I couldn’t have come so far just to be stopped in my tracks by Fate and Asherman’s Syndrome. Here I am, I’ve been trying to get pregnant with my first child since November of 2014. I have endured a second trimester termination, losing our little girl Molly to T21. I have suffered a year and a half of negative home pregnancy tests until I started to randomly get pregnant and lose babies to miscarriages, always at nine weeks, wondering why but instinctively knowing the answer. My eggs are flawed, deeply flawed, and my husband and I cannot produce anything but tested aneuploid embryos; deep in the secretness of my once trusty uterus, our babies take hold, explode into exotic blooms and briefly flourish before becoming twisted and unnatural until they are so shot through with the black of sickness they are extinguished, and then have to be removed by force. I have grieved four babies, sobs coming from deep in my solar plexus and vibrating though the tips of my fingers and toes until I am consumed with the electricity of sorrow. In other words — I have suffered, and suffered badly, and I’m still not ready to stop.
My period this month was one day of on and off bleeding. Cramps wrack my body and my heart pumps out terror, sending it through my entire body to incapacitate me…I know the menstrual blood in my uterus cannot exit and I know scar tissue and adhesions are blocking my cervical canal. It’s over, I tell myself but despite the direness of my situation I cling to hope. Can we pull of treatment of this latest fiasco, financially? I honestly don’t know. I know you’re not supposed to self-diagnosis, but I do it all the time and have never once been wrong. I am profoundly familiar with the rhythms of my body, and I am acutely aware when things are out of whack. I harbor not a single hope that my uterus is free from scarring and adhesions. As I said, a woman that has had three D&Cs faces a 32% chance of Asherman’s Syndrome, and I’ve had three D&Cs and a D&E. I’ve been scraped raw and empty, multiple times, and at one point the cutterage must have slipped, injuring the endometrium and raining destruction from the heavens. And, BTW, I never ever ever end up on the right side of the odds.
So what? Jig’s up, no baby? Should I try to move on without a glance behind me, into a wild childfree life of travel and horseback riding, like my ditzy psychiatrist has? That’s never what I wanted. But nah, I don’t think I’m going down that easy, I plan to fight although my psychic energy wanes. Still, in this moment the anxiety defies my tranquilizer medication, the anger is bigger that any mood stabilizer can hold in check. We had to see the on-call surgeon. We couldn’t fucking wait for my regular and much trusted OB to do the fucking procedure. And now they want two more pointless cycles of Femara where the sperm will be unable to enter my suffocated cervix as I suffer from the attendant horrible mood swings and headaches, then I’m supposed to make an appointment with my OB to evaluate whether or not additional tests are needed. And all the while…tick, tock, goes the clock of the Universe, you are getting pretty fucking old, sweetheart, and I don’t give a shit about you…
Everyone’s life seems to be going wonderfully but mine. I’m sick of congratulating people, of offering support until they get pregnant and disappear. Pretty much, I hate everyone today and I guess because I’m so negative I feel totally abandoned and like I don’t mean shit to anyone. No one would miss me if I disappeared but Geoff, and that’s a good reason to stick around but damn…
I am hating my life today. And there’s no one around to make me feel better, no doctor that can help me. I hate doctors. I just took my pointless Femara, perhaps this month I’ll pop out a good egg that will die in my uterus with retained menstrual blood…where is the blood going? I’m cramping, but nothing.
I just got off the phone with my mom. Random small talk, like it always is now. We’ve always been close but now I can’t talk to her. I wanted so badly to tell her what is wrong, and I couldn’t. Just like when Molly died, and btw I feel just as awful right now as I did when Molly died, I developed serotonin poisoning, and had that horrible botched dental surgery. I figure I lived through it once, I can do it again. But I’d rather not have to.
Why? Why do terrible things keep happening to me? Why do I have to hurt this badly? My OB’s website says that having more than two miscarriages is “fortunately very rare”? Why does it have to be me?
I have been crying all day, and I know from experience that if I make myself stop, I’ll just become angry and hateful. I’d rather cry. I think of going to the hospital, but you don’t even get to see the doctor on the weekends. Plus, I already owe Providence a shit ton of money. So that’s out, plus I took my stupid Femara and I feel I shouldn’t waste it. I think I’ll write my OB and say I can’t wait two months, but if I actually am out of the game I really would like to postpone the horrible upset that would come with that. I still have the tiniest bit of hope. Fucking Scruffy.