Yes yes I know, I'll get back to my PCP story ASAP

Remember that game we all played back in college? The one that said we are all separated from Kevin Bacon by 6 degrees?

Well, according to LinkedIn, I'm 3 degrees separated from Kevin Bacon. I feel so special!

Lots of acronyms ahead

2 years ago I started trying to concieve. I didn't concieve (obviously), but I started the process (and FYI, for a single woman, it is a PROCESS). It is such a process, in fact, that I'd like to share it with you:

Step 1: PCP

My primary care physician was a certain, infamous, Dr. D. She wasn't a very good primary care physician. She ran a few tests, told me I had PCOS and sent me off to a gynecologist.

Step 2: Gyno + PCP (they share an office)

The gyno ran a few tests and told me I was infertile and that I didn't ovulate. PCP told me I couldn't have kids and to "forget it."

-Pause-

I spent that evening totally freaked out and crying. I was told that my PCOS was one of the reasons I'm fat. I was also told that I may never concieve, that I have a higher risk for diabetes and heart attack, and that I'd have to go on Metformin for the rest of my life to control my insulin (its too high). Was this God's way of saying that I didn't deserve to be a mom? Why could a 50 year old woman have TWINS and not me? What was so wrong with me?

-Pick self up by bootstraps. Carry on.-

Step 3: Internet

I learned about this specialist, called a reproductive endocrinologist (RE). The RE helps infertile women/men have babies. Apparently, the gyno and my PCP were Stoopid. With a capital S.

Step 4: PCP

Argue bloody murder with the PCP. I finally told her that if she didn't give me the referral to an RE that I'd get a new PCP. That's when Dr. D, who listed "obesity management" as one of her specialties on her online bio, said the unforgivable: "Shannon, you really shouldn't have a baby. No child deserves the social stigma of having an obese mother. They'll be made fun of, they will start out life at a disadvantage."

Internet, I nearly slapped her. I just sat there, staring at her, telling myself, "Don't slap. Don't slap. Don't slap..." Then, later, I internalized what she said...

More on this later.

Long dark knight of the soul

Back in the days when I worked for ASSHATS, I learned to put up with a lot of unpleasantness. I had to smile and say things I didn't mean, like "Good Morning," to a bunch of WASPy males who thought they ruled the universe, who loved themselves more than they loved their own children, who didn't know how to keep a client to save their lives, who.... Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Still, there was one major bonus: I got to work in the Civic Opera Building. Internet, have you been there? It is G O R G E O U S. Every little detail about the building is wonderful. I sometimes think that if I hadn't had those elevators to look forward to (the ceilings had murals on them - it looked like geese flying overhead or hats thrown in the air), I wouldn't have made the AM crawl to my pathetic office. [T: Is that the right verb tense?] I really liked that building, its history and all the stories it held in it.

That is, until I had to work late one evening. It wasn't that I minded working late - we all have to burn the midnight oil every now and again. And it wasn't that I was putting in extra hours for a bunch of ASSHATS, either. I mean, shit happens, right?

It was that I got stuck.

To explain: The Civic Opera Building is a special building, as I've said before. So it was never a big deal when a celeb was hosting some event or other. Us worker bees would get kicked out, get to avoid the rush hour mania, and go home to start the weekend a few hours early. (Thanks Bill & Hilary! Come back anytime!!!) Unless, of course, there was a movie crew. Filming BATMAN. See, then there weren't any VIPs, really, so no special security was called for. Instead...

THEY WOULDN'T LET ME LEAVE THE BUILDING UNTIL 2 AM.

I wasn't allowed to sit in the lobby, either, because then I might have gotten on camera. And I'll bet you are thinking that it must have been so neat to see all those movie people doing all sorts of movie stuff. I'll bet you are imagining all sorts of camera contraptions, right?

Well, Internet, you are so very wrong. The only thing moving on Wacker Dr. that night was this wierd little truckish-thing with a camera on it. It drove up and down Wacker Drive. Over and over and over again. Until 2AM. I know, because I watched it. Well, there was a quick hour of a slow-motion Gotham police chase scene, but I missed most of it because I was bribing the security guard to let me smoke somewhere (he gave me keys to the basement - it was creepy down there).

So I am absolutely definitely going to see Dark Knight. I want to see what that little truckish-thing produced. And I want to take a gander at all those "Gotham Police Department" cars that I passed by on my commute every morning and just missed watching in action. To this day, I wish I'd taken my picture next to one. Oh well. Maybe there will be another Batman? Filmed in Chicago? Are you listening, Batman Producers? Because if you are, then hey, I'm totally over the whole TRAPPING ME LIKE A RABID WOODLAND CREATURE thing, and I'd really like for you to come back to my beloved city and make another movie. But only if you let me take a picture of myself next to those cool GPD cars.

9 month update

Nine months into my 33rd year and... hooooleeee cow.

This has been one heck of an intense year. If last year I was on autopilot, then this year has been all about change change change...

I faced my fear of EXTRACTION and got that tooth pulled.
I am facing my demons in therapy, and hating every second of it (but its helping, I think).
I faced my fear of ill health, which Jesus Christo, was no fun whatsoever but wow, what a relief to know I'm not going to keel over.
I have totally changed my finances, meaning I don't spend like a maniac anymore.
I have been working on that big ole project that finally launched.
I planned a few more projects (and need to get moving on those).
I SET GOALS FOR MYSELF and created a plan to attain them.

And the big one: I'm gonna start trying to conceive before my 34th birthday!!!

No more inertia for this Fat Chick! Life may be a whirlwind, but it sure ain't dull anymore.

Extraction

Isn't that a scary word, EXTRACTION? It is a word that, regardless of how small the font or how low the whisper, it screams with the bloody fury of a 36 point Garamond, serifs and all. I hate that word.

I hate the verb even more. Dentists can suck it, for all the good I care about them. You have to be some sort of wierdo to actually want to EXTRACT for a living. I mean, you are pulling out someone's tooth. REMOVING A BODY PART. FOR A LIVING.

So on top of the fear and revulsion and the fact that the mad scientist wielding pliers at my mouth was HOT, and that universal dentist's office smell nauseating me, on Wednesday of last week I arrived at the rather abrupt, nasty realization that my dental insurance company is the corporate equivalent of a cheap ass, money grubbing mofo. The bastards don't pay for laughing gas or that clear liquid that drifts you off to LaLa Land. Oh no. That would be way too generous.

Instead of wafting around the rafters in a pleasant, albeit bankrupt, haze, I chose the stoic route: I had my wisdom tooth EXTRACTED with only novocaine (did I spell that right?). And you know what, Internet? I survived. It was scary, and every second my mouth was open I was agonizing over whether or not I had bad breath (did I mention the dentist was HOT?), but hey, I got through it. And then I did a little dance along Halsted Street, thoroughly enjoying the endorphin rush.

And I didn't even cry. Not even once (but I did scream a little). PROUD OF MYSELF. I faced a fear. Just like a real honest-to-goodness grown up.