Careful what you ask

We went to see our nice fertility doctor this week for our introductory consult, a sort of 'let's actually meet face-to-face before I try to get you knocked up' visit. It went just swell. Our doctor is a very impressive, very friendly guy with two kids of his own and degrees from Harvard and Yale, not that I care about that kind of thing. He asked all the requisite, 'Have you ever had this awful thing? Or this one? Or this one?' questions, and I was able to happily report that, ears aside, I'm healthy as a horse, and also nearly as big as one.

Just for kicks, he likes to do an ultrasound at these kinds of get-to-know-you appointments. It's a chance to see if there's anything obvious in the pipes that might make getting pregnant hard. It's also, I discovered, a good introduction for the potential patient into what it will be like to be the patient: Apparently there's going to be a lot of prodding and poking, and I'm going to need to get used to being mostly naked around a lot of different people. Fun, fun, fun.

For the record, my lady parts seem just fine, although there was one thing he noticed . . .

Nice Doc: "There's an ovary. And there's your uterus."
Judybat: "And what's that big white splotch down there?"
Nice Doc: "Um, that's stool."
Judybat, to me: "Wow. So do you feel like you have to go?"


So there you go. I'm not even pregnant, and my body is already not my own. Intimacy is a wonderful thing.