I saw the doctor yesterday to get the results of my recent pelvic ultrasound, which was scheduled after lingering pain in what felt like my ovary, and suspicion that I’d ruptured an ovarian cyst. I had a cyst at least once before that grew to the size of a ping-pong ball, so I wasn’t too worried about this most recent development, except for the discomfort that has refused to go away.

One of my mottos, largely following my total hysterectomy at 25, has been, “My uterus was an utter dud, but at least my ovaries are champions.”

Sadly folks, I found out yesterday my ovaries suck too.

The radiologist has diagnosed me with polycystic ovarian syndrome, which is an ongoing condition that causes hormone imbalances, and leads to fun things like depression, extra body and facial hair, weight gain–so technically, extra body and face, period–and pelvic pain. Over the long term, PCOS creates a significantly higher risk for diabetes and heart disease.

Basically, my ovaries are malfunctioning, regularly producing a bunch of small cysts, and throwing my hormones way out of whack, so the whole works is disrupted. Perhaps they’re lonely in there since my uterus left town? Either way, it stinks and I’m bummed about it. My ovaries, my troopers that carried on well through a radical renovation of their neighbourhood, have decided to start working against me. Sigh.

The good news is that a lot of things that have been going on with me over the last while may be explained by the PCOS, including my rosacea, my utter exhaustion, and my sudden and uncharacteristic mood swings. Perhaps if the medical folks can figure out how to best treat my condition, my face will clear up and I’ll get the pep back in my step.

Another point of (good?) luck is that I am not at risk of the uterine cancer PCOS can sometimes create. Also, I resigned myself long ago to not having biological children, so the infertility many women struggle with as a result of this condition is not a major issue for me or for my husband.

The kicker? The first medication prescribed by the GP to manage my PCOS is the birth control pill. Yes, “the pill,” which is something I thought I was done with forever and ever, amen. How ridiculous, considering my situation. What was really fun was the pharmacist explaining as she handed over my pills, “If you take antibiotics, or if you have diarrhea or vomiting, your pill will not work properly and you could get pregnant.”

Wanna bet?

Here I am, starting Tri-Cyclen Lo at 30, sans uterus. The whole thing is laughable, really, which I’m sure I’ll come around to once I stop feeling sorry for myself and frustrated by my stupid ovaries. I truly thought I was done with problems in my girlie bits, and I’m feeling pretty unprepared to deal with this latest development.

Thanks to those of you who have been sending good thoughts and comments my way in the recent while. Hopefully, the medication will start making a difference soonish and I will start feeling better.

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