In which a PCOS diagnosis is like a Christmas present.

First: My Reproductive Endocrinologist's office is lovely, and so is she.

She thinks I have PCOS.

Well, either that or something related to TSH or Prolactin (which is less likely). I gave her my long list of particulars (long, irregular cycles, Provera-induced periods, multiple positive ovulation predictor strips in one month) and she showed me her handy dandy chart of The Ovulatory Cycle (which she then explained). Who knew my stoopid brain was involved in all of this infertility mess?

So, I don't have the body hair and I am not an apple. She thinks I belong to that sub-sect of PCOS people without those issues. But with all the other ones, okay? Because, as she put it, "If your cycles are this long, you aren't ovulating regularly. PERIOD." Pun intended.

And then she went on to say that the common PCOS symptoms are, as they say, common, but that not everyone has them and there is reason to believe that I fall under the other category. If PCOS is the case, I'll start Clomid next month.

(And guess who will then get pregnant with twins? As soon as she said, "Well, the chances are about 10%," I gulped. Y'all, I am always in the 10%. Seriously.)

It's exciting, too, because I will be able to target my ovulation, which means I don't have to sexually assault my husband when he is sick in bed with the mock-flu. Hallelujah!

I like my doctor.

When we parted, she said, "Hopefully we'll have you pregnant in the next 3 months!" And I wanted to hug her because she is so smart and because she made me feel good and, well, because I need to give this over to someone else to manage. I'm tired.

A lovely thing.