Journey to Motherhood …
I wasn’t sure if I was going to post my journey to pregnancy or not. To me, it’s embarrassing when explaining this to my friends and family, but at the same time I feel like a fraud to those who struggle far more than I did. Ultimately it’s part of Lucy’s story, so here it is. When Eric and I got married in September 2018, we were excited to officially start our family. Truth be told, we weren’t really taking any protective precautions prior to marriage, but now we were “trying.” The first couple of months we just had fun with it, thinking it would happen with ease, but after 4 months and still not pregnant, I started to get worried. I paid a visit to my OB/GYN but she reassured me I had nothing to worry about. Looking back, I really didn’t have much to worry about, but no one tells you how stressful and discouraging the normal process can be. My OB informed me that at 27 years old, it could take up to a year to get pregnant, and some OBs wouldn’t start an infertility workup on me unless I was trying for 2 years. 2 YEARS! One year felt too long, but two? I grew up in a small family, so I felt okay with that if I had to make the wait, but my husband is one of 5 and was, and still is, determined to have at least that many children. Somehow, after 6 months of trying I convinced my doctor to work me up. I was anxious and tired of checking my temperature and peeing on LH sticks. My cycle was mostly regular every 29-33 days. When I was really stressed I’d have a 40-50 day cycle but that only happened about once a year. Something had to be wrong. I was certain of it.
When I was in the office the timing was right to draw blood, so while I waited for the results she set me up for a hysterosalpingogram. I was warned by a friend who already completed the procedure that it was horrible and to expect pain. Walking into the radiology department, I was nervous but ready. I wanted an answer. I prepped by taking 800 mg of ibuprofen and sat patiently waiting. After a few minutes, a radiology tech called me back and told me to undress from the waist down, put on a gown, and lay on the table. The tech was young and nice enough that my first thought was this couldn’t possibly be more embarrassing than going to the GYN for a normal routine exam. I mean, no one in their right mind enjoys having to go to the GYN to be asked 3 times to scoot down and relax your legs “just a little more,” but at least I had done that already. I could do it again. What I was surprised to learn was that she wouldn’t be performing the procedure, the 65-year-old male radiologist would be. I began to sweat. So many women see male GYNs but for me this was new and nerve-racking in and of itself. The light at the end of the tunnel was that by the end of the exam I would have my results right away. That was something.
The first part of the test was the normal speculum exam and bimanual you get during your annual, and took no more than 30 seconds combined. Once he got a feel for my anatomy, he slightly dilated my cervix to insert a catheter. This was the part I was warned about, but to me, it felt no different than normal period cramping. Phew. Once that was done, he injected a dye and we watched the screen as my uterus and ovaries lit up, “spilling over” on both sides. That’s a good thing. There were no obstructions. No physical reason our two parts couldn’t come together to make a baby. “Everything looks great, I’m shocked your doctor sent you in for this test so soon,” the radiologist said once the test was complete. Little did he know, I didn’t really give my OB a choice… I’d keep that and my emotions to myself.
I left the test elated with myself, but at the same time let down. It’s funny how the mind works that way: feeling upset with normal results. I see this with my patients all the time. I can’t count the number of times I’ve done an extensive workup on someone, only to refer them out to specialists who just repeat the workup I’ve already completed and tell them they’re okay. “You’re probably just anxious, you’re overthinking it, you’re giving yourself symptoms”--- literally all things I was told over my 6 month journey and tried so hard not to tell others. It’s like feeling your concerns aren’t valid. Trust me, if it bothers you, it’s valid.
Fast-forward a few days and my OB calls me with blood work. The blood-work drawn largely assessed female hormones (plus a few other endocrine disorders) and the feedback cycle from the brain to the ovaries. The two main tests we were looking at were my FSH and AMH. FSH is follicle-stimulating hormone, and in laymen terms is the signal the brain sends to the ovaries telling them to get ready to ovulate. When your FSH is high it typically means the ovaries are not responding, so the brain keeps sending signal. This happens during menopause. My FSH was perfectly normal. The test I wasn’t so familiar with was my AMH or anti-mullerian hormone. There is a lot of criticism with this test, but may providers still use it regularly to assess ovarian reserve and predict menopause. My AMH was 0.8, which is low. Some say normal-low, but for someone my age, it was low. Everything I read online told me it wasn’t a good test for predicting getting pregnant naturally, that it should only be used to help determine if you’re a good candidate for IVF. My OB informed me that it only determined quantity not quality and that my eggs were still good. But that didn’t ease my mind. Even if my eggs were perfect, the amount of eggs I had were 10 years ahead of my age, which meant I only had so much time left to have children. I was sick.
