My life is not at all like I pictured it.
Reason #1: Never would I have ever guessed I would be working at McDonald's. It's comical, really. I mean, technically, one day we'll own four McDonald's, but for now it's entertaining to see people's reactions when I tell them I work at McDonald's. In fact, my BIL has made it a point to do so to random strangers when M&I are first meeting them. It's 100% hilarious.
Reason #2: Never would I have ever guessed that I would be living where I am. Before I met M, Salina was just a name I saw on a sign when we were coming home from shopping at the mall. Plus the dreaded "100 Miles" printed right after it. Oy.
Reason #3: Never would I have ever guessed that I would be childless. This can be a heavy subject or it can be a funny subject. I choose to make it funny because if I don't, I'll have a mental breakdown within the hour.
I'm going to discuss reason #3 - in a comedic fashion [so as to not make you all uncomfortable]. But the subject has been breached once again, after a short break for the purpose of healing my nerves, and I feel I should explain.
Growing up, we always had the young, cool parents. Our parents were high school sweethearts, got married right out of high school, and wanted to have kids right away.
I know, you feel like you just opened the door to Pleasantville. But it's true.
That actually does happen.
Anyway, because of this, I always had my heart set on being a young mom.
This idea was, of course, when I was both young and a complete moron. Because I had no idea what being a mother actually entailed, save for the whole raising a child thing.
But I didn't think about all the shit I'll have to clean up [literally]
and the multiple loans I would have to take out to pay for baby junk
or the crying.
Oh, the crying....
It all seemed SO great!
[excuse m while I go smack my head against a wall]
[Now, being older and that much wiser, I feel that being a parent is
well it's a lot of effing work.
Work, money, patience, pain, crying.
The list goes on.]
Fast forward 3 years and M & I get married, move to this God-forsaken town, and buy a house.
Next step: have a kid.
Sounds easy, right?
Little did we know that the higher power wanted to jack around with us and present a fun little obstacle in the form of broke-ass ovaries.
[yeah, I said ovaries. They do exist, you know.]
This results in shittastic maneuvers to fix me: medications, bi-weekly blood tests, monthly sonograms [and not the fun, checking-on-baby kind of sonogram], crazy-lady hormones, and overall hatred of the general population on this blood-sucking planet.
The medications also had a fun side effect [besides the fun hormones, of course]: surgery.
Yeah, trying to fix me actually screwed me up more.
And not just one surgery.
Oh no, the great lord thought he'd go all out in the trial department and throw two my way.
Once I got rid of Elliot [don't ask], I thought all would be well and M & I would be knocked up like nobody's business.
If you've seen me lately, you can probably tell that isn't the case [and if you think it is, we're not friends anymore].
After my last surgery, my doc suggested we take a little break from the entire process.
Since it sucks balls.
Turns out marking your calendar with cycle dates makes you want to jump off a bridge.
Take my word for it.
And now, my doctor, who figured all this shit out for me, has gone off and retired.
And I am left with finding a OB in this town.
My stipulation list is longer than the average doc-shopper.
The doctor before this one was the definition of a douche.
Look it up right now.
Go to m-w.com.
Type in "douche".
It says Dr. Morgan, doesn't it?
I told you.
She saw me for two years.
And couldn't figure out that I had Polycistic Ovarian Syndrome.
I even GOOGLED my symptoms and figured it out.
SO...after 730 days of being given zero actual medical assistance, I rounded up the lady balls to ditch her.
See you later, "Doctor." Thanks for nothing.
I am now on the prowl for a new MD.
Here are the qualities I look for in a doctor:
2. Not a dude. [No uterus, no opinion.]
3. Not creepy. [2 & 3 kind of go hand-in-hand]
4. Not a douche.
That's fair, right?
I scheduled an "interview" with an infertility specialist here in town.
A couple years ago when I was new to town I saw her, but she was a total hippy and trying to sell me on all this weird "natural" process crap, so I moved on to Dr. Douche.
A lot of good that did me.
But I'm going to give the hippy another chance. By grilling the crap out of her.
No-nonsense for Mallory. I am SO over this entire process.
I have read everything I possibly could about infertility and PCOS; I could write a very long, very boring book about it.
I'll save you from that and just...not.
This wasn't a "pity" post.
For the love of God, please don't pity me.
99.9% of people have way worse shit to worry about than me.
This was merely a combination of trying to find a new doctor that doesn't totally suck, and 10 of my Facebook friends announcing they're pregnant all in the same week.
Moral of the story: if you see me and I'm cranky, or weird, or happyoneminuteandbitchythenext, or pissed off that Sandy Schizer from high school is accidentally knocked up with her fourth kid and announced it with a creepy belly photo on Facebook, chalk it up to crazy hormones.
Or hatred toward the general population.
It's not you, it's me.
That makes it sound like I'm breaking up with you.
I'm not, I swear.