Ovarian Cyst Explodes: Film At 11

Here's a nice soothing picture of water lilies to look at as we explore the grisly aftermath of my one attempt at Artificial Insemination in November of 1997.


If you recall, before Christmas, you were gripped with suspense as I described the ticking time bomb in my ovaries--after my ovaries were stimulated with powerful fertility drugs in order to produce eggs and ovulate.


A meeting was held, attended by my womanly parts.


"She wants some eggs to drop," said the uterus. "Anybody wanna step up to the plate?"


"Naw", said Egg 1, reading the National Enquirer and munching on nachos.


"F*** off and die," snarled Egg 2. Egg 3 heard this, took it personally, and committed suicide.


"Someone's gotta at least make an appearance," worried the uterus. "Let's give it a half hearted try, and maybe she'll get discouraged."


"I'll drop," sighed Egg 4, dusting herself off and applying makeup to her aged visage.


In the meantime, a malevolent creature was growing on Ovarian Lane. "Why did she make me grow to the size of Anna Nicole Smith before Trimspa?" snarled the ovary. "I'll show her--I'm gonna grow a cyst. Then I'll make it explode!"


And that is what happened. Egg 4 dropped, thought the sperm knocking at the door were Jehovah's Witnesses, and refused to let them in. She eventually retired to Florida, where she holds Pampered Chef parties and entertains cabana boys.


Meanwhile, my ovarian cyst exploded after a few days "Am I pregnant?" post insemination torture.


No, I didn't take any pregnancy tests. This was 1997, people! I don't know what the state of tests were in 1997, but I vividly remember what they were in the early 80s. You had to have the dexterity of a chemist to mix the little tests up, none of the pee on a stick nonsense. Plus, in 1997, the sticks weren't advertising that they could reveal any interesting information within the first two weeks of insemination. Plus, in those days, they cost $19.95 per box.


About 4 days after the insemination I casually observed that either somebody was carving away at my parts with a rusty knife or I was just plain dying. I was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with an exploding ovarian cyst.


Ten days later, I started my period.


I was absolutely horrified. I wasn't even disappointed as much as I was personally pissed off at my body. I had been told since I was in diapers that if a boy even "looked" at me that I would start growing triplets. I simply could not believe that the strongest drugs known to modern medicine would not produce pregnancy.


I was really mad.


Keep in mind that I had always enjoyed a felicitous relationship with my body. I've never been horribly sick, I've always been able to maintain a decent weight without half trying (cough) vegetarian (cough) , and really, we have always gotten along just fine. Yeah, I even have a fairly decent body image. Not perfect, but pretty good.


So here's this happy little relationship shot to hell by rogue womanly parts. Boy, did I give them a lecture.


"I'm trying again in January and you'd better straighten up and fly right, Missy!" I lectured my womanly parts.


"You mean Ms. don't you?" yawned my ovary. "You lost the Miss part long ago."


"Bite me," I snarled.


"You want another cyst?" she hissed.


"Sorry!" I exclaimed apologetically.


In January of 1998 I went online and typed in "China Adoption."


Ten minutes later I walked out to the den and casually informed Roger that we were adopting a kid from China.


"Ok!" he agreed cheerfully.


And
that
was
that.

Get That Can Opener Away From My Cervix

If I had only known
November, 1997
If I had only known.

If I had been better prepared, I wouldn't have freaked out when I started to blow up, both physically and emotionally, from the Pergonal.

I remember screaming at my mom on the phone. "I don't think you should be taking those drugs," she sighed. "All I WANT IS A BEAUTIFUL BABY LIKE YOU GOT!" I screamed. "IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK? I GUESS SO! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS PUT ON YOUR SIZE FOUR CHANEL SUIT AND PICK ME UP FROM THE HOSPITAL! I GUESS IT'S JUST TOO BAD THAT THIS ISN'T 1959 ANY MORE!"

Finally it was time for the insemination. A good thing, as divorce and being written out of the family bible was looming in my future.

By the way, I didn't get to choose my donor. I submitted a picture of my husband, and somebody in North Carolina picked out the donor. I was quite disappointed--I was really looking forward to picking out my donor from a catalog like they did on Friends.



