Whammified Again

So I had my date with the magic wand on Monday.  Not an A+ kinda date.  More like a C- date.  I mean, I hate to give it a total ‘F’, because I can always think of something more terrible than my actual experience (a habit I try to use to keep me grounded but instead just fills me with irritating, self-induced guilt).  Anyway, the positive part was that the u/s tech and the nurse were really, really nice, and I don’t take that for granted.  Bad news is that my cyst, which last week looked like it was finally disintegrating after 4 weeks, started GROWING again, despite the medication that I’m taking which makes me especially testy among other fun side-effects. 

Queue the’GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH’ emoticon.  (I don’t know how to add emoticons on my blog, I’m a total technological dolt.  Big time.  The fact that I use a computer at all is a miracle not much less inspiring than a women with 6 kids already who gets 8 embryos implanted into her FOR FREE, allegedly.  Bows head in shame, sorry about that.  Despite my vow NOT to post on this most recent infertility-in-the-news issue, I see that I, in fact, have no self-control at all.)

So back to me feeling sorry for myself again.   The plan is to go on another date with the magic wand next Monday followed by dinner and a movie with my RE.  OK, actually I just meet with my RE after the u/s to discuss the what the heck I’m paying him for in the first place.  Does that sound too confrontational?  My bad, what I mean to say is I meet with the RE to discuss what he’s going to do to get rid of this stinkin’ cyst and just exactly when can he promise me a baby, dangit!  And if he starts with the ‘when you’re dealing with infertility, there ARE no promises’ crud, then I’m going to beat him with the magic wand.  Just kidding, the magic wand is in a WHOLE different room from the doc’s office.  I’ll have to beat him with my fists.

So, according to my very nice nurse, I may have the options of trying birth control pills (bcps), which is sort of the REVERSE of my end-goal, or getting the cyst aspirated (which sounds scarily painful), or laproscopic surgery (I’ve already gone that route before).  So, I guess I’m whammified for another good bit of time.  Poot.  (That’s my son’s word for ‘poop’, and I kind of like it, so I thought I’d adopt it as one of my curse-alternatives.) 

 Well, there you go.  No warm-fuzzy final thoughts from me today.  Too much self-pity to be fuzzy.  Of course, the Pollyanna side of me thinks that at least I’ll have more fun and exciting material for my blog.  But the Negative Nelly side of me thinks that Pollyanna is full of poot.

Bye y’all.