Isn't she pretty?
(In case sonographic interpretations aren't in your repertoire, the large black space is my uterus filled with 10 cc of saline. It should be a pear-shape, but the right half is clearly filled with an enormous polyp, Miss Polly, who is pointing to the 11 o'clock spot).
When my uterus doesn't have water in it, Miss Polly blocks my cervix like a native IUD. Which means I couldn't get pregnant if I tried.
Aren't you excited? ELATED to have an answer? Relieved to know what has been causing your discomfort/sadness/unexplained infertility/cornucopia of uncomfortable symptoms you don't want to post about on the internets?
Surgery. Hope. Despair. What's a girl to do? Leave it and never dance with that asshole puppet Hope again, or spend a lot of money, endure quasi-elective surgery, and let the dance begin again.
Let it be a molehill?
Face the mountain?
I came home with a sonogram picture to put on my fridge or my meditation altar, the way most mamas are sent home with pictures of embryological squid or whatever they get to see on their first confirmation of pregnancy ultrasound. My first instinct was to share it on FB, but I felt like you needed the story behind it - or at least a small slice of it. I've sat with it today, first in the car, then at home, then while furiously googling and learning that endometrial polyps are most common in obese women over 40 with a history of high blood pressure.
That sounds like me.
It looks like a yin/yang.
Or a "sorry, we're closed."
I wish someone had done this for me two years ago - three years ago. Before I invested $7,000 in fertility research/acupuncture/voodoo/craniosacral/therapy/psychics/herbs/assorted diets. Before I gave up drinking and fun.
Before I gave up on my marriage.
But here we are, me and Polly, deadlocked in a staring contest.