There are odds for all sorts of things in life.
When I flew up to Oregon I was considering the odds of the plane crashing.
I (once in awhile) consider how good the odds REALLY are of me winning the lottery by buying ONE ticket. Just ONE.
The odds that I’ll really blog about myself and my family every day (apparently, way slim).
And usually, the odds are stacked against me:
What are the odds that I’d have a flat tire on the side of the road at 10pm with my kids asleep in the car? (100%)
Or that my van would mysteriously STOP running at random times during my first trip out after my surgery? (100%)
What are the odds that I WON’T get stopped behind the train on this trip (2%).
So when I had my follow-up CT scan and they scanned my whole abdomen, including my ovaries, (tmi? sorry. but not really. it’s not like we don’t have ovaries. sheesh) I’ll admit, I was worried about the results.
My mind was racing with what “The Odds” could be, good or bad.
Of course, everything turned out ok, but I had a fluid-filled sac around one ovary, and the OB doctor who looked at the images saw that both ovaries were actually covered (she used that term, “covered”) in benign cysts. Her statement was, “Well, everything looks ok, but your chances of getting pregnant without hormone therapy are slim to none. Leaning more, leaning HEAVILY more toward the “none” side.”
I was NOT expecting that, but compared to, “We’ve found that your tumor has grown back and is roughly the size of the state of TEXAS and is cancerous and we will have to go in and take EVERYTHING out except your heart.”, it wasn’t bad news.
We were at peace with what was found. I can’t tell ya why, but hormone therapy is not for us, we know that for sure.
Besides, I have 2 boys, how fun is that? Perfect right? Totally able to tag team with bathroom duties, less clothes to buy, and they can share a room for a few more years!
But when I got back from my Portland trip, I just could NOT get over how sick I was. I felt hung over, and I mean like drank a bottle of Jack hung over for the next day, and I was sick and nauseous for the rest of the week.
I was thinking to myself that I just couldn’t travel like I used to, that I was getting old, that I needed to invest in some Dramamine for all future excursions.
And then, well, there are the dates. Those dates that pretty much all girls know about and keep track of. You know….Aunt Flo’s dates. And they just didn’t add up.
La-tee-dah, three days after the initial test, I had my exam that proved I was pregnant, and proved that it was NOT in my tube, but was happily nestled in my uterus where babies are supposed to hang out.
So did you get that? I’m pregnant. Like 9 or 10 weeks along (yes, I’m gonna start talking in weeks now, not months, it’s a pregnancy thing). Our “tentative” due date is March 3rd, 2012 – tentative because I only have one working ovary and no tube on one side, so my Aunt Flo dates are sporadic. We’ll have a more accurate date after the next sonogram appointment.
And even though it’s immature and silly and I feel like I might be tempting fate who will NEVER let me go to town without getting a train (but is in reality getting even with me by making me indescribably nauseous and tired), I say:
Take THAT odds!!!