I Hear Banjos . . .

I have a new found respect for infertility bloggers. Writing about it just makes me angry and frustrated. But if you’ll forgive me for my moment of bitter ranting, I’ve got some updates to share.

Updates that I lovingly refer to as: reasons we’re not pregnant yet.

Remember how I had genetic testing done? Testing that took months and months to get insurance to pay for, and then even more months to get the results back?

Well, we’ve had those results for awhile. And of course, something doesn’t look right. Because it’s not fun if it’s not difficult, right? *sigh*

Turns out the genetic testing did identify the specific type of LGMD I have, which is a good thing. The problem is, that the genetic results indicate that this is a recessive disorder. Given my family history of both my older brother and my father having the disease, my fertility counselor was expecting the results to come back as a dominant disorder.

So my fertility counselor sent the test results to genetic specialists for a second opinion. In the meantime, she had a nurse, who was oblivious of my individual case, from the genetic department give me a call to tell me that something isn’t right on my genetic tests and I should give another institute in Maryland a call. Said fertility counselor was conveniently on vacation when I learned all this, so there was no one to talk to for clarification.

I call the Maryland hospital and practically burst into tears to Julie, the nicest, kindest genetic counselor in the world, who promised me I wasn’t crazy and tried to make heads-or-tails of the situation through my own confused blubbering. The game plan from there on was for the two fertility counselors to pow-wow and see what the hell they could do for me.

After the pow-wow, my original fertility counselor explained what had happened that caused the fiasco in the first place. Turns out that expert opinion she sought out?

They said there was nothing out of the ordinary about my genetic results.

Totally normal.

With the understanding that it meant my parents were siblings

and I was in fact, inbred.

. . . and the winner of the white trash redneck 2011 award goes to . . . me, apparently.

*sigh*

Since my original counselor knew that I am not the product of inbreeding, she started looking around for someone else to figure the problem out. The confused phone call from another department?

I have a sneaky suspicion my counselor didn’t want to have to tell me that people assumed I’m inbred.

‘Cause, you know. That’s an awkward conversation.