There I sat, clammy and clothed in my uber-chic paper gown and drape, waiting entirely too long in the exam room; much as I waited entirely too long in the waiting room staring at pictures of babies, obviously happy additions to now happy families.
Each moment ticked by with me talking out loud to myself, about how the doctor is probably with a patient, a pregnant patient, obviously more important than fat, infertile me. It's not as if MY time has value. Too much free time, no reading material, no crochet to occupy me, and the emotional downward spiral was set.
As cheerful as my gyno is, he totally unravelled all confidence I have in my endo, who is a leading endo in the field of reproductive endo-stuff-ology.
The Vagina Whisperer thinks ReproEndoGuy is a "cowboy" who is overlooking simple stuff, even though in August he claimed I was out of the bracket for "pre-diabetes."
The Vagina Whisperer thinks I, in fact, AM pre-diabetic, if not actually DIABETIC, due to my near constant bouts with yeast.
And with that, I just couldn't hold it together a moment longer and sobbed.
And at this point, it's not even about the idea of not having a choice in the matter of my own fertility, or whether I will have a flesh and blood child of my own. It's about how very alone I am. How truly alone I am. Alone to struggle and flounder and fail, and rather than be "picked up" and comforted by my mate and made to feel as if "it's okay, we're together, we can get through anything," I'm made to feel as if I have failed once more.
