Why, you may fairly be wondering, have there been no updates from our fearless hooha correspondent? Shouldn’t she be providing some high-octane angst right about now, to say nothing of those bottom jokes we were promised?
Well, darlings, I’d love to, if my €*<<@#^ period would stop messing around and get here for real already, but all that's happened so far is cramping, more spotting, and more sinus sadness. About which:
1. WTF, SPOTTING? Listen, that hysteroscopic adventure was really not that much fun. This spotting is minor stuff, but I rather understood it would be no more. Hrmph.
2. WTF, SINUSES?? Get your ever-loving acts together. For those playing at home, I am now finishing round three of antibiotics and also round three of prednisone. I was in the depths of despair about still feeling bad (though in new, exciting ways), but yesterday Dr. Nose looked with favor on a ct scan of the ol' braincase, stuck a scope up my nose and then, quel horreur, down to peer at my vocal chords, and declared the lasting symptoms not, as I feared, undead bacteria, but rather acid reflux sloshing around up there. Probably in part because of all these frickin' pills. This strikes me as a convincing explanation for the burning sensations, which I had sensibly attributed to bone-dissolving bacteria. It also means I am now forbidden to eat anything delicious. The AVOID list includes fat, alcohol, tea, coffee, carbonated beverages including plain seltzer, chocolate, onions, tomatoes, and joy. The universe is conspiring to make me do that self-denying pre-ttc living I had decided could go jump in a lake this time around, on the grounds that crackheads and heroin addicts etc., etc.
As an aside here, I should note that I may accidentally have dared Dr. Nose to thread the pharynx. Years ago, when I was first out of college, I got a fish bone caught in my throat. It was still there the next morning, and my mother put the fear of infection in me to the extent that I went to an emergency room at a teaching hospital in July, which is basically begging to experience an unnecessary procedure at the hands of an amateur. They don't keep much in the way of good drugs in ERs anymore, and I can confirm that whatever professional-grade chloraseptic they kept spraying me with wears off pretty dang fast and is in no way sufficient to mask the sensations, physical and emotional, of having some resident in a Hawaiian shirt try to show off for a pretty, blonde intern by passing a scope the size but sadly not the texture of a fat earthworm, which I imagine would not scrape nearly so much, up nose and down throat, only to run bang into some cartilaginous reef or other, whack it a few times for good measure while the anesthetic wears off, reel everything painfully back in, and start all over. Eventually, the patient decided death at home was preferable and removed herself from the very fun game. (Spoiler: I did not die.)
I asked Dr. Nose, while he had the ct scan images handy, if he saw anything unusual that would cause such a problem. "I've never had any difficulty doing that on any patient," he replied, having already snorted at the "July" part of the story, "you just got a neophyte. Sit up straight for a minute." And the next thing I know, there's a fiber optic cable in my voice box.
So. That's where we are: limbo (not my larynx). More and more convincing spotting today, so perhaps the show and the road will meet this weekend. In which case, you will be the first to know, after, of course, Sugar and her visiting mother. I'll save the best bottom jokes for y'all, though, I promise.