The next few months were difficult and confusing as I had unnaturally long cycles, or no cycles at all, and continued to get what is known in the infertility world as a BFN (Big Fat Negative). Any infertility survivor can tell you just how devastating those are. Month after month, you can't help but hope. Month after month your heart is broken a little more.
They seemed to catch me almost off guard. I would go into it telling myself to be realistic, at times even expecting a negative. Most times I wouldn't even tell Allen I was testing. I figured if it was just going to be another disappointing result there was no sense in both of us feeling the disappointment. I could even look at the test, see the result, throw it away and go on with my day convincing myself I handled it well. But it bothered me. It would sit in the back of my mind and poison my mood. Eventually I would snap one too many times and Allen would ask in exasperation what was wrong with me. That's when I would burst into tears and through my sobs he would decipher exactly what had happened.
I had a very strong emotional response to everything. Looking back I'm surprised by just how devastated I was so soon. It had been less than 6 months and we didn't even have any kind of diagnosis yet. I remember one night we made a late night trip to the grocery store. We only needed a few things and as we made our way through the store we started to goof off. I don't remember the game, but I remember laughing and joking as we went up and down the aisles. Then we got to the baby aisle. Suddenly, we were surrounded by diapers, formula, bottles, and baby food. I felt like I had been punched in the gut. My laughter stopped abruptly and I speed walked down the aisle as fast as I could with tears burning my eyes.
After about 4 or 5 months of these mixed signals from my body, I decided to go see the doctor. I was a little nervous, but also excited to have an answer. Once I knew what was going on, we could create a game plan. We could be proactive and DO something. This was what I needed. As I explained to the doctor what was going on, a look of concern spread across her face. I took this as a good sign because it meant she was taking me seriously and we could really get down to business. She decided to do an ultrasound. It made me a little sad that my first ultrasound didn't include a tiny heartbeat, but I went along.
Soon the doctor was inspecting a fuzzy black and white screen intently. "Ok," she said, "these are your ovaries, see how they are all spotted?"
"Yes," I responed.
"Those are small cysts. They aren't harmful to you, it just means that your ovaries are poly-cystic. A normal ovary would be smooth, but can you see how yours look like chocolate-chip cookies?"
"Uh-huh . . ."
"So there you go, now we know. It's not a big deal, I know so many women who have gotten pregnant with poly-cystic ovaries. Go ahead and get dressed and we'll talk about what we can do."
When I went into her office she nonchalantly repeated that it wasn't a big deal, she knew lots of women who were poly-cystic, and that she could put me on a medication called clomid, but that maybe I wanted to think about it because it could be pretty rough on my body. I told her I would think about it, discuss it with my husband, and get back to her. She told me she would just go ahead and write the prescription and I could fill it if I wanted or not. If I did fill it, I should call to let her know, but if not just throw it out. I left not really sure what to think.
What this doctor did not explain to me, and what I would not realize for another year and a half, was that I had just been diagnosed with PCOS (Poly-cystic Ovarian Syndrome). A nasty little condition which can cause a myriad of troublesome symptoms including weight gain, acne, and, oh yeah, infertility. Excuse me doctor, but that is a big deal. That is a big effing deal.
Soon the doctor was inspecting a fuzzy black and white screen intently. "Ok," she said, "these are your ovaries, see how they are all spotted?"
"Yes," I responed.
"Those are small cysts. They aren't harmful to you, it just means that your ovaries are poly-cystic. A normal ovary would be smooth, but can you see how yours look like chocolate-chip cookies?"
"Uh-huh . . ."
"So there you go, now we know. It's not a big deal, I know so many women who have gotten pregnant with poly-cystic ovaries. Go ahead and get dressed and we'll talk about what we can do."
When I went into her office she nonchalantly repeated that it wasn't a big deal, she knew lots of women who were poly-cystic, and that she could put me on a medication called clomid, but that maybe I wanted to think about it because it could be pretty rough on my body. I told her I would think about it, discuss it with my husband, and get back to her. She told me she would just go ahead and write the prescription and I could fill it if I wanted or not. If I did fill it, I should call to let her know, but if not just throw it out. I left not really sure what to think.
What this doctor did not explain to me, and what I would not realize for another year and a half, was that I had just been diagnosed with PCOS (Poly-cystic Ovarian Syndrome). A nasty little condition which can cause a myriad of troublesome symptoms including weight gain, acne, and, oh yeah, infertility. Excuse me doctor, but that is a big deal. That is a big effing deal.
1 comment:
So sorry to hear you are dealing with all this. I think it is time we came out of our blog stalking hiding places :)
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