Whipped Topping Woes
Three weeks ago, I had a pelvic ultrasound.
Not to check if I was pregnant — ha, wouldn’t that have been a plot twist —
but to see if my endometriosis had returned.
Yesterday, I went to my OBGYN to review the results.
It hadn’t. Great, right?
Instead, I got:
✔️ Multiple fibroids. Not large enough to matter. Just… there.
✔️ A cyst with fluid on one ovary. “It’ll probably go away,” she had said, like I asked about a bad haircut.
✔️ Bloodwork that was so average it could’ve been pulled from a textbook.
✔️ Drew’s sperm count? Also average. Fertile. Good enough.
So everything was fine. Normal.
And yet — nothing was working.
I wasn’t pregnant. I’ve never been pregnant - well unless we go back almost 20 years ago.
And apparently, I wasn’t infertile either. Just a medical riddle with ovaries. My doctor even tried to make a joke about, “you’re complicated.” She was trying to add comic relief but it didn’t land. For the next several minuets we discussed next steps.
She ended up gently referring us to CCRM — the last fertility clinic we hadn’t tried.
Big reputation. Even bigger waitlist.
Soonest appointment? September.
It’s July.
Oh, and I haven’t been able to get on the weight loss meds because they are stuck in prior authorization hell.
My last fertility doctor wouldn’t see me again until I dropped more weight — but without the meds, progress has been slow.
So I am caught in this loop:
Too fat for treatment,
Too healthy for answers,
Too patient for my own damn good.
What I wanted — truly — was something concrete.
A reason. A cause. A goddamn diagnosis.
Something to anchor the ache.
But instead, I got the softest, cruelest punch in the gut:
“It doesn’t make sense why you can’t get pregnant.”
And that was the line that broke me.
Because I was tired.
Tired of being normal-but-not.
Tired of chasing referrals and prescriptions and phantom appointments months away.
Tired of hoping that maybe this time, someone might know something.
I was angry.
At the system.
At the silence.
At the lack of urgency when it felt like I was bleeding time.
But I am still here.
Still fighting.
Still holding space for the dream — even when having a family of my own, feels like a dare.
Some days, that was all I have.
So you know what we did on the way home?
This fat ass went and got a peach milkshake.
Because if I was going to carry all that — the weight, the rage, the waiting —
I was doing it with whipped cream on top.
