Turns out I do have ovaries. And a uterus. And, according to Sweet Nurse Jane, they’re ready for Clomid.
That news aside, I was pretty underwhelmed by the whole ultrasound experience. I wanted painstaking explanations of what was on the screen. I really could not decipher it on my own. Nor could I understand what the ultrasound tech was saying to Sweet Nurse Jane. She was conveying something to her in a secret code while I was preoccupied with the grey swirly images on the screen and the hi-tech quickie going on in my nether parts.
By the time I got around to asking, “Can you explain what you’re looking at?” there was only time for, “This is your left ovary, and that [a giant black blob] is a cystic region.”
Sweet Nurse Jane let me put my skirt back on and then wrote out a giant prescription sheet and an appointment for another quickie a week from today.
She also insulted my dear ob/gyn by saying she “threw” Clomid at me without any monitoring or HCG shots or anything. Which, ok, is technically true. But my dear ob/gyn was very smart and articulate about why it was statistically a decent idea to give it a try before sending me upstairs to the expensive, time-consuming world of Fertility-R-Us.
And I wanted to give Sweet Nurse Jane some kind of defense of my dear ob/gyn and also myself for having decided to go along with the two unmonitored, un-Metformin-ed Clomid cycles last fall and winter. But I was still on sensory overload from the quickie and the weird blobby cyst thing and the giant prescription sheet, and Sweet Nurse Jane was in a hurry, so I left for work kind of unsatisfied but determined to be a more perfect patient next time.