In Which I Get Too Real About My Reproductive System: Or, The One With The Ovaries
Some of you might have seen the (very cute, in my opinion) picture I posted a few weeks ago, announcing my pregnancy by means of my cat in a bow tie.
This is not that picture.
You see, if I had seen that first picture a year ago, by a friend excitedly sharing that she was going to be a mom, I would have been heartbroken.
This picture explains why.
Disclaimer #1: Pretty intimate details of my life follow. If you’re not interested, feel free to stop reading!
Disclaimer #2: This post describes my and my husband’s journey. We are happy about the choices we made along the way. All of our story may resonate with you, or some of it, or none at all. I’m not looking to compare narratives here; I’m just asking that you listen generously.
I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). It’s a fairly common hormonal imbalance that means my body doesn’t ovulate on its own (which, in case you don’t know, is a pretty important part of getting pregnant). You can read more about it here. I had always known that something about my reproductive system was a bit wonky, and so when my husband and I started thinking about having kids, my OB-GYN recommended a reproductive endocrinologist. He confirmed the PCOS diagnosis, and started us on a course of infertility treatments.
Thus began the hardest year of my life.
From about September 2015-September 2016, my life was a constant cycle of medications (steroids and hormones to promote follicle growth in my ovaries), early morning blood draws and ultrasounds (to check my hormone levels and follicle growth), injections (to trigger ovulation), and later on, trips to the clinic for IUI (intrauterine insemination–yep, the good ol’ turkey baster). We started every month with such hope, meted out over weeks and weeks of waiting.
We waited for my follicles to respond to the drugs and grow.
We waited after the injection of Ovidrel for my ovaries to release an egg and to do IUI.
We waited two agonizing weeks after IUI, which was really more like ten days because I started peeing on a stick at home way too early. And every time, we saw that cursed one pink line, and despite everything, still tried to hold out hope until the phone call after my blood test at the doctor’s sent all our hopes crashing down yet again: I’m so sorry, you’re not pregnant (thanks, lady, I know), this is our plan for next month. We’ll try again and maybe this time it will be different.
(I wrote a thing about waiting last year. You can read it here if you really want a sense of the frustration and hopelessness this entailed.)
It was hard on my body: I gained twenty pounds and my skin was a mess (thanks, hormones!). And it was hard on my soul. I imagine there are ups and downs for anyone trying to get pregnant, but for me, it seemed like we were trying so hard for something we wanted so badly, and every time we turned around there was a pregnancy announcement or a baby shower or a stupid “First Response” commercial on TV.
It was really, really hard. Did I mention that yet?
But of course, this story has a happy ending. Because on our last cycle, the one right before we were going to move to IVF, I saw those miraculous two lines on the home pregnancy test. And, thank G-d, I am still pregnant, and everything looks good so far. And I am so, so, grateful for every single day that passes and I still have this baby growing inside me. I am grateful for every twinge and every ounce I gain and every blessed kick at my ribs.
So what’s the point of me telling you all this? It’s not so you’ll feel sorry for me. Oh my goodness, please don’t feel sorry for me.
First: If you are pregnant and you want to be, be grateful. If you aren’t pregnant and you don’t want to be, also be grateful!
Second: If I have complicated feelings about your past, present, future, or hypothetical pregnancy, forgive me. I’m truly happy for you. I just have lots of other feelings, too.
Third, and most importantly:
This last year was really lonely. Only a couple of people knew what we were going through, and no one I knew had ever gone through anything similar. And I’m sure I could have reached out and found someone, but I was too emotionally exhausted to expend any more resources. So I smiled, and pretended everything was OK, and “liked” all the baby pictures on Facebook. And then I logged off and cried into my beer. Which I could still drink. Because I wasn’t pregnant.
What if things were different? What if the way we talked about this whole process, from conception to birth and every messy step in between, was different? So much is shrouded in privacy and so much pain is covered up in blue and pink bows. So I’m telling you–if you’re going through something like I did, I see you. I hear you. And I’m here for you. And it may be “easy for me to say,” because I’m on the other side of it, and so many people (maybe you’re one of them) have it so much harder. And I can’t promise you everything will be OK.
But I promise you that you are not alone.
