I had my CD3 blood work done today.*
Next Friday I will go in for the SIS.
It feels a little illicit even to let myself think about what will be next. Like I said here, New RE is convinced I have submucous fibroids, which are causing both my infertility and what I thought were endo symptoms. But this was a direct contradiction of what I was told by Original RE. On the one hand this is a great diagnosis (something definite, that can be treated), but on the other hand it’s a little hard for me to believe that the answer could be before us. Probably I will have surgery, and then…
It’s hard to be hopeful. Emily Dickinson wrote
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all.
A lot of years later, Tori Amos** sang
Will you never learn?
You’re just an empty cage, girl
If you kill the bird
Have five months of depression emptied the cage? It is so hard for me to just let go and hope. I have been in a very dark place, but protecting myself with skepticism and caution feels like refusing to climb out of a hole. Staying at the bottom would keep me from falling any farther, but it would also keep me from ever, ever getting out. I would be numbed out, trapped by my own caution, never letting myself be disappointed but also never getting out from under this suffocating fog.
So, however hard it is, however risky, I’m going to run towards the hope. As fast as I can.
It feels so good to be doing something (even if all I did today was have blood drawn). I think I am going to take a page out of egghunt’s book and make a chart. Today? Blood work. Next week? SIS. And after that? I may just be unstoppable. MWAHAHAHA!
*For those of you keeping score at home, yes, that’s a 31-day cycle. Thanks, Self, for keeping me in limbo for so long! I started spotting after this post, so I knew it was coming, but I didn’t get to CD1 for 2 more days. Luckily it didn’t take any longer or I would have had to wait another month for the blood work because of the holiday weekend!
**Emily Dickinson and Tori Amos had equally profound effects on my fifteen-year-old soul. I discovered them both after J.D. Salinger but before Umberto Eco.