All wand, no magic.

I may as well tell these stories now.  No point holding onto them.  I mean, really?  What am I saving it for, posterity?  HAH.  I still feel pretty stuck not knowing what the hell’s going to happen next, so why the hell not tell the embarrassing stories that, when they’re HAPPENING seem like positively the most mortifying thing ever to happen to anyone, but in all reality are probably kind of par for the course. This course apparently being that obstacle course of I guess what’s probably at this point more than fairly called recurrent miscarriage.  This is probably the best place for it anyway…not like people want to chat about this kind of stuff much in person, which obviously is understandable.


Aaaaand, my stomach ties itself in knots.  Harsh.  Anyway!  Moving on….


So, the day I went to the doctor this last time around, I as usual had taken the earliest appointment possible so as to not be too late getting into work.  Hah.  The IRONY.  Anyway, I don’t remember what day…yes, it was a Friday.  Jeans, sneakers, etc.  Casual.  But being a considerate little patient (ha), I had actually managed to shave my legs that morning before leaving the house, so when I got the call as I was driving back to work that the pee in a cup deal came back positive (that’s still a WTF moment if there ever was one, somehow…weirdness), and I drove home instead of going back into the office, I went ahead and changed clothes…something to do to kill time between arriving and having to leave again to go to this ultrasound they wanted me to have.  Here’s where I start to chuckle.  

Medical protocols can be an odd thing.  I’m sure they’re in place for perfectly good reasons, most of the time, obviously, but sometimes they don’t make a helluva lot of sense when one is fairly sure the problem is at least half obvious.  Cringe warning – just skip the rest of this paragraph if you’re squeamish, girly-wise.  At this point, I’d already been bleeding for longer than a normal period for me, for more than a week even if you don’t count the week of spotting that began this whole fiasco.  I’d taken TWO pregnancy tests earlier in the month, however, both very negative, so I frankly was fearing more of a bloodwork shows early menopause or some random unhelpful type thing along those lines.  I’ve always been like clockwork, so I knew something wasn’t right, but given TWO NEGATIVE POASings, I didn’t think it was a miscarriage until the doctor called.  Once she said it was positive, I kind of figured.  Yes, at various points over the coming weekend I more than managed to get my hopes up, but COME ON.  It just wasn’t looking like a third time’s the charm kind of deal.  Not at all.  So, as I’m flipping through my closet looking for distractions as well as something else to wear, I find the dress.  I think it was actually my sister’s dress in high school.  Cute, short, black, small plaid pattern, I think red.  Kind of cut that doesn’t absolutely require a bra.  I wore it under my college grad gown, actually, with the best pair of black wedges ever designed, now sadly gone.  And a bra.  I mean, all the rights and privileges and responsibilities sorta call for that.  Anyway, an ultrasound I knew couldn’t possibly provide good news (even it it was going to be a sticky pregnancy, I wouldn’t have even been late yet at this point, so I knew I wasn’t going to see shit other than hopefully nothing wildly abnormal for such a situation) wasn’t exactly at the top of my list of things to do, so…no bra.  Flip-flops, etc.  Basically, this dress is a little too short.  I think I also wore it for a bridal shower…yes, the one Mike’s family threw for me.  I remember going through the pictures later and going, oops.  So you could see my freaking panties while I sat and opened gifts all afternoon and not ONE BRIDESMAID OF FIVE SAID ANYTHING TO ME?  Nice, ladies, nice.  

So yes, the dress is short.  Mike met me at home, we killed a bit more time looking at each other like, WTF?  I dunno, your guess is as good as mine, then headed back over to the doctor’s office complex thing.  Registered, waited, blahblahblah paperwork.  Oh yes, the paperwork.  That must be the MOST fun thing about all of this.  I knew this from the first time, but the second you have both a positive hcg or urine test AND any type of bleeding, you’re a THREATENED ABORTION.  And because nothing, not even drawing blood, is done IN a doctor’s office anymore, it seems, you have to go to the lab for all these blood draws.  With the same “steady on your feet today, ma’am?” line of questioning every time.  I love it when they ask for my due date.  FUCK YOU.  I’ve never had a due date.  Starting to think I probably never will.  Anyway, so basically my role in this dramedy is to wander around like a disoriented pincushion and accept piteous or confused eye contact, friendly smiles, needles to the inner arm wielded by either incredibly skilled and concerned or mayhaps underaged and inept and possibly nearly illiterate phlebotomists.  This time was a little different, though.  No needles, just the wand.  No magic.

So, yes, it might be nice if I could start a paragraph with a word other than SO.  Maybe later.  So, we walk into the little room, meet the tech, blahblahblah Q&A, no due date, circumstances, LMP (hahahaa), blahblahblah.  The tech is a cute little Southern girl, very understanding and good at her job, I’m sure.  Now, the only other time I had an ultrasound actually WAS in the doctor’s office, so I partially knew the drill.  However, PROTOCOL.  I explained that my doctor wanted to make sure that this wasn’t ectopic, basically.  She said, okay, well that will be the transvaginal, blahblahblah, DILDO CAM!  Seriously.  There’s just no way to see ANYTHING via the external method when you’re talking about three weeks gestation or less, more than likely failing to boot, and I know this, man.  This is not squirting a pile of goo on a big fat pregnant belly and watching some creepy looking alien thing wave or show you its goods and then you start thinking pink or blue, no.  This is futile at best.  So, being already depleted of cash, dignity, and patience for this rigmarole, I…LOL.  Yes, I…respond logically yet grossly inappropriately, in hindsight, to her assessment of the period math that we won’t see what we need to see the easy way by starting to just go ahead and whip off the panties without removing the dress.  Standing up.  You know, quick-like.  LOL….ahhh, good times.  The tech gets all confused, WAIT A MINUTE!  LOLOLOL.  We have to do the over-the-belly way first.  Oh.  Really?  Uhm, mmmkay, if you say so.  Who needs an effing paper gown when you’re already dressed like a suburban streetwalker?  Meh.  So, yeah, she agrees I can just use the paper lap blanket or whatever you call it, let’s just get this creepy innards show on the road, shall we?

And yes, you might think that’s the funny embarrassing part, but no.  Hoh no.  This is a dildo cam – the fun and embarrassment NEVER ends.  So she does the over the bloat thing, nothing to see here, carry on.  Now, the tech is not a doctor, so this part goes differently than I’d had the pleasure of the first time around.  She explains how it all works, we laugh while she slides the condom on the, um, implement?  LOL.  I’m not looking up what that part of the instrument is called.  We’ll call it the giant deformed plastic penis with a big eyeball at the end.  Yes, that just rolls right off the tongue.  Fingers.  Whatever.  She says, okay, so I’m going to hand this to you and you get to insert it.  Mmmmkay, woohoo!  Tits.  Or something.  So, yeah, follow instructions..and she giggles.  I raise an eyebrow, full of poise and cryptic wondering.  “Sorry, I didn’t tell you.  It only goes in a little bit, actually, but you did a GOOD JOB.”  All but pat me on the head.

And here’s where I almost piss myself (oh yes, you must have a VERY FULL BLADDER for these good times medical diagnostic sessions, but noooooo, they won’t keep you waiting an extra thirty minutes before they’re ready for you, they promise!) and fall off the effing exam lounge table thing.  Mike is about to fall off his chair in the corner, we all have to literally laugh out loud, because, really?  What the fuck else can one do at this point?  There is NO DIGNITY allowed in the ultrasound room.  It’s just useless.    

Stories?  Yeah, I got stories.  No, you didn’t ask for them.  Sorry.  I tend to keep talking anyway.
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