Right now, I feel the need to scream at the top of my lungs, “I’m not pregnant!”
In July, my Endo doctor took me off of my birth control and the Endo symptoms have progressively gotten worse. I am bloated (even when I am not on my period or PMSing), I have weird cravings, and I have major mood swings. My periods are now irregular and even my doctor keeps asking me if I am pregnant. I am 100 percent positive that I am not pregnant and I am 100 percent positive that there is something wrong. There may be something growing in my abdomen but it isn’t the next messiah.
I may be craving chocolate covered pickles (thank the heavens for pretzel places that make dip-able chocolate) and I cry at the end of Ghost Hunters if they don’t find any evidence (and don’t even get me started on Chaz Bono’s performance last night on DWTS–I’ll start crying again) but that doesn’t mean I am with child, I am hormonal. And according to my closest friends, I keep getting nuttier and nuttier with each cycle. So then why won’t my doctors listen to me? I had to fight just to get a blood workup to test my hormone levels and a pelvic ultrasound.
Though I am enjoying joking around with my friends about my “tumor” baby. And we keep bringing up how ironic it is that my mother was told 33 years ago that she had a tumor when she was really pregnant with me and now my doctors think I am pregnant when I am probably growing a tumor (which I have named Kristina, per the request of my California sister).
I had the Pelvic Ultrasound yesterday. Not the most pleasant test, especially when they make you drink 32 ounces of water a half hour before your test to keep a full bladder but put you in a waiting room with a running water wall fountain. That’s just cruel.
It’s not like the pregnancy ultrasounds. You never get to see the monitor and you don’t get any print out pictures of your tumors to put as your Facebook Profile picture. The technicians are not allowed to tell you anything. So you just get to lay there and stare at the ceiling. And for me, this particular ultrasound went longer than usual so I had the pleasure of staring at the ceiling for 40 minutes, listening as the tech clicked and typed away. Then you get to go home and wait until your next doctor’s appointment to find out how many tumors you are about to give birth to. In my case, I have to wait until November 17th since my doctor is going out of town.
It is so frustrating, all the waiting. I would like to know now if I need surgery so I can make arrangements. It would also be nice to have “evidence” to explain the nuttiness, especially to those who have recently walked out of my life because they can’t deal with the Endo. For those who know the real me, they understand that I am in a complete Endo fog right now. I will get upset over nothing. I have irrational fears (like this weekend when I was convinced people would want to steal my books). I will cry for no reason. I will eat the weirdest foods–because it is “what the tumor baby wants.” And I am not as energetic because of the pain. This is “Endo Kelly.” And until the doctor’s start to listen to me (my body is screaming at me), she may be around for awhile.