Two of my husband’s brothers, Jordan and Justin, were adopted and are now grown. In fact, Eric has adopted aunts and uncles on both sides of his family, and it was something he and I have seriously considered. I remember watching Instant Family around that time and thinking there is definitely a place in my heart for adopted children. My brother-in-laws are no less my brothers. I could definitely love a child that wasn’t biologically mine all the same. This is how fast my mind goes. From zero to 100. I was 27 years old, trying for less time than most women do, hadn’t seen a specialist, or tried medication or IUI or IVF, and I had determined myself that I was infertile, never to have my own children, based on one blood test; one blood test that’s use is widely debated, nonetheless.
Seriously, trying for pregnancy can make you a crazy person. It did to me. After that phone call, my doctor recommended I try a medication called letrozole. Essentially, the medication works by blocking estrogen, a necessary change required to get that FSH going. I was only in month 7 of trying but I felt desperate. I would have taken anything at that point. I honestly don’t know how women try for years with rounds of infertility treatments and loss, because it so easily eats at you. Makes you feel inadequate. If you are one of those people, please know you are so freaking strong.
I took the medicine for 5 days during my cycle, and we tried every other day from day 9 to 23. After that it was a waiting game. Eric left for New Orleans for a bachelor party on the Thursday before mother’s day in 2019. My best friend was home that weekend from a travel nursing assignment, so as usual my friends would all be getting together to hang out. And when my friends all get together, it usually means a long night of drinking. Mother’s day was the next day, so I knew I’d have a full day of running around by myself trying to see parents and grandparents on both sides of the family. I took my time getting to our meet up so I could miss a few drinks, which worked in my favor because by time I got there, everyone was pretty much drunk. So much so, that I was really hoping we wouldn’t make it to the bar but when the crew gets together we’re in it. So off we went.
I was unusually tired and moody that night. I’m normally quiet and reserved when I’m sober, but I was borderline angry. For no good reason either. It may have been the fact that I knew I shouldn’t be drinking when we were trying so hard to have a baby, but I just needed to relax. The stress of baby making was killing me. I tried pepping up by taking a shot, but it immediately turned me off. It was 1 AM, I was sober, the gang was still going, and I was ready to get home. Another good friend in our circle was pregnant at that time and ready to leave herself, so I pulled an Irish Goodbye and slipped away with her.
I woke up after 10 hours of sleep feeling like a truck hit me. How was I hung over? I only had 1 beer and 1 shot. I’ve drunk more than that at home with my husband on a weeknight without feeling any sort of way the day after. Eric wasn’t expected to return for another day, which was a bummer. I hate family events without him, especially when I’m not feeling myself; most often I rely on him to carry the load of conversation. Suffice it to say, I only made it to Eric’s sister’s house for brunch, and after 1 mimosa needed to head home to take a nap.
When I woke again it was dark out. And I was still exhausted. I was still about a week from a missed period, but something in me wanted to take a pregnancy test. So I did. I held the test in my hand as it ran. I was too anxious to put it down, leave the room, and wait like you’re supposed to. I ran enough 50-cent pregnancy tests in my practice to see positive results usually pop up right away. It took about 30 seconds for the control line to appear, and in that time, the test was negative. I sighed, placed the test on the bathroom counter, and showered to wake myself from my fog and shake the sadness. I tried not to be discouraged. It was too early, I told myself. About 5 minutes passed before I remembered to check the test again. I reached passed the shower curtain to the counter and grabbed the test. I stood naked and cried. There was a faint positive test line. No way this could be true. I didn’t have my glasses. Was I seeing things? Was it an evaporation line? Was it from the humidity of the shower? Maybe the medication I took caused false positives? A million and one thoughts ran thru my head of why the test could be wrong. I didn’t have any more tests and it was too late to run out and get more. If this test was truly positive, it’d be more positive tomorrow. I’m not sure how I had the patience to wait but I did. And in the morning, it was in fact more positive. I was pregnant. I was finally going to have a baby.
