Well, folks, the verdict is in. Over the last month and a half, Mr. Apron and I have been subject to all sorts of painful, awkward, and intrusive testing to try to pinpoint the cause of our infertility. Today, I met with my doctor for a follow-up, and I found out that we are completely, hopelessly, and wholly normal. That’s right; everything tested within normal limits, which means our diagnosis is now the ever-so-helpful, nothing-for-it Unexplained Infertility. Which is a medical way of saying, “We don’t know what’s wrong with you, so we can’t really do any interventions that would ‘fix’ it.”

Which is kind of what I heard from my GI doctor a month and a half ago when I got the results from my diagnostic testing. Well, it’s definitely acid reflux, which I’ve known and managed for the last 9 years, and it’s definitely gastritis, which means my stomach is inflamed and irritated, but it’s such a non-specific diagnostic indicator, it essentially means, “We don’t know what’s wrong with you, so we really can’t do any interventions that would ‘fix’ it.”

Isn’t modern medicine fun?

Part of me is insanely relieved that there are no structural abnormalities, no glaring issues for us to overcome or circumvent or manage. I made the mistake last night of watching, on a coworker’s advice, “One Born Every Minute”. It’s Lifetime program, so right there that should be a red flag that indicates, “This is for hormonal women who want to languidly drink wine while they curl up on their couches and bemoan their ticking biological clocks.” Yet we cued it up OnDemand, since we’re no longer afraid of our cable box, and we watched. Into each of the women’s (well, couples’, but really? It’s all about the women. It’s on Lifetime, for goodness sake) stories TV producers must inject a healthy dose of artificial drama, to be accompanied by violins playing dissonant intervals and teaser close-ups that make you think something has – gasp! – gone wrong. Last nights’ episode profiled a 33-year old woman who has osteoporosis, a 22-year-old woman who is afraid of hospitals and needles, and a 32-year old woman pregnant with twins from IVF, who has a history of repeat miscarriage and whose belly is so distended she could barely stand upright. So of course there is a teaser for the frail woman saying, “My hip hurts!” which the whole medical team says they’ll take into consideration but ultimately they just ignore. There are repeated segments of the 22-year old freaking out about her IV, the lidocaine, the epidural, the medical equipment. And there is selective broadcast of the OB/GYN’s warnings about the possibility of bleeding with the twin 8-lb babies and the women’s hyper-distended uterus.

And everything went fine. Reality television has to create drama where there really isn’t any, has to selectively film segments that fit into a particular “story line”, and has to give us a happy ending. Why? Because it’s Lifetime, dammit, and that’s what Hallmark Hall of Fame movies have taught us to expect.

My heart of course went out to the woman with twins, who had lost a fallopian tube in her last miscarriage, and who had gone through 4 IVF cycles to conceive the couple’s 2-year-old son. She had something truly wrong with her, something they could fix. While the others just had TV karma, or happened to walk into the hospital at the right time, this couple actually had real infertility issues.

And that’s the other part of me, the part that is longing for a diagnosis, so I can know my enemy, research my enemy, and take steps to vanquish my enemy. So I can be in control and in action.

Back in 2004, when I received my AVM diagnosis, I had been through rounds of testing. My EEG had come back normal, and I’d been carrying around my MRI films for weeks. (This was, amazingly, before the health systems – even major teaching hospitals – had digitized films, and they made patients, like yours truly, carry around the films from lab to doctor to hospital to surgery. It was, strangely, always windy when I was carrying my brain scans, and they flapped about like a sail as I walked from my car to the medical building.) When I finally had an answer, had an explanation, and one that made sense, no less (Since my AVM was seated on the part of the motor cortex that corresponded to my face/tongue, my tongue seizures at once had validation, seen in graphic detail as a dark blob on my MRI.), I was relieved. I did not cry; I did not withdraw. I excitedly talked with Dr. Hart about the discovery, grateful to have an answer, and one that made sense to me, with my background in linguistics and neuroscience. I particularly enjoyed the ego-boost when Dr. Hart asked, “And what is it you do for a living?” and I replied, “Oh, I teach preschool.” Sure, there was Googling, and fear of the unknown. There were more tests, many tears, and a long unfamiliar road ahead, with an uncertain outcome. But I had factors on my side. At only 23, I had youth on my side. Anatomically, I had location and size on my side. My AVM was close enough to the surface, at an easy-to-access place, and it was only 2cm x 3cm. It was thankfully on the right side of my brain, so my language areas were virtually assured to be unaffected. And I had a doctor on my side, in the form of unabashed faith in a neurosurgeon I respected and trusted.

I won’t say that it was something I could face again, or that it was straightforward relief at knowing what was wrong, and working to fix it. But I will say that a diagnosis can be a welcome thing when one is seeking answers.

The only answers I got today opened up one more question:

So if everything is normal, why aren’t we pregnant yet?

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