Surprise! I’m still not pregnant (nor have I been since the chemical pregnancy in April). Here’s what’s happened in the past three months:
RE or REally not impressed
My Obgyn broke up with me saying, “There’s nothing more I can do for you.” I’m not sure what she had really done for me to begin with so I only feel slightly rejected instead of broken-hearted. As a parting gift, she referred me to a reproductive endocrinologist (RE) otherwise known as a fertility specialist. I went back and forth on whether I should actually go. What, exactly, could this RE do that my OB hadn’t already done (except charge me $50 per visit instead of $25)?
After talking about it with some online friends, I decided that a consultation couldn’t hurt and I had my, now rather large, medical file sent to the specialist’s office. I went to the first appointment with just a little glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe I would be getting some answers soon.
At the first appointment, the doctor reviewed my history and bloodwork results from the OB. She refused to speculate on possible causes of the miscarriages until she had the results of about 22 blood panels and a saline ultrasound — all of which had to be done on very specific cycle days. I walked out of the office after that initial visit with lab orders (for myself and my husband), prescriptions, and directions about how to prepare for my ultrasound.
With each test, I grew more excited, sensing a discovery was just around the corner. “Today’s test is going to show something! I just know it.” I imagined sitting in the office, getting the results and exclaiming “Well that explains it! And you say all I have to do is take these magic pills and it will all be ok? Why didn’t I do this sooner?”
The follow-up appointment didn’t exactly go like that. Instead, it went like this. Doctor: Well, I’ve reviewed the results of every test and everything is well within normal range. I have no explanation for your multiple losses other than to say it’s simply bad luck.” Me: Did you just say my diagnosis is bad luck?” Doctor: Well, that’s not a diagnosis, but yes. There’s nothing wrong that we can see.” Me: “So that’s it? That’s how this ends?” Doctor: “That’s up to you. I have a treatment plan.” Me: “You have a treatment plan for bad luck?” Doctor: “The plan is to get you pregnant as many times as possible and hope that one sticks.” Me: Stunned silence followed by tears and lots of nose blowing.
As a side note, my husband was with me for that appointment and he said the doctor looked truly shocked that was sobbing. Does this not happen frequently in this office? Hormonal women getting hopeless news on a nearly daily basis and the doctor is shocked that I am sobbing? Anyway…
I walked out of the office that day faced with choices that range from $400 per month to $4000 per month. Keep in mind that all of these choices are aimed at getting me pregnant as many times as possible and “hoping that one sticks.”
I’ve decided to not pursue any of the choices made available to me; not Clomid, not Femara, not IUI (inter-uterine insemination), not IVF (in-vitro fertilization). I’ve decided that reproducing really shouldn’t be this hard. And I have no idea where that leaves me or what’s left to do– except to write a break-up letter to my RE.
So that’s the update. I plan to finish out the summer with my own treatment plan: an endurance mud-run race this weekend, plenty of wine drinking on summer terraces, perhaps a cocktail of natural fertility boosting supplements, and reckless baby-dancing with my husband — you know — just in case one sticks.
My ovaries are holding my eggs hostage. That’s what the doctor called to tell me last week. She didn’t say those exact words – that’s just my spin. What she actually said was, “Based on your blood work, it doesn’t look as if you are ovulating. I’d like for you to come in to talk about taking Clomid.”
I said, “Yeah. I figured as much. Twenty dollars, twenty ovulation predictors sticks, and lots of squatting over a cup with no positive result led me to the same conclusion.” OK, OK, I didn’t say those exact words, but that’s what I was thinking.
I have a routine down for dealing with bad news. It’s just happened so often during the past few months that I realized it’s an established protocol.
First, I call my mom. This is usually because I want to be dramatic and download. I spill a crescendo of conclusions, she (as a nurse) points out all the flaws in my logic and my misinterpretations of clinical possibilities (or impossibilities). I cry and ask her why she can’t just listen and validate my feelings. And then I hang up and call a girlfriend.
The girlfriend is great for validating the emotion. She will eventually get to logic and talk me off the ledge, but first, she wholeheartedly encourages the drama because she knows that to try to talk logic to a woman who is hormonal and unpredictable will do no good. She offers to come over and break dishes with me and knows that when I say, “No, don’t worry about it,” she can tread lightly on to the terrain of sense and sensibility. By the time I hang up, I’m ready to call my husband.
These are usually very short conversations because to try to explain how my ovaries and other girly bits are not functioning without a diagram and hand motions is pointless. We agree to talk at home later and hang up to return to our normally scheduled work programming as if nothing has happened.
All up, this takes about 26 minutes of phone time and is entirely necessary for me to go on functioning. From connecting with people who have experienced what I have, I can confidently say that behind every woman coping with and healing from a pregnancy loss is a strong cast of characters. They are the people who answer the phone, endure verbal abuse, sympathize and empathize, and simply show up when it matters.
I am so grateful to my supporting cast because they have carried me. To them, I say: Thank You for dancing in my ballet of grief and hope. You are the best in my worst of times.