Sex Permission Slip

I have to have a permission slip form my doctor to have sex. God that sucks. Okay, I'm exagerrating, it's not jsut to have sex, it's to procreate. Back in April I had another rupture. This one wasn't as bad as the one I had a few years back at work (Lying on the concrete floor, completely blacking out from pain, screaming the whole time in the ambulance), but this one was still bad. It was so sudden. I had popped Anthony into his playpen, about to head into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and then BAM! I was on the floor, grabbing my side, swooning from the stabbing pain. It was the left one again. This one sucked though, because I was home alone with Anthony. I didn't want to call 91, because what would happen to my baby? Who would watch him while they poked and prodded Mommy? I crawled to the phone and called Rick, but he didn't answer his work line. I panicked. I called Tracy, as I knew she had his pager number (I didn't), and she could come get Anthony while I went to the ER, but she wasn't home. I left a message, sobbing, into his voice mail. Luckily, he had just gotten out of a meeting, got the message, and flew home. Tests at Er showed that the hemmorage wasn't too bad.
So, the permission slip issue comes in now because Rick and I are really wanting to try for number #2. But since this rupture happened, my doc said no trying for at least 3 menstrual cycles. The scarring on my ovary could cause problems, like an ectopic, not to mention it could cause a serious miscarriage. So, no babies for us...
Well, it's been four cycles! I get to go get checked up in August to get the go ahead. I she says all's well, I won't be writing in here much because I'll be too busy having sex.