Duh 101

As we climbed back into the car after my “incredibly informative” nutritionist appointment, I remember telling my husband, “Why don’t they just call that class ‘Friggin Duh 101?'”

I use the term “appointment” loosely, because what I thought was going to be my chance to explain my history and have an educated dietician agree with me that something is obviously wrong was ACTUALLY a class. A presentation. A colossal waste of my time.

Hand to God, there was a slideshow. A slideshow. With pictures of food and charts of calories. One slide talked about the importance of drinking water. She even gave us the equation to find out our BMI’s. Meanwhile, I stared at the freakin’ app on my phone that could tell me the very same information in a matter of seconds without fussing with a calculator. For the duration of the presentation, I fought the urge to roll my eyes every. time. she mentioned that there are 3,500 calories in a pound of fat, that fast food is bad, that you should keep a journal of what you eat… etc., etc,.

Really? It’s that simple, huh? Why didn’t I think of that? *Insert epic eyeroll here*

If only I’d thought to mention to my primary care doctor that I have tried every trick in the book, so to speak. If only I’d thought to tell him that despite a decade of struggling with my weight, I still have a hard time getting (and keeping) results. If only I had somehow conveyed to him that my body doesn’t want to follow the rules set forth by science.

Oh, that’s right, I did. 

And his first move was to subject me to this? A slideshow that literally looked as if an 8th grader had put it together as a last minute project for health class?

After the torturously redundant slideshow was over, a few of us who were a little more serious about getting healthier were herded (yes, I said herded) by a second uniformed dietician to a tiny office where we could make appointments to speak with a nutritionist one-on-one and hash out an individual plan. I snagged an appointment for the beginning of November and hustled back to the car before the profanities of rage and sarcasm began.

Up until then, I had tried to give my primary care Doc the benefit of the doubt. I tried desperately to hang on to those feelings of optimism he had given me after the first appointment. But now? No… I’m angry. I get that he’s busy. I get that my inability to have a child of my own is probably the least of his concerns, BUT STILL.

He said he would call me after the results of the well woman’s exam came back, and he didn’t: I got a generic card in the mail with “results normal” checkmarked. He said he would schedule me for some blood work, and he hasn’t. He also said that he would have the husband scheduled for an SA so that he could be ruled out before we did anything “drastic” with me, and guess what?

He hasn’t done that either…

So, basically, the panicky part of my brain is flipping out and is trying to convince me that I got one of those doctors who takes one look at you, sees that you are heavy, tunes out everything else you say, stubbornly believes that being fat is always the cause of the problem and could never be a symptom of a much larger health issue (Hello, PCOS!), refers you to a classroom with a slideshow about calorie intake and pats himself on the back for attempting to make the world a much more beautiful place…

That’s not rational, is it? Am I overreacting? Or am I right to be this anxious about feeling like my baby journey has come to a complete standstill before it ever really had a chance to get started? 😦

I kept putting this update off because I knew I was going to whine the entire time, and that I wouldn’t actually have anything of value to say… again.

But… What can I say? I am a basket case these days. Sex isn’t happening, since it’s cycle day 37 and I am still. freaking. bleeding. My doctor has forgotten about me and apparently wants to blame all of the world’s evils on my fatness. (Maybe if his penis had a tendency to bleed for several months at a time he’d be a little more sympathetic? I dunno.) I am kicking my own ass SO HARD for waiting so long to get this started… If I’d known it was going to be like this, I would have made that first appointment as soon as we moved here last November. Damn my pride and inability to admit when I need help. 😥

Oh, and now my husband is talking about getting another dog, which basically makes me feel like he just kicked me in the mouth and told me we aren’t ever going to have a kid so we might as well load up on the furbabies… 😦

Again, I’m sure that’s just my panicky brain talking, right…? Right?

And don’t even get me started on how I feel about my birthday being one stupid week away…


Warning: This post contains chocolate.

Oh, and period stuff, so if you can’t handle those topics (or the combination of the two), scoot along.

