In March of 2012 we finally went to see a fertility specialist, Dr. N. After 21 months of being in this process it was time to see someone who could tell me more than “just relax.”
Dr. N broke it down for us pretty simply. We first had to get a few more diagnostic tests. Depending on how they came out we would have choices of trying some medications, a combo of meds and Intrauterine Insemination (IUI) if needed, and as a last resort IVF. That was the tentative game plan.
Dr. N told us (and by “us” I mean me. As much as Noah wants everything to be a “team” effort, let’s cut the shit, 99.9% of everything that happens, happens to my body. The most he needs to do is drive, jerk-off into a cup, or hold me) to get a hysterosalpingogram (HSG). It’s an “unpleasant” procedure that shoots dye into the uterus to see if there is any blockage in the fallopian tubes. Since I never had a history of surgery or STD’s or symptoms that would indicate endometriosis, he said it would probably not reveal much but it was good to do. He wanted that done as well as bunch of blood tests. At the end of our appointment he handed me a tissue to wipe my eyes and assured me I will have a baby. He assured me that I’m young, I’m healthy, we have sperm—all was good.
I scrambled to find a way that some of the tests I needed to do could be covered by my insurance (they couldn’t) and then bit the bullet and had the HSG done the following Tuesday. Let me correct anyone who believes having a #5 French balloon tipped catheter inserted into my uterine cavity, which is then inflated while the dye is injected into the body is an “unpleasant” experience. It was painful as shit! No amount of valium or ibuprofen (both of which I took in excess) helped the piercing pain and complete panic that overwhelmed the lower half of my body when sharp objects were inserted into my lady parts. The radiologist wouldn’t say a word to me other than “try to relax.” YOU TRY TO RELAX! YOU’RE SHOVING A PITCHFORK WITH A BALLOON AT THE END INTO MY VAGINA YOU DEVIL WOMAN! When I started squealing, “I can’t I can’t,” the nurse in the room instructed me to breathe. I took a deep breath and turned my head towards the monitor that showed what was going on in my insides. There was a little shape that looked like a moth flying off to one corner, and then one windy-looking string attached to it that bubbled at one point and then looked to have exploded. When she was done I was handed a towel to hold at my privates and the radiologist started to bolt out of the room.
“Excuse me. Wait. Can you tell me what you saw?” I was confused. The image on the screen didn’t look like the classic images of a uterus and fallopian tubes that were in textbooks. A round blob with elephant trunk-like arms on either side with dangly fingers floating towards the ovaries. My shit looked like a moth kite on a tangled string.
The radiologist stopped at the door. She didn’t want to discuss her findings. That was my doctor’s job.
“Please, just tell me what you saw?”
“The left tube did not visualize. There was only one fallopian tube that was open.” She walked out, seemingly annoyed.
One fallopian tube? Where’s the other one? Was I born this way? Were there cysts or fibroids or peanut butter jammed into my tubes? Why would that be? I hobbled towards Noah, holding a bloody towel to my privates, passing an old man waiting to have his foot X-rayed and a young man with his arm in a sling.
Noah ushered me into a small dressing room and helped me get dressed.
“There was only one tube,” I said.
“Where’s the other one?”
Exactly. Where’s the other one. At our follow up with Dr. N two days later he didn’t have an answer, but his tone was different. He didn’t like that my uterus was so far off to the right. He didn’t like that the one tube that was seemingly open looked to have some blockage as well, like a bent hose it bubbled up and then burst. He didn’t like that there was only one tube. I don’t like anything Dr. N doesn’t like.
He wanted us to do more specific blood work to see how my egg quality and hormones were and he discussed laparoscopic surgery to see what was really going on inside and to rule out pelvic adhesions.
I went back and consulted with my OBGYN, Dr. E. He wasn’t that concerned with my pictures. But he also wasn’t that concerned that after almost a year-and-a-half I still wasn’t pregnant.
“It could be a spasm,” he said, looking at the images.
“Well what if it’s not? I’ve been having a sharp pain on my side since the procedure. Could there be an infection? Maybe I have endometriosis—I get really bad back pains, could that be what’s going on? How can we see if I have that?”
Laparoscopic surgery could help us see what might be going on. Two docs. Two votes for laparoscopic surgery. I called one more doctor, my best friend Gabe’s dad, an OBGYN in Chico, CA. I explained where we were at and sent him my pictures.
He said the problem looks to be with my plumbing. Vote #3 for laparoscopic surgery.
We scheduled for a Tuesday, but since my period came early we had to move the date up. Noah would still be in Louisiana, “gator-gliding” with his 5-month pregnant reality TV star for the show he was producing.
“Should I just do it?” We were on Face Time, where many of our life decisions are made.
“I wish I could be there but if it has to be now then do it. Then we will know. “
The plan was for Dr. E to put a camera in through my belly button and make a small incision below to see what was going on. He would cut any adhesions that may have been growing like a spider web, potentially connecting my left fallopian tube to my uterus, burn any lesions or endometriosis type gunk, and re-do the dye test to see how the tubes were flowing. My sister was in town and since she’s a doctor, she was designated as the best person to be with me that day.
I thought I’d go in, get my one tube cleaned up, and be able to work the next day. It was outpatient. How bad could it be? We got to the hospital early and played around with the blood pressure equipment until Dr. E got there. He smiled. He said, he’d pass the dye through, clean up anything that may be causing pain, and free up the tubes best he could, if that was in fact the issue.
