I’m choosing to overshare

I needed to write this all down, because it’s eating away at me and I thought if I sent it away it would be slightly less painful than harboring it all in my thoughts.  Like Rosemary says, it’s important to write out your demons. 

So it’s come down to this.  I have an ultrasound scheduled for early January to confirm that I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, otherwise known as dysfunctional ovaries.  I went to my primary care physician this week for something else unrelated and told her about my cycle and about my problems thus far with trying to chart my cycle, and she urged me to make an appointment with my ob-gyn to determine the cause.  So I did. 

My mother, the voice of reason, told me I need to check with my insurance to see if if an ultrasound before pregnancy is covered, which I did. 

It’s not.  There are only 15 states that require infertility coverage because most states don’t see infertility as a medical need, since OTHER people have babies all the time.  OF COURSE, Georgia isn’t one of them.  At this point, it will probably cost me twice as much as the average person with insurance to have a baby. 

So, now I’m sitting here waiting to hear back from my ob-gyn with a price quote of how much this particular ultrasound procedure will cost.  But, being the Google queen that I am, I discovered it could cost anywhere from a couple hundred to a couple thousand. 

I’m so angry, so overwhelmed, so jealous of my pregnant friends and friends that already have babies.  I hate that something so basic as being able to have a child has turned me into (sometimes) this vicious green-eyed monster.  I feel so silly even thinking that maybe if I were the praying type that would actually do me some kind of good.  What a horribly hypocritical thing to say, let alone think.  “Oh, it’s convenient for me to believe in you now, when I could possibly go broke trying to get the one thing given away to drunken teenagers at school lock-ins like church pamphlets on a busy street corner.”  I look at the pudge around my navel caused by Velveeta shells and cheese binges, imagining for a split moment that I’m a protective mother, shielding her embryo from the outside world.  But in a flash, the thought’s gone, and I realize that I should just do crunches and stop torturing myself (“Stop torturing yourself, man.  You’ll never afford it! Live in the now!” – Garth Algar). 

I know I should try to live in the now.  Eckhart Tolle wouldn’t be selling millions of books if it weren’t a worthy idea.  But I go through stages where nothing else matters to me except this.  It completely consumes me, and I haven’t met anybody else who can relate.  I’ve read about other people online, sure, but I had to stop reading online infertility blogs because they just made me feel worse.  My most basic human right as a woman is unattainable, or at the very least attainable by way of thousands of dollars that we don’t have. 

I’m not really sure what to do now, except wait for the call from my ob-gyn and decide whether or not to go through with the ultrasound and stay focused on other things…Holidays with family.  Potential teacher certification.  Pure Romance.  So it goes.