I had a lovely little chat with my uterus the other day…

That is, if you can call “screaming, crying, and ranting at every visible star in the sky” lovely.

You’d think that by now, what with my history and my experiences regarding all things uterus-related, that I would have bothered to teach myself to stop getting my hopes up. But I can’t help it. I’m lame like that. 😦 

So when I say I am disappointed in my body for deciding to bleed again after a two-day “reprieve” last week, I mean it. Here I was, patting myself on the back, thinking that the lighter/shorter period was the payoff for losing a bit of weight. I deluded myself into thinking it was a sign that my body was finally getting its act together.


It’s cycle day 26 (I guess? Or did it start over again when the bleeding came back? What does this mean?! ARGH!) AF is here in full force. She’s unpacked her hideous floral luggage and looks like she’s here for another wickedly long stay… and there just isn’t enough chocolate in the world to console me. Cue the hysterical “it’s all for nothing, my body will never work right no matter what I do so why should I even bother” meltdown that my poor, undeserving (and understandably unprepared) husband had to deal with…

But bless his heart, he baked.

I am serious.

I haven’t taken much time to talk about my husband (because I’m selfish and this is my spotlight, damnit! ;P) but mostly because this blog is new and you and I are still in that “getting to know each other” phase (which is why I keep breaking out the big guns: gross period talk and stuffed monkey mental breakdowns? Oh yeah, you’re totally impressed. Don’t lie.)

Anyway, my husband doesn’t bake. Aside from the occasional bowl of ramen noodles, he leaves the kitchen stuff to me. After a morning/afternoon spent meandering through an art and cultural food festival downtown, I decided to take a lazy little snooze. I thought I was dreaming when I woke up from said nap with a smiling husband presenting me with an ambrosial offering of chocolatey deliciousness a brownie! That sneaky little….!

Yes, I know, bad Manda. But come on, I was doing so well and all I got for it was a cancelled sex life and a pair of ruined undies… You get chocolate for that. It’s the deal. The fact that my husband gets this is just one of the reasons why I keep him around. 😀

I hope I actually have some interesting news to share soon, but in the meantime: remember that we don’t talk about the cheesecake. Or the brownies. And if any of you breathe a word of this to the nutritionist I am apparently going to see in about a week, I will have no choice but to be very, very disappointed in you. I will corner you in a dark alley somewhere. We’ll have a lovely little chat.



Hurry up and wait…

After finally pumping myself up to take this baby-making thing head on, it has been an incredibly frustrating week of waiting.

I am not a fan of waiting. A 25 minute car ride is enough to have me clawing at the windows in an attempt to escape from the unbearable act.

(“Are we there yet?” “No!” “…Are we there yet now?”) Poor husband… ❤

So, you can imagine how excited I am now that we are waiting for the Doc to get a move on. He said he’d call and let me know when he wanted to schedule some bloodwork. I was a little disappointed when he didn’t just hand me over to the vampires nurses after the exam. It’s safe to say I’ve never been so eager to have a needle stabbed into my arm. Is that normal? :\

But honestly, it’s probably for the best. I’m bleeding enough on my own as it is. That’s right: after almost 4 months of being MIA, our good pal AF decided to drop by. The real problem with my AF, however, is that she overstays her welcome.

It’s usually a two-month-long bloodbath. Heavy bleeding. Little to no cramping, but a LOT of embarrassing moments. (Please tell me I’m not the only one with a pair of dark bedsheets saved for just such an occasion… )

And just when I’ve come to accept those monsters as my own cursed little brand of “normal,” THIS happens: Spotting. Barely. Off and on. I actually wasn’t even aware that it would count as a period since it’s so strange. Doc seems to think so, so… Happy Cycle Day 17! Ugh.

How awful would it be if any further testing had to wait until after the bleeding has stopped? That could mean months, people. Even worse, what if I have to wait for the beginning of a new cycle? That isn’t even guaranteed to happen this year! 

Man, it’s a good thing I’m such a patient person, right?