good. Only one was as large as hoped for, and they couldn’t find the other ovary. But the decision was left up to my doctor, who was out of town this week.
I walked out of the office feeling like a tornado inside. All this waiting and anticipation … multiple doctors … painful procedures … surgery … a month of estrogen … a week of fertility pills and injections … several scans … AND (the worst part of it all) I turn 35 in a couple weeks. How much longer can we try, I whined to my husband.
“This is starting to take its toll,” I said to him on our way home in the rain, wind, thunder and flooded roadways.
I got home, took a boiling hot shower and passed out. I talked Brent into laying down with me so he could hold my achy body and battered emotions in his strong arms. He said to me, “Sarah, I don’t understand why you’re upset about this. We don’t even know anything for sure yet.”
Then the phone rang, and it was my doctor’s office.
It’s time to trigger that follicle, the nurse told me. The doctor said we can take that next step. Through a fog of disbelief and hope, I noted a few additional things we’d need to do this week and made an appointment for a blood test on November 9.
So here we go. I’m thankful that we’ve gotten this far. It makes me feel like I’m doing my part in all of this. Despite writing this, I’m still somewhat speechless.