-- The following is a guest post from our secret lady friend who chooses to remain anonymous until a baby kangaroo is officially put into her mama pouch --
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.