So it all came down to this. I lay on the table with my legs in that famous position. No Barry White music, no candlelight, no sexy nightgowns, no foreplay at all. 

The nurse came in with a warm, foamy, bubbling vat of semen. Or was it eggnog? We'll never know. Perhaps Dr. Dickhead didn't believe my claim to be legally hetrosexually married, Blessed By All The Deities In The Universe, recognized on every continent in the world...

A large metal device that resembled a Giant Economy Size can opener was placed inside my vagina. "We're cranking open the cervix!" the nurse explained cheerfully. screech, screech...."Ow!" I yelled. All of a sudden I felt like someone had rammed a baseball bat Down There.

Poof! In went the sperm.

And I left, absolutely, 100% convinced that I was pregnant. 

Literally the thought of failure never entered my mind......

Little did I know the only thing growing was an ovarian cyst, which was fixing to explode...

Say Buddy, Can You Spare A Cup Of Sperm?

Yeah, I went back to Dr. Dickhead. I didn't have any choice.


I didn't think I was infertile. I thought I'd just go in, order a cup of sperm, and be pushin' out a young'un in 9 months. (tears of laughter)


Imagine my surprise to learn that I'd have to undergo fertility treatment. That I had something called "eggs" and that they needed to be a "certain size" in order to make a baby.


I took Clomid for a couple of months. I'd heard stories...but I might as well have been swallowing Tic-Tacs. I didn't experience any mood changes, weight swings or any side effects at all.


Unfortunately my eggs didn't change either. The surly little bastards were sitting around in my ovary watching Oprah and eating Nacho Cheese Doritos. They were like all, hey beyotch, we're 37 years old. Cut us some slack here! We're little and lazy and we like it that way. Four cycles went by and the dildo-cam revealed eggs that were flipping me the bird.


So it was onto the next step--Pergonal. (Insert the music that gets played when a nubile young teenager goes into the attic wearing nothing but scanty underwear in a horror flick)


"Seven Hundred Dollars!" I shrieked into the phone. "And I'm supposed to pay that in ADVANCE?" Yeah, I was having a conniption about $700.00. It was even covered by insurance, but I had to lay out the dough up front.


I had no idea that women could run up bills that would make $700.00 look like bubble gum money.


So I started taking Pergonal. And I started noticing that I was gaining a huge amount of weight. The jeans I'd worn for 10 years were tight. And I was starting to shriek at people. I had never experienced PMS, but now I was making up for lost time.


To be continued....

Y'Ain't Onna Them LESBIANS, are you?

As long as we're dodging the bullets flying while scampering down Memory Lane...


I also underwent agonizing fertility treatment.


Ahem. Excuse me while I split my sides laffing.


Hell, after reading the fertility blogs, my "treatment" was the equivalent of a bubble bath while sipping margaritas and being hand-fed truffles by George Clooney while Brad Pitt gently massages my feet.


But let us begin at the beginning.
I made an appointment with a fertility doctor. Roger wasn't too psyched about the whole thing, so I went alone. He is sterile, and had resisted artificial insemmination for years, but after our fun filled DSS experience relented and let me go ahead.


I had an initial intake interview with Dr. Dickhead. I've seen more warmth when confronted by snarling pit bulls. "Where's your HUSBAND?" was his opening statement to me.


"Um...er.....he's on a business trip," I lied nervously, twisting my wedding band in a frenzy.


A few minutes later he sent the nurse in.


"I need to ask you something," she said. "Y'ain't onna of those LESBIANS, are you? Dr. Dickhead does not service lesbians or single women."


What I wanted to say:


1. Why yes. Would you like to have dinner tonight?


2. No, but I did dream about having sex with Cher once. Well, Sonny was there, too, but I really preferred Cher.


3. I do prefer sex with women, but that's because I'm actually a man myself. Don't let this lace collar fool you.


4. I'm actually ambidextrous. I like sex with both men and women.


5. I only wish that I was! Men are such PITAs.


6. I honestly doubt that a lesbian would want to be serviced by Dr. Dickhead.


7. Would you be good enough to excuse me for a minute? I feel the need to run screaming from this office as if I'm being pursued by a pack of rabid wolves.


What do you think I said?


I'm a Southern lady, and Mom is always watching me.


I said, "No ma'am."