Last week I got up in the pre-dawn hours, got in a cab and travelled to BlogHer in NYC.
This week I got up in the pre-dawn hours, got in my car and drove 4 hours to another city for my appointment with the doctor who would, according to the last naturopath I saw, fix my hormone issues with bio-identicals. So that I can get pregnant and have my own teeny bambino for other bloggers to NOM on at a future BlogHer conference.
(Note to self: don't try to be a hero, just stop and pee when you need to go, even if it doesn't coincide with your route plan. Because when you finally arrive at your predetermined pit stop, they may be changing the light fixtures in the bathroom, leaving you flapping your hands and whimpering and generally confirming that out-of-towners are batshit crazy.)
The gyno asked some standard questions, did a Pap smear, and checked to make sure that my uterus is where it should be. Then he told me that he didn't think the bio-identicals would do anything for me beyond easing the symptoms of menopause; that's all he prescribes them for. If I really want to get pregnant, he strongly recommends fertility drugs.
In case I haven't mentioned it, fertility drugs are not an option I'm interested in. I am trying to feel normal, not more insane. I think I've done enough synthetic hormonal damage to myself over the years; my body isn't currently manufacturing it's own hormones, so there's no guarantee I'd STAY pregnant. And if I did, I don't think I'm up to the challenge of potential twins, triplets, quadruplets - or their associated reality tv shows.
So I told him I'd think about it, and I got back in the trusty Honda and drove home, with my throat aching with unshed tears of frustration and only the GPS for company.
Go right. Go right. I said go right. Turn around if possible. Turn around, you barren witch.
I think she cut me some slack out of sympathy.
I liked last week's trip a whole lot better.