I have no idea what to call this and you may not want to read it…

Friday, June 24

Really, you might not want to read this.

I sure as hell can’t believe I’m writing it.

I’ll begin by saying I have no idea how this will end.

Honestly I had no idea it had even begun.

I am freaked out, shocked, and more than a little terrified.

I can’t separate reality from delusion. I can’t distinguish between fear and awe.

I have absolutely no reason to believe this will end well.

It may already be over.

I don’t even know if I will ever post this. But I need to write. I need to say something, tell someone. I need to download the shock and anxiety and fear, just tap it out, let it fall through my fingertips, regardless if these words are ever seen by a soul.

It doesn’t make any sense.

It’s hard to even write the words, because I don’t really believe them to be true.

It’s hard to ponder whether it may in fact be real, because I truly don’t believe it means anything but more heartache.

I am so not prepared for this, on any level.

After so many years, with my history — I could link to an entire blog of posts here — I am at a loss for words.

Nearing menopause, with recurring fibroids, yet again. Damaged tubes. Deep scars in my uterine walls. Virtually no lining. Old eggs. The list goes on.

I came to the realization long ago that my body was incapable of sustaining life. Once I accepted that, it made the transition to adoption easy, emotionally. Honestly it came as a relief when I stopped counting cycle days a few years ago. We reclaimed our lives from infertility. Without a doubt, infertility left its imprint on my soul, just as losing my son did. But it forever changed me when I could finally stop secretly hoping for that miracle BFP. Hell, I don’t even have an ob/gyn anymore.

So when my period was MIA for a few months, I naturally assumed menopause was creeping in. My cycles had become erratic and when I started missing periods last year I was diagnosed as peri-menopausal. When I was feeling super tired, well I figured it was because I was in my 40s with a super active toddler and recovering from an exhausting move. I even went to a new holistic doctor, who diagnosed me with weak adrenals and slight anemia. When I was nauseous at dinner time, I attributed it to a recent food poisoning incident and stopped eating chicken, among other things. I was also told to cut out wheat, dairy and sugar. Weight gain? Yeah, well that’s been a problem for a while now.

See how well I listen to my body?

This from someone who used to know her basal body temperature to the teenth degree, who has a diary of her cycle days spanning many years, and who could tell you which side she was ovulating on and when.

But that was another lifetime ago, honestly — when those things mattered.

And now? Now there is absolutely no reason to believe the little line that popped up as I waited in the bathroom of the grocery store this afternoon will lead to a living child. Why would it? How could it?

I only took the damn test because, after ignoring and justifying away all the symptoms above, my ankles started swelling in the recent heat. I know that to be a bad sign.

My life is full. Sure, I always wanted two children. But I accepted long ago that I would never carry and birth a living child. Yet I am content. I feel so incredibly blessed to have one amazing child. I couldn’t love her any more if I had given birth to her or if she shared my genes. Recently I accepted that our daughter would probably be our only child, much as I wanted her to have a sibling. Aside from a small box of keepsakes, I even gave away and sold all of our baby clothes. We bought a one child car and home.

There are so many reasons why this would not be a viable pregnancy. It’s strange to even utter that word. I won’t know until next week, until an ultrasound. Even if it is viable, for the moment, we all know what happened last time. I am so high risk that I can’t imagine how long it would last. At risk of premature rupture (P-PROM), of uterine rupture, of preeclampsia. I’m a walking fucking high-risk nightmare.

I can’t go through that again.

I left the market in a daze and cried in the car for 15 minutes, trying to hide the tears that were streaming down my face from my chirping toddler in the back seat. Unlike last time, these were not tears of joy. These were tears of terror.

I’m crying as I write this now because I just don’t see a good way out of this.

This can’t possibly end well.

I am so not prepared, either way.

Monday, June 27

I think it’s fair to say I am freaking out.

Obscure tweets help me bridge the gap between knowing and not knowing. Support from friends far and wide who have no idea what’s really going on still feels like a big hug of support when I need it most.

I am home alone and waiting for the results of my first ever HCG test. I never needed one for any cycle I’ve ever done, because I always knew they had failed. But now, years later, long after I had given up on all of that — and actually felt grateful for letting go — here I am waiting for a call back that will tell me only a small piece of what I need to know. The number alone means nothing, except that perhaps yet another doctor was wrong. I need the number. But more than that I need proof. Of life.

An email comes in at 2:20pm from my doctor. The test is positive. She refers me for an ultrasound for dating.

I sit at the kitchen table staring at the screen. Tears are flowing now. I’m nearly hyperventilating. I am overwhelmed. Shock. Fear. Awe. Holy fuck. It is impossible to feel anything remotely related to excitement. A happy ending is far too implausible. I tell myself to B R E A T H E and take a few deep breaths. I splash my face with cold water. Then I pick up the phone.

First I need to make an appointment for the ultrasound. Is it viable? Is there a heartbeat? How far along am I supposed to be? Where are my fibroids and how big are they? Where did the placenta attach in my scarred uterus? Is there really a baby in there? Because I sure as hell won’t believe it until I see it. There is no use even thinking about what’s next until then. But I have to. Because I am freaking out.

Next I need to find a high-risk ob/gyn in my HMO who will see a new patient ASAP. Not a small feat. I need to convince the administrator that I am high-risk. I tell my tale yet again. She doesn’t argue. But she is surprised that I can’t tell her when my last normal period was. When I tell her I kept a diary for years but recently was tracking only for menopause, I think I hear her chuckle at the irony. I know.

I’m lucky to get an ultrasound for Wednesday, but I don’t know how I’ll be able to wait two more days. Seems I will know more then, at least.

Tuesday, June 28

Went to bed last night sure that it was already over. I feel no symptoms anymore. I am 42 with old eggs; there is no way they could produce a healthy child. I have such a long history and scarring there is no way my womb could sustain life. I’ve known this for more than 5 years; I’ve accepted it for 3 years. On top of that, so many typical pregnancies end in loss. I’m convinced I’m carrying another dead baby, one that never really had a chance.

I know either way I am facing yet another surgery.

I am so frustrated with my body for taunting me this way. Just as I was learning to accept it, faults and all, here it dangles in front of me this ridiculous fantasy that I gave up long ago. Not even my fantasy anymore. I don’t think I can handle what comes next.

I was finally content. So grateful to be Mama to this unbelievable little girl. She is our first and only child, really. We never got the chance to parent our son. We’ve had our share of heartache but I am so unbelievably happy for our little family. I don’t want it to change. And I certainly can’t handle any more loss.

This is a total mindfuck. The limbo is agonizing. I can’t even explain the emotional headspace.

But I am also in awe. Yet another expert doctor was wrong about me. Both times the diagnosis gave me the freedom to give up on myself, to let go of the hope altogether. I am infertile. Yet I’ve now had two pregnancies, nearly six years apart, both a shock to everyone. The similarities are eerie. And yet. The last, our son, never made it past 21 weeks. Now I’m older and worse for the wear. Why is this happening again? I thought I learned all I needed to know about this. Apparently not. Fuck.

Wednesday, June 29

Ultrasound this morning should tell us what we need to know, for now.

More to come… Read part two here.

~ by luna on June 29, 2011.