A guide in the wilderness

I've been at impasse, stuck or hiding, I'm not sure which.  I wasn't sure if I'd write this here, but it just makes sense to do so.  I've written before that I've been having difficulty conceiving.  To clarify, I have trouble ovulating.  And well, a girl needs an egg to make a baby. 

I've been to an endocrinologist, who sent me a letter in the mail to let me know I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome.  A letter.  Thanks.  And then I went to a reproductive endocrinologist who confirmed this diagnosis, and recommended a round of progesterone and clomid.  Progesterone makes my period come while tossing me into a black fog of tortured depression, and clomid makes my ovaries bring forth some follicles, which then are supposed to become eggs.   My supposition is that clomid will also make me a crazy weepy mess.   

Still reeling from the craptasticness of a diagnosis, months of testing, and an endocrine disorder, and oh, my feeling like a general failure as a woman, I said well fine, sure, okay.  We endured a giggling walkthrough of when to have timed relations.  Booya, love that I have to take a blood test to find out when to copulate. 

Two days later, I received several phone calls from a random pharmacy, who informed me that I'd also been injecting myself with a medication called Ovidril (it makes those follicles turn into eggs).  So I called the doctor's office, where a nurse rudely informed me I had been advised of this intervention.  That's a nada, biatch.  I'd remember if the meeting broke down like this:  endocrine disorder, failure as woman, medicine, medicine, shot, timed relations.  Nope, nothing about shots.  

I spent four weeks walking around my apartment debating when to take the progesterone, if I should call the doctor's office and schedule an appointment.  And I decided, I don't wanna. 

But I didn't know what to do next.  I want to have a baby, or three.  But I don't want it like this, this cold, mechanical, and downright terrible service of a process.  I'm mourning the fact I need any intervention at all.  I'm reeling that I have a diagnosis that will need intervention.  And I continue to be nervous about having babies, being a parent, and all that normal, gloriously normal, stuff that everyone else gets to have.  And, by the way, I am a fantastic woman, and not a failure at all.  I'm not cool with a process that makes me feel bad.

Time brought a chance encounter with a woman I have been growing friends with who shared her own story of struggling with infertility, feeling unfulfilled, unsure where to go next, and let me know about a therapist who specializes in working with women just like us.  And this lady knows all the good people.  I'm a therapist:  I know that I need some therapy around this, I know that its impacting my work and my life. 

So I saw her today.  I walked away with a page of referrals for reproductive endocrinologists, permission to get 2nd and 3rd opinions (yes! you ARE allowed to do this!), OB/GYNs, and a feeling that someone out there got it, and that my point of view IS okay.  And finally, I have a guide.