In January of 2012, I found out I was pregnant. I don't think that words could accurately describe how incredibly elated we were. Here we were, seven years together (and less than seven condoms used), and we were finally pregnant! Even though it was so early, we told all of our closest friends and family because we were so excited. Because of the NCAH scare and because the dexamethasone was what allowed me to get pregnant, I was declared "high risk" and sent in immediately for an early ultrasound. At 5 weeks, I was diagnosed with a blighted ovum, and miscarried the day before Valentine's Day.
We were devastated. I know people handle things differently, and I tend to go a bit inside my own head, so it was hard for me to find comfort in words - in anything really. The "we'll try again"s or "it'll happen when it's time"s were anything but helpful. At the time, I didn't want to try again - because being a mommy just wasn't going to happen for me. It wasn't in the cards. I was bitter and mean and angry at God and everyone.
Over the next few months, I slipped into a really dark place. I didn't talk to or see anyone but Andrew. Most nights I would cry to him or to myself. I would attempt to end our relationship out of anger or sadness because I felt like he deserved to be with someone who could give him the family he wanted. Out of my own anger, I was determined to be alone, but no matter how hard I pushed, he wouldn't let me. I felt like less of a person - less of a woman. As a woman, having a child is the one thing we're genetically designed to do...and I couldn't do it. It was impossible to rise above the self-loathing.
Looking back, I know I still carried a small sliver of hope, because I begrudgingly continued going to doctors appointments and taking tests. Still, the "I don't know why the hell I'm going, it's not like it's going to help," commentary played over and over. By May, I was exhausted. My endocrinologist called to tell me that, while all of the genetic testing for NCAH was negative, and even though I did test positive for insulin resistance, she didn't want me to get pregnant. (WHAT?!) She wanted to run MORE tests and re-submit the genetic test and re-do all of the tests I had taken over the last 5 months. I broke down in tears and told her I couldn't do it anymore. I was done. No one ever plans for this. I never planned to undergo genetic testing, to take multiple glucose tests at the ass crack of dawn, to collect my own piss in a milk jug and keep it in my fridge for 24 hours at a time, to be injected with estrogen to see what happens, to be put on medication I didn't even need...but what completely blindsided me was a doctor that I had cried to, confided in, and trusted tell me that she had no intention of helping me to get pregnant because I was too fat. She said that she was sorry, and that she knew better than anyone what it was like to not be able to get pregnant, but that she wouldn't help someone at my BMI get pregnant.
That was it for me. I asked her to please give me a medication for my insulin resistance and I told her that I would have my family doctor refer me to a new endocrinologist. This is when I started taking the metformin that I had begged my endocrinologist to put me on for 5 months.
Later that month, I was talking to my gyno about what had happened, and she immediately referred me to a reproductive endocrinologist. I made the hour long drive to see him, telling myself that if he couldn't help me, then no one could.
He agreed that my endo put me through the ringer. That after reviewing all of my test results, there was no way that I could have NCAH. That people who have NCAH rarely live to be my age and that he didn't understand my endo's thought process. He showed me a chart with my results and how they fell into the "normal" range, and he was extremely sympathetic. Never ONCE did he say anything about my weight. "You do have PCOS, and women with PCOS sometimes hold a bit more weight in the stomach area. So what? You want to be pregnant, so why are we wasting time not trying to get you pregnant? Women with extra weight have healthy pregnancies everyday." He wrote me a prescription for clomid and set me up with a follow-up appointment to check my follicles once I had taken the clomid.
I don't think he quite understood just how much that meant to me. Just one doctor with faith in me and in the ability to fulfill a dream for me allowed me to have faith in myself again. That doctor will always, always hold a special place in my heart.
So, with prescription in hand and hope renewed, I waited for my period so that I could start taking the clomid. I waited. And waited. And waited.
The metformin was supposed to help regulate my insulin levels, thus allowing me to have a period, so I felt myself starting to get upset again and wondering if the medicine wasn't working. By mid-June, I was extremely sick, with a high fever and a killer sinus infection. After two weeks, a box of Sudafed, and a period that still hadn't showed, I was at a loss. What the hell was wrong with me?
