Here's a little something that's been keeping me busy lately:
Oh, fantastic. A post about babies. LAME. WHO likes babies? Who wants to hear about stupid, cute, layabout babies? Who wants to see fat, sweet, slobbery baby cheeks? Ew.
Well, as completely unappealing as they are I have to talk about them, because a lot of things in my life have been completely baby-centric the past couple of months. So...sorry, but you'll just have to bear with me. I know. It'll be hard. But I think a few of you can do it.
The fact is, Mr. Sarcomical & I have not had the best luck in the offspring department so far. For a while we thought it was timing, then we weren't sure, then we said let's just wait it out, then we said wait that is colossally stupid look how old we are, then we found out that the endometriosis that has pretty much traveled down my maternal roots for a few generations has probably been instrumental in halting the miniature person creation process.
We scheduled a laparoscopy for myself with my doctor (who is perhaps the sweetest and most encouraging physician ever to exist outside of an episode of Grey's Anatomy but not those dark & twisty girls, you know that one smiley girl named Arizona or some other state who is always sunny and cheek-dimply?), and I actually had that done last Wednesday. (I'll be telling you about that experience in the next installment of Reproductivosity Weekly.) But first...FIRST, I decided to tell her in the appointment just prior that my mom happened to mention in a phone conversation that "oh by the way I've also had fibroids, I don't know if you want to tell your doctor that or not" and when I did Ms. SmileyPants Doctor got a flash of serious and said "Oh. ...well let's get you in for an ultrasound to check for those before your procedure. Because, you know, if that's an issue we'll have to take care of that first surgically."
Oh. Okay. Um, haha, let's check on that. And p.s. THANKS MOM. Great genes. Awesome.
Also, p.s. "What is fibroids?" asks Mr. S. "Uh...I'm not sure. Hmm."
Mr. S. came to the scheduled ultrasound with me, because I was feeling kind of nervous about it. That flash of Serious Face on my happy doctor made me wonder if what I thought I was taking care of was going to end up being more serious than I had thought. Bleh. And just when he had kind of successfully distracted me, the door to the waiting room opened and for a microsecond I looked up and something immediately registered in my brain:
Our old next door neighbor. The one who moved out of the neighborhood with her husband & kids about 2 years ago. She's an ultrasound technician. Oh Sweet Torture Chamber.
Here's what went on in my head:
Oh dear God please please please do not let her be the one doing my ultrasound oh come on do you really think they have more than one person doing them in this little office right now? WAKE UP. YOU LOSE. Get ready to be spanked by coincidence and you know what else? I'm just gonna go out an a limb and assume that the simple ultrasound you thought you were getting is more...involved and may have required a leeeettle more..."prep work" than making sure you were wearing nice underwear. Oh my God if I am wrong about what this is that's happening and SHE is the one doing it then I am going to turn around and run out of here in a puff of cartoon-like smoke before the humiliation burns my face off ARE YOU SERIOUS, UNIVERSE?!?
After much nervous tight hand-gripping, we were called back and OF COURSE she recognized us "HEY GUYS!?!" Crap. Yeah...no chance this wasn't going to happen, was there?
...and no chance this wasn't going to be as horrifying as possible, right?
NOPE. NO CHANCE IN HELL.
We get back into the room, and I'm like "soooo...this ultrasound, it's..."
"...yeah. It's internal."
"Oh, Keri, let me apologize. I am not really...I mean...I didn't especially prepare for this. I'm stupid, I thought this was just the kind of ultrasound you see on tv, I'm an idiot, I..."
"Oh, please. Melissa, don't worry about it! I do these all day long. It's no big deal, it's fine! I'm sure it's fine. Don't worry, please."
Whatever. Because also? I mean, they knew this when I made the appointment (THEY SAID "OH IT'LL BE NO BIG DEAL), but this was also the first day of my period. (Any guys left in the room? Did that clear you out? I hope so.) So...I pretty much decided the only way to make it out alive was to go to my happy place and stay in a waking coma until I was out of the building.
The situation, you see, just wasn't grotesque enough. Wait, you thought it was? NO. YOU ARE WRONG. Because when I was in the other room changing, Mr. Sarcomical tried to break the ice by asking her how things were going...you know, how's your husband and whatnot...OOPS THEY GOT DIVORCED. I came back in and he whispered quickly "Whatever you do don't ask about her husband THEY SPLIT UP!" I swear to God there was NOTHING not vomit-inducingly uncomfortable about this day. NOTHING.
Everything looked okay, and finally some good news: all clear on that front, thus the fact that I just spent the past week in recovery from the laparoscopy (which was an entirely other surreal experience for another day). Mr. Sarcomical was also convinced after looking up at the big projection screen during the procedure that there is literally no distinction between my ovaries and the fuzzy pictures of UFO's from the 50's.
Anyway. Working on that SarcomiBaby, that's what we are. I mean, not for 2-3 months according to doctor's orders, that is. But we are. There will be a lot going on here in the meantime, but there you have it. That's what's been brewing here while I've been a little blog absent.