You know what’s weird? Seeing a guy in army fatigues walk into a doctors office and know exactly why he’s there: dude’s about to get his swimmers tested. Today I sat in the waiting room of the U of M Reproductive Medical Center and watched the couples coming in and wondered what their stories were. But a guy there on his own? Semen analysis. 100%.
*****
Hi, friends! Maybe you were wondering whatever happened to Possibly Pregnant Polly. It’s more likely you didn’t give me a second thought. But hi! I’m back. And still sans enfant. Please allow me to fill you in on what’s happened (and hasn’t happened) in the past seven months.
What hasn’t happened is my period. After Flo came to town in July, she abandoned me, seemingly for good. I was expecting this, since I had gone for long… er… periods of time without menstruating the two times I went off the pill during my decade- long Birth Control Bonanza. Both times my gyno prescribed me a hormone called Provera to kick start a period so I could get back on the pill.
Anyway, back in October I had a physical with a new GP who seemed completely unconcerned when I told him it’d been many moons since I’d had my womanly courses. He told me not to worry.
But worry I did. I started a routine of taking pregnancy tests every three weeks or so, because I couldn’t be sure if I wasn’t having a period because I was pregnant or because I was broken. (One of the notes in my pregnancy tracker app says, “Today I answered the question of bloated or pregnant with ‘bloated.’”) Each time I promised myself I wouldn’t be upset when I got the inevitable negative. Each time I cried a little bit, and left the test out where my husband could see it so he’d know why I had The Sads that day.
By the time December rolled around, I confided in a close gal pal that I was coming up on six months without a period. She made me promise to see my regular lady doc, which I did in January. She ordered a bevy of hormonal tests, put me on Provera to force a period, and referred me to the clinic’s infertility specialist, Dr. K. I saw Dr. K the next week, and he told me that based on the results of my blood tests he suspected I had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome.
WHICH TOTALLY SOUNDS LIKE CANCER.
I freaked out and started blubbering while he asked me if I had noticed an increase in acne or male-pattern hair growth on the face, chest, or belly (no to all). He explained that it was a genetic disorder that causes an imbalance in the hormones, leading to cysts on the ovaries that cause women to menstruate infrequently or not at all. It’s also associated with diabetes. All I heard was: YOU HAVE MALE HORMONES AND YOU’RE GOING TO GET DIABETES. He ordered more tests and I went off to work, trying (and failing) to keep my shit together.
My health provider lets you check test results online, but the only information they give you is your value and what a normal range is. No other context. According to my results, all of my hormones fell within the normal range. This led me to convince myself his diagnosis was wrong, which made it all the more crushing to return to Dr. K’s office, this time with Hubs in tow, and have him say, “I was right. You have it.” He launched into an explanation of the hormone treatments he wanted to put me on— Provera to stimulate menstruation and then Clomid to stimulate ovulation—but I barely digested any information. I was spiraling way, way down into The Dark Place, and all I could do was sob uncontrollably.
We went home. I sobbed. I called my mom. I sobbed. I texted my close friends. I sobbed. I had never cried this much in my life. I cried so hard I puked—and I NEVER puke. All the while I tried to synthesize why this news made me feel so devastated. It’s not like I had cancer. No one was dying. But I felt the pain of discovering that something you spend your whole life thinking is a given, something that is obviously in the cards for you, suddenly… isn’t.
I think the reason I felt that way is that infertility is not something you hear about unless someone close to you is going through it. Facebook, at least at this stage in my life, is a constant deluge of pregnancy and birth announcements. Not one of my friends has posted a status about the rigors of IVF, or the tragedy of a miscarriage. If people talked about it more, maybe it would normalize it, just a little. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so devastating.
*****
Flash forward to today. I saw a new doctor at the U’s Center for Reproductive Medicine, one with whom I felt more comfortable right away. Dr. L talked me through my previous lab results and explained everything to me, making sure I had my questions answered. She did an ultrasound to confirm the PCOS diagnosis, and sure enough, I’m a “classic case.” She ordered a few more blood tests for me, including a genetic screening, and had some special tests for the Huzz as well. We’ll be back in a month to review the results before I go on the hormones, which I feel much better about. It sure would suck to put my body through so much stress only to find out that there’s a problem on his end too.
The most important thing I left the office with is a new sense of confidence about my chances of conceiving. Dr. L told me that if I had to be infertile, this is the kind of infertile I want to be. I’m young, I’m healthy, and I have plenty of eggs; I just need a little help coaxing them out so they can become behbehs.
For the first time in months, I have a positive outlook.
This Friday, Husband will be going into the RMC by himself, and I bet you can guess why. Please send happy thoughts that his swimmers will swim straight and true.
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