On June 25, I was in the bathroom getting ready to go out to dinner with Andrew for our 7 year anniversary when I decided to do something I hadn't done in months...pee on a stick. Before getting pregnant the first time, I was a POAS addict, but after everything that happened, I didn't even want to try. To keep squinting and staring until you start to see a line that isn't even there...it's just depressing. I had two tests left, a non-existent period, and a relatively good mood with the thought that I could take the hit if it was negative.
I took the test, and instead of staring like I usually do, I took a deep breath and walked out of the room. What I came back to made me the happiest I had ever been...
The line is SOOOOOO faint that most people probably couldn't even see it (and the picture is horrible), but I did. I couldn't believe it, so I took a second test, and BAM! That second line was just as faint, but it was still there nonetheless. I won't lie. I continued to take a test everyday for the next two weeks to make sure the line wouldn't go away. It never did. The happiness was quickly replaced with fear. I couldn't go through another loss again. I didn't think my heart could take it. After a test at my doctor's to confirm, the fear was joined with anger and depression. Yes, I was pregnant. "But I'm just going to lose this one, too. Yes, my dream had come true, and without the clomid! "Better not get attached, it's just going to be ripped away from you." My inner dialogue wouldn't allow me a single second of peace. When I started cramping and bleeding at 5 weeks, I was barely hanging on to sanity. My mom rushed me to the emergency room where I was diagnosed with a threatened miscarriage and rushed into an ultrasound.
But the fear and anger never left me. I spent my entire pregnancy on edge with a refusal to bond because I didn't want to get hurt again. (At least I thought I wasn't bonding, but that shit sneaks up on you whether you want it or not!) And I did. I was just terrified. Even more so now that I had seen a real heart beating and a really teeny tiny little baby was indeed, in there.
I was immediately put on bed rest at home and unable to work. So, for the next 3 months, I was alone with my horrible thoughts. If it weren't for Andrew, I would have driven myself insane. Periodic ultrasounds and proof that my baby was growing helped to ease my fear overtime.
In October, I was allowed to go back to work on a 25 hour per week restriction. A month later, I had an ultrasound to check on her growth. (A previous ultrasound had shown her head circumference to be in the 5th percentile.) The ultrasound tech took her measurements and asked if she could do a trans vaginal to check my cervix. As she was looking at the screen, she got a funny look on her face and excused herself from the room. I just looked at Drew in panic, hoping that everything was okay. When she came back in she told us that my cervix was wide open and that an ambulance was on the way.
I just started crying. I didn't know what to think. I wasn't in any pain. I wasn't experiencing any signs of labor...maybe she was wrong? I was rushed to the hospital via ambulance with Andrew following behind. When I got there and the doctor did a cervical exam I was told that I had less than 1mm of my cervix left on the bottom and that my bag was bulging. At this point, I was only 24 weeks, but they assured me that if I had her, they would do all that they could to save her.
I spent the last three weeks of November in the hospital. (Thanksgiving in a hospital BLOWS.) Every morning I was put on the monitor for a non-stress test, I received two rounds of steroids to help strengthen her lungs, and I had the wonderful task of inserting a pill of progesterone into my lady parts every night. ("Do you need any help in there?" "NO!!!")
I went in to labor once and they were able to stop it with magnesium...until December 3rd. I was rushed back to labor and delivery and put back on magnesium to try and stop it again. But it didn't work this time. Like with my miscarriage, I was having excruciating back labor, and received an epidural that changed my life. (I'm not trying to be a hero.) The magnesium acts as a muscle relaxer, so I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I slept through all 10 centimeters of dilation. They had to wake me up to have me push. It was wonderful. Haha My water still hadn't broke, so they wanted me to push her out IN the sack. WHAT?! Let me tell you how horribly awkward it was to have a doctor, two nurses and 4 NICU staff staring at you with all of your goods on display as you wait for another contraction...I may or may not have faked having a contraction just so I could push and break the weird tension. I was able to get her head out in the sack until it burst and scared the shit out of everyone in the room.
On December 4th, at 3:54 in the morning, after fifteen minutes of pushing I heard this little mew of a cry. She was here.
And she was perfect.
No comments:
Post a Comment