As I recounted the other day, I have recently been reminded of the brilliance of my ovaries. That's brilliance in their overall crapness. They aren't the smart kids in school, the ones that sit in the front of the class frantically waving their hands at the teacher because they know the answer to everything. Mine are the dumb kids that sit in the back of the room, picking their noses and eating it, praying the entire time that the teacher doesn't call on them. They can't be bothered producing viable eggs because really...what's the point? My little underachievers.
They needn't worry that they are the only ones not realising their potential. In the past couple of appointments I have been reminded about my posterior left ovary, which I've known about for ages as it means I have extremely uncomfortable ultrasounds. Poor junior wandmonkey doesn't know what to do when she's put in charge of finding the missing ovary, and I swear my lungs are going to pop up on the ultrasound screen sometime soon given the way she wields that wand. Retarded sexual organ count: Tilted cervix- check, posterior ovary- check, perfect polycystic ovaries- check. I'm totally stealing from Miranda in Sex and the City here, but it is really the Special Olympics of Conception where I'm concerned. Any child being born of this fucked up reproductive system would indeed deserve a medal with those insurmountable odds.
This brings me to some comments that were left regarding my awareness of my perfect polycystic ovaries. I have often thought about how "glad" I am that I know I have PCOS, as it makes the problem much easier to attempt to address. I emphathise greatly with women that have been diagnosed with unexplained infertility, as it must be atrocious to not know the source of your problem. I can't begin to fathom what it must be like to not know why your body is doing what it is doing. However, I wish that knowing my problem is PCOS would actually lead to knowing what to do to treat it, which does not seem forthcoming. Basically, I know I have screwed up ovaries, but when it comes to figuring out the best way to make them work properly, that too is unexplainable. The moral of this story is infertility in its various incarnations sure does suck, doesn't it?