In a world of pregnancy announcements, gender reveals, and nursery themes, we are surrounded by fertility drugs, endless pregnancy tests, basal thermometers, and ovulation tests.
This month we are excitedly started another 6 month cycle of fertility meds. We spent a lot of time in prayer and got some amazing advice from my aunt (shout out Tante! We love you!) and decided on our new approach to my PCOS and infertility.
I was blessed to see my CNM (most amazing lady! She delivered Kimber and has been a huge blessing) and we quickly got on track with a plan that includes:
-Progesterone (to induce periods that are often irregular due to PCOS)
-Metformin (for insulin resistance caused by PCOS)
-Clomid (to induce ovulation that is usually absent due to PCOS).
I’m also taking my basal temperature each morning to hopefully track ovulation (because relying on ovulation tests isn’t very accurate when you have PCOS).
(Can you see the trend of how awful PCOS can be?)
Going to see a doctor, for whatever reason, gives me some type of (slight) PTSD. My hands start shaking and my blood pressure rises and I stress way out in the waiting room. It doesn’t matter if it’s a doctor I know well or one I’ve never met. It even happens at the dentist.
I was talking with John after this most recent bout with it, because I’ve never paid much attention to it, I honestly just try to control it and wonder why in the world I’m so anxious. He said it’s because I’m mentally preparing for the worst possible news, even if it’s just a routine exam, even if I was just there and was perfectly fine.
And he’s right, that’s 100% what I’m doing. It’s the exact way I dealt with knowing Kimber had died and I was waiting in that awful hospital room, waiting for the second ultrasound and second doctor and second opinion before they all confirmed “I’m sorry, you’re baby has passed away”.
The PTSD also stems from some serious complications from a routine gallbladder removal mixed with an incompetent overly-arrogant doctor that led to a near death experience and a week in the ICU.
Both situations when people kept telling me I was fine, that’s everything would be ok, and it definitely was not. It was supposed to be normal and routine, and it was not. And apparently, the recesses of my mind does not forget. Because I prepare for a doctor appointment by getting into to fight or flight mode. At least, I guess, I’m more of fighter, so there’s that.
I don’t have a lot of insight or wisdom from that experience...it’s mainly just some fun new information for everyone.
All I have is prayer, lots and lots of prayer. My prayers, other people’s prayers, because prayers work (you’re welcome for that little cliched reminder).
But, we are thankful that, even in the midst of the same issues and burdens, we have hope. Time and time again we are renewed as we place beads in our prayer lantern (see previous post) and experience Psalm 40:3 in our lives.
God is continually giving us new songs of praise.
When we are burdened and feel the words of praise slip away, the word of God is alive to us and we are reminded of the truth of the gospel and what that means to us.
Amidst the familiar struggles and failures we can see the new thing He is teaching us, how He is still shaping us and sanctifying us, creating something new. Even when I’m in the waiting room, bunkering down, preparing for the worst. Even then.
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