I lay back on the bed waiting for the medication in my IV to kick in. Worst case scenario is that there is in fact only one good tube. If he cleans it up, then I’ll have to go on the dreaded Clomid again, but then we could try naturally for a while, at least on the months I ovulated from the right side. And if that didn’t work we’d move to the turkey baster. I was ok with that.
I woke up with an oxygen mask on. My chest felt like I had been punched in the sternum and then hit by a bus.
“Please get my sister,” I called. The nurse moved about quickly, telling me to stay calm. I couldn’t breathe. My mouth felt like I had been eating toxic paint chips and cardboard.
“Please, get my sister.”
Time stopped. All of my organs and insides had been displaced by air so they could see my uterus et al. They put a catheter in my bladder and a breathing tube down my throat. It was excruciating but crying was not an option. Moving was not an option. My sister came running in and got me some water and juice. She held the cup to my mouth.
“What did Dr. E say?” I gasped between sips.
“Are you sure you want me to tell you now?” She said, disappointment in her voice.
“What?”
“He couldn’t get dye through either tube. They were both blocked. He seemed surprised. The uterus was good, no adhesions. He said you are probably a good candidate for IVF.”
“What?”
She pulled out color picture of my insides. She showed me where the dye bubbled and became blue but didn’t flow through the tubes the way it was supposed to. I never thought of that. If one tube was open during the last X-ray, why was it closed now? He didn’t know. She didn’t know. But what I knew is that all the options that seemed so terrible, going back on Clomid, having to be inseminated by a man not my husband, all of a sudden sounded like a dream compared to IVF.
Please can we just take a step back? Remember when I was being bratty because Clomid made me hormonal and moody? Remember when I was complaining about that gooey feeling the vaginal progesterone gave me? It’s fine. I changed my mind! Please, let one of those things work. I’ll go on it at double the dose. Please.
I felt like someone beat the shit out of me and then forced me to buy a very expensive one-way ticket to invitro-ville where I would be forced to live in exile with nothing but a bag of hormone shots and a calendar full of doctors appointments. I will stop complaining about how long this is taking. It can take another year, just let us make a baby on our own.
I got home and took as much Vicodin as my sister would let me. I got a letter in the mail fro my insurance company that said that even though they formally approved the surgery, they may not deem it as “medically necessary”, so it may not be covered. A very helpful letter to receive after surgery has taken place.
Hana broke the news to Noah while he was in a crew van driving from Hammond to New Orleans, Louisiana while my parents got in my bed with me so they could perform their version of “Reiki” on my bloody belly button and stitches.
My dad balanced his clumsy paws and sausage fingers over my clavicles, which felt like they were broken in two, my mom placed her warm hands on my belly under the heating pad and together they closed their eyes and sent their love and healing energies to my broken heart and my failing reproductive system. And then I started to feel the weight of my father’s massive hand start to collapse on my chest, and my mother nervously began to pick at the band-aid over my belly button. Enough was enough. I started to laugh and cry and yell at them to get off me, it nearly split my stitches.
I wrote to my in laws and other family and friends. But I started to see how very hard it is for a) anyone who is not going through this to understand or relate and b) for those same people know what to say to me.
In general, there was a lot of support and excitement that my uterus seemed to be in good shape and that IVF was going to be this awesome new adventure. Like all they had to do was take an eye-dropper and plop a dollop of baby potion into my belly button and wa-la! Like all I will have to do is swallow a few watermelon seeds and say some prayer in Hebrew and nine months later Junior Mint will be! IVF is NO JOKE. It’s great that I MAY be a good candidate depending on how my blood tests come out, but I’d much rather be a good candidate for board member of the otter society or chief cup-cake taster at Sprinkles Cupcakes. It’s like each step takes us father away from this happening. Each step that some possibility gets checked off our list (bye bye IUI) you look at what you do have. I have legs! Yay, score! One point for Maya. Noah has a penis. Hey Five points for team Junior Mint! And…wait for it….we have a uterus!!! Next week I should find out if I have decent egg quality (though you can never really know until you actually take them out I believe) and then maybe we’re in business. We can scrape together something that resembles a baby embryo in a dish and jam it into my apparently functional uterus and pray that $15,000 doesn’t get flushed down the toilet with my next period. Are you kidding! This is what I’m excited about? All the kind friends and family who have “faith” that I will be a “mother” and that we will have a “beautiful baby” of our own. To what end? And how many rounds? For how many months? As what cost to my body, mind and marriage? And bank account! And it will all be “worth it” And I “won’t remember any of the pain I went through when I look into my crying baby’s eyes at 3am?” The hell I will!!!
Remember when babies were made when a man loved a woman and they made sweet love to each other and nine months later they became a family? How do I get that? With each thing I do, each bit of information I get I fall deeper into the abyss of barren “auntie” Maya-land. Can no one be sad with me for a moment? Does everyone have to be a cheerleader and identify that “at least now we know!” I long for the days of confused trying, standing on my head after sex, feeling hopeful. That’s not really true, it’s better to know, but it sucks. And it’s sad. And it seems like Noah and I will never rub our parts together and make a baby. And I have to stay optimistic and hopeful. And I have to believe. But I also have to mourn this loss. At least for a little. When my stomach doesn’t feel like someone took a bike pump to my asshole and blew me up, maybe I can get a good cry in and then move on.
