The weeks following my provera challenge blur together in a clump best described by the word ARGH.
There's some positivity: I continue to get regular blood draws to monitor my HCG as per molar pregnancy protocols (and totally imagine an office pool betting on my mortality every time I show up with the bandages on my arm), but I catch a break and my HCG, which dropped to zero in less than 8 weeks, seems to be staying at zero. Having read many a post on the molar support boards about women needing chemo, I am truly thankful.
But my period is nowhere to be seen, and I am pretty much doubled over in pain each month on the exact day I expect it to show. I mean pain, like labor pain pain. My OB write me a prescription for a sonohsyterogram, but says, "I have never had a patient with scarring after a D&C in my years of practice. It would be like getting struck by lightening." Seeing as the whole fucking partial molar pregnancy - you know, the kind of pregnancy that brings with it a cancer scare - is like a fucking lightening strike, these words aren't comforting.
And then I can't find a doctor to actually perform the test. My insurance requires it at an Advanced Radiology Lab, but the doctor is only there once a week, and we can't seem to schedule it properly around what I believe my cycle to be, blah blah blah....it's just beyond irritating. So I ask for a referral to a Reproductive Endocrinologist (otherwise known as an RE) because these tests are what they do. Maybe an RE can take a look-see at my uterus.
So at this point of my journey, I am sent to the offices of "BABIES GUARANTEED" Fertility Clinic. Look, full-disclosure: I personally know many women who have landed in this clinic for reproductive assistance. And from some of my research, if you need IVF or IUI, they're the absolute bomb. But at this point in my journey, I didn't need to even consider reproductive assistance, I just want someone to take a good look inside my uterus and see what's goin' on in there.
My first visit with Dr. X at the clinic does not get off to an auspicious start. He asks for my history and his face lights up at my advanced maternal age, because I am old, but not too old (cha-ching). The lights shut off a little when I explain my recent pregnancy, and the existence of niblet, an easy unassisted pregnancy. Clearly I can get knocked up. And when I take it upon myself to describe how my period has been MIA, and perhaps maybe I am a walking case of Asherman's Syndrome, he hits me with the words that ruin our doctor-patient relationship forever: "You should really stop reading things on the internet. You're not a doctor."
OK, folks, I have known and loved many an actual hypochondriac, and I assure you, I am not one. No, I am not a doctor (though if I wanted to be a complete douche about it I could technically say that I am a Juris Doctor). I understand all too well the perils of WebMD. Like, I know from firsthand experience that if you make the mistake of typing in your cold and headache symptoms into Web MD, you will be told that you are either suffering from a) Allergies or b) SARS. Not to mention I research shit for a living. Trust me, I know the importance of a peer reviewed study. So when I suggest to Dr. X that perhaps my symptoms indicate Asherman's Syndrome, I would appreciate not being pat on the head and told to be a nice little girl and stop reading big words.
Jeesh, this was proving to be a long road. Even longer when Dr. X said a few more irritating words: "I want to do some blood work and see whether your hormones are at issue." Two steps forward, three steps back.