Day 27: The perils of having a fit doctor


Please put your legs in the stirrups…

Well, it’s Day 27 by my slightly unreliable way of counting and that means it’s scan #2 after baseline. The midweek scan. I’ve been on the Gonal F follicle stimulator (I assume, as I try not to Know Too Much about what is going on) for a while now and my stomach is bruised to heck and now looks like I’ve been beaten up many times by a tiny mouse.

So I rushed straight from work, because I was in work early(ish) as per usual so I’d have some time to get settled before the scan, and I ended up getting slightly lost and running late as per my usual method of being, when I don’t have T to direct me. I am terrible at directions and would get lost inside my own house. (T had decided for today that he’d do without the vicarious joy of the TV scan as all he can hear outside the curtain is me laughing in an embarrassed way and the doctors trying to act all serious whilst shoving a probe up my undercarriage. Let’s face it, it’s a kind of embarrassing situation.)

As I was running late, I ended up running up a few flights of stairs and practically careening into the waiting room so as not to be late. I actually managed to be absolutely on time, which was nice.

Until… I was directed by the nice nurse into the scan room and who should it be but let’s-call-him Doctor Fit.

Dr Fit was the one who performed one of my previous surgeries. He is young, attractive, obviously clever enough to be a doctor, and very very nice. He even asked about my dog as he’d remembered that from our previous conversations. I don’t know why I should feel weird about having this swoonsome chap staring up my undercarriage but I did. First of all I thought “Well I really should have tidied up down there!” and then I thought all sorts of other thoughts which mainly ended up in Why oh why does it have to be him? Not because I fancy him as such but just because it seems so awkward.

A very good friend of mine has an chronic medical condition which involves a fair amount of colonoscopies and she tells me it’s always the good looking ones

What can I say?

My scan went fine. I managed to look the other way whilst Dr Fit looked up and inside me and wriggled that probe around like he was at a 90s rave with a glowstick. (Of course he is swoony enough to probably have been born in the 90s – Mrs Robinson!)

The good news is that my follicles are growing! Not in a very quick way, because they’re lazy like that (like the rest of me). Apparently they’re aiming for 3 x 18 diameter ones so we shall see. The largest so far is 15-16 and I think my left ovary is more into it than the right – the right one’s just thinking “I can’t be bothered with this” and doing a bit of a halfhearted job. If all goes as it should be, which it seems to be doing right now (touch wood) then that means another scan in a couple of days and a potential egg collection on Monday, with implantation on Friday. That’s next week! How exciting is that? If my eggs are actually there and my ovaries aren’t playing a massive trick on me and the eggs can be matured okay and T’s spunk is of its previous good quality then there’s no reason why I couldn’t be impregnated by next Friday!

As for my nether regions, after all the general unrest and injections and whatnot I decided not to keep it all trimmed for a while and give my body a bit of a rest, what with all the abdominal interventions. (I used to be into Brazilians until I thought, why am I doing this?) I’m not very hairy anyway and it annoys my feminist ideals that women should feel that they have to rip out the hairs on their undercarriage from the root after smothering them with hot wax, or shave them to within a millimetre of their life just to fulfil some weirdly manufactured ideal that women do not have hair (apart from in abundance on their heads and eyelashes). I mean, it’s just weird. Men don’t have to trim, so why should women be constantly removing it? So anyway, my foof was a bit furry and au naturel. I like to think of it as a mini ‘fro. I still shave my underarms once in a while but they’re so rarely on display that it takes me a few days to do it.

Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is: I probably shouldn’t worry about feminist ideals when I have my legs in stirrups and someone’s sticking a probe into places that aren’t usually seen.

And as for Dr Fit? Well, I figured he probably sees about 15 unkempt fannies a day so mine was probably as unmemorable as the next.

In the words of the good doctor: Everything’s as it should be.

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