The Bad News

“It’s easy to believe that having a child is as simple as growing tomatoes: you do the right couple things, you take your prenatals and avoid caffeine and nitrates, and the universe hands you a perfect life, right on schedule. But if you've ever tried to grow anything – a tomato plant, a baby, anything – you know it’s more mysterious and more treacherous than that. It turns out that conceiving and carrying a healthy baby is just exactly like a lot of other parts of life: way more out of our control than we prefer to believe. There’s a mystery we tend not to acknowledge until certainty has been ripped out of our clutching hands. And only when certainty is gone do we allow ourselves to bend and open to that terrifying mystery, dark and incomprehensible.”

Excerpt from “Heartbeat” from Bittersweet, by Shauna Niequist

I.

When Mike and I first started trying to have a baby, we were blissfully, hopelessly, prematurely excited. We talked about our future-babies, researched the best strollers, planned our nursery and picked baby names. I stopped drinking caffeine, began taking prenatal vitamins and bought the entire suite of “What to Expect” books.

I was delirious with baby fever.

I was so sure I would be able to get pregnant without much difficulty – never mind that I had had open-heart surgery to repair a congenital heart defect; never mind that I had Graves Disease (a.k.a. hyperthyroidism). Those were minor details.

Even still, doctors ran tests on my “problem areas” to make sure everything was in working order. I passed. They shook my hand and said, “Go forth and procreate!”

(Actually they said, “Have lots of intercourse!”, but I can’t type that without laughing.)

We entered into a cycle of trying and failing, high on the idea that parenthood was tantalizingly close. I spent a small fortune on name-brand pregnancy tests. I justified the splurge, reassuring myself that