Frogs and princes.

Would you like to read the "OMG my thyroid just killed [another] baby and I haven't felt ill in five days and that's without taking the metoclopramide and also my cervix seems very soft and open" anxiety attack edition? No? Well, neither would I; living it is enough. How about something else, then ....

***

I said that his asshole-ishness merited its own post, but as it turns out, I've since found things to write about other than my ill-fated two visits with the last on the list of rejected gynecologists, the famous fortune-teller. Before I place him firmly in the past, where he belongs, here's one last tidbit from the first appointment, which began with a review of my birth control inclinations:

Him: Are you on the pill?

Me: No.

Him: [Scowl.] Are you using condoms?

Me: No.

Him: [Deeper scowl, withering glare.] Mais madame ... what are you doing to prevent conception?

Me: Well, doctor, we like to rely on the 98% deformation rate of my husband's sperm as our primary method, with the embryocidal effects of auto-immune hypothyroidism as back-up ....

No, no, I didn't really say that. Nor did I say, "Dude. You just asked me how old I am. You just asked me if I'm married. Now make an educated guess whether we're in the demographic that prefers to prevent rather than encourage contraception."

But what I did say led to the famous "you are going to become a mother very, very soon" lecture, and, um, at that very moment a fertilized egg was circling my uterus looking for a cozy place to burrow in, and thus, should all continue to go as it seems to be going – assuming the thyroid hasn't actually killed the baby, that is – he just might have been right about that. So I'll stop there.

***

This is really just to say that I am so happy with my current medical team.

My new gynecologist is amazing. Her first question to me, when the nurse hustled my tear-stained face into her office for an impromptu rendezvous, was, "Was this a difficult pregnancy to achieve?"

There are more difficult, certainly, but this path too was not without its heartache, and once she'd diagnosed my anxiety, she treated it as much as she treated my body. Unscheduled and perhaps unwarranted ultrasounds to put my troubled mind at ease and fill the too-long gap between typically scheduled appointments. Placebo pills to further soothe my fears. Calm, reassurance, and warmth during the some of the most fear-filled – and then the most relieved – moments of my life.

Her only downfall is that due to insurance reasons, she won't be able to assist at the birth if (when when WHEN) the time comes. That's a compromise I'm willing to make, though, if the preceding nine months are ones of trust and comfort.

And the endocrinologist continues to be the sweetheart he always has been. It's not his fault my fucking thyroid won't follow his orders.

I've kissed a few frogs, but I've found my princes.

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