The Follow-Up Appointment with ObGyn
The afternoon before we left for Oregon, Mark and I met with my ObGyn. We waited for Dr. Busacco in his personal office, the one with his framed degrees lining the walls and pictures of his children jockeying for space on the bookshelves behind his mahogany desk.
He entered fresh from surgery and shook each of our hands.
Not wanting to take anymore time than necessary, since we got in 45 minutes late even though we were the first afternoon appointment after a morning of surgery, I handed him the graphs of my basal body temperature before he even took his seat.
For the past three months of recording my basal body heat each morning, what I found interesting was how each month’s temperature pattern was consistent with the previous month’s. The first month I thought something was wrong. In fact, as I described previously, I returned a basal body thermometer to the drug store because I thought its readings had to be erroneous. My temperature was 97.7 degrees one morning and 96.9 degrees the next.
It could only go up from there. 97.1. 97.5. 97.6.
Then falling to 97.0.
Back up - 97.7.
And back down - 97.4. 97.0.
The degrees of my basal body heat, recorded at roughly the same time every morning, plotted out like that each month!
I compared the pattern with the sample graph of the perfect woman’s temperature, the one that almost looked like a straight line if you stood back far enough. The plot of my temperature looked like a heart monitor readout for an alert, perfectly healthy person, with its peaks and falls.
But one morning a couple weeks into the routine, I hit above 98 degree (ovulation!) so I stopped comparing my temperature to that of Ms. Perfect, who probably had eight kids running around and who probably got pregnant the first month she tried with each one. At least I was ovulating. That’s what was important.
Once Dr. Busacco sat down, he studied my charted temps. And he studied them. And he continued to study them for several minutes of mostly silence that Mark or I broke occasionally with a casual comment to one another.
As I looked at Dr. Busacco studying the paper, his brow furrowed, chewing on the nail of his left index finger, I wondered what it all meant.
“Did deciphering the plotted temperature always take this long? Did he always have that unreadable look? Is it a look of concern or just a general studying look? Is something wrong? Surely nothing’s wrong, for my temperature pattern has been the same for the past three months. It seems erratic to me, but it’s been consistent month after month, and who am I to say if the pattern’s erratic?”
Finally, after three minutes or so, I asked, “So, how’s it look?”
“Well, you’re ovulating, but they’re not quality ovulations,” Dr. Busacco told me straight-forwardly yet with a trifling of compassion.
Who knew there was such a thing as a ‘quality ovulation’?! I thought ovulating was like being pregnant: either you were or you weren’t.
Mark remained stoic. My response was equally unemotional: “Oh.”
Realizing that he didn’t have an emotional breakdown to avert, Dr. Busacco continued: “I’d like to do a hystophlalapertaquialogram. (OK. He didn’t say that word, but it was something equally undecipherable that started with “hysto-“ and ended “-gram.”). The test is done at the hospital, and I’ll be there for it.”
I’ll refrain from describing the test, but it will show if my tubes are open enough to allow the egg to drop properly. I’ll have it next month. Dr. Busacco told us that he’d be able to see the results right then.
As I have said for the past 15 years, I am fully recovered from my traumatic brain injury, or at least I consider myself so. When I see a new doctor and fill out the health history questionnaire, of course I write that I was in a coma in 1983, but it usually never comes up again, and some doctors don’t even find it interesting enough to ask me about upon initial examination.
My pap smears have been under Dr. Busacco’s microscope since 1999. I do not remember if he asked me about my coma; he likely did as he’s a good doctor. In any case, he knows I recently published a book about my recovery, so yes, he is aware of my head injury and expressed concern about my pituitary, which, he says, may have been damaged at the time of my injury. I understand that the pituitary regulates some pretty important pregnancy hormones.
A nurse took a blood sample that afternoon to check for hormone levels, among other things.
Before Mark and I stood to leave his office, Dr. Busacco smiled and said, “We’ll get you pregnant.”
If he has faith, so do we.
He entered fresh from surgery and shook each of our hands.
Not wanting to take anymore time than necessary, since we got in 45 minutes late even though we were the first afternoon appointment after a morning of surgery, I handed him the graphs of my basal body temperature before he even took his seat.
For the past three months of recording my basal body heat each morning, what I found interesting was how each month’s temperature pattern was consistent with the previous month’s. The first month I thought something was wrong. In fact, as I described previously, I returned a basal body thermometer to the drug store because I thought its readings had to be erroneous. My temperature was 97.7 degrees one morning and 96.9 degrees the next.
It could only go up from there. 97.1. 97.5. 97.6.
Then falling to 97.0.
Back up - 97.7.
And back down - 97.4. 97.0.
The degrees of my basal body heat, recorded at roughly the same time every morning, plotted out like that each month!
I compared the pattern with the sample graph of the perfect woman’s temperature, the one that almost looked like a straight line if you stood back far enough. The plot of my temperature looked like a heart monitor readout for an alert, perfectly healthy person, with its peaks and falls.
But one morning a couple weeks into the routine, I hit above 98 degree (ovulation!) so I stopped comparing my temperature to that of Ms. Perfect, who probably had eight kids running around and who probably got pregnant the first month she tried with each one. At least I was ovulating. That’s what was important.
Once Dr. Busacco sat down, he studied my charted temps. And he studied them. And he continued to study them for several minutes of mostly silence that Mark or I broke occasionally with a casual comment to one another.
As I looked at Dr. Busacco studying the paper, his brow furrowed, chewing on the nail of his left index finger, I wondered what it all meant.
“Did deciphering the plotted temperature always take this long? Did he always have that unreadable look? Is it a look of concern or just a general studying look? Is something wrong? Surely nothing’s wrong, for my temperature pattern has been the same for the past three months. It seems erratic to me, but it’s been consistent month after month, and who am I to say if the pattern’s erratic?”
Finally, after three minutes or so, I asked, “So, how’s it look?”
“Well, you’re ovulating, but they’re not quality ovulations,” Dr. Busacco told me straight-forwardly yet with a trifling of compassion.
Who knew there was such a thing as a ‘quality ovulation’?! I thought ovulating was like being pregnant: either you were or you weren’t.
Mark remained stoic. My response was equally unemotional: “Oh.”
Realizing that he didn’t have an emotional breakdown to avert, Dr. Busacco continued: “I’d like to do a hystophlalapertaquialogram. (OK. He didn’t say that word, but it was something equally undecipherable that started with “hysto-“ and ended “-gram.”). The test is done at the hospital, and I’ll be there for it.”
I’ll refrain from describing the test, but it will show if my tubes are open enough to allow the egg to drop properly. I’ll have it next month. Dr. Busacco told us that he’d be able to see the results right then.
As I have said for the past 15 years, I am fully recovered from my traumatic brain injury, or at least I consider myself so. When I see a new doctor and fill out the health history questionnaire, of course I write that I was in a coma in 1983, but it usually never comes up again, and some doctors don’t even find it interesting enough to ask me about upon initial examination.
My pap smears have been under Dr. Busacco’s microscope since 1999. I do not remember if he asked me about my coma; he likely did as he’s a good doctor. In any case, he knows I recently published a book about my recovery, so yes, he is aware of my head injury and expressed concern about my pituitary, which, he says, may have been damaged at the time of my injury. I understand that the pituitary regulates some pretty important pregnancy hormones.
A nurse took a blood sample that afternoon to check for hormone levels, among other things.
Before Mark and I stood to leave his office, Dr. Busacco smiled and said, “We’ll get you pregnant.”
If he has faith, so do we.
posted by Elizabeth Evans Fryer at 4:43 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home