I know that I have a cyst, because I saw it on the ultrasound screen at the hospital yesterday.
Beyond that, I know nothing.
I went to the new doctor yesterday morning, and he gave me the same sad song:
"There's nothing I can do."
"I can write you a prescription for Depo-Provera."
"I don't want to put you through another lap."
"You are too young for me to feel okay with removing your ovary."
He wasn't going to do blood work. He simply wanted to send me off with a pile of prescriptions. When they told me I'd have to wait to get in for an ultrasound for at least another day, I lost it. I walked out.
Joey, fortunately, went back in and explained to the woman at the scheduling desk what was going on. I was in pain, and I had reached my wits end. She told him that we should schedule an ultrasound with a local hospital, and that they would send over the images in the morning for the doctor to review. Several phone calls later, Joey made arrangements for me to get the testing done at a hospital up the road.
It was there where I went through the longest ultrasound of my life.
One hour from start to finish. They must have taken at least 50 photos. The tech called in another tech to look.
Then, there was silence – except for the ticking of the clock and the occasional whooshing sound of my empty uterus when they wanted to record the sounds.
I managed to catch a glimpse of the screen long enough to see a cyst, but that was it. The two techs whispered about something being "posterior or anterior?" and they focused long and hard on the bottom of my uterus, near my pubic bone (almost at my cervix).
Then that was it. One of the techs escorted me back to the waiting room.
And now? I'm still waiting, over 24 hours after my appointment.
I’m waiting and trying desperately to calm that sinking feeling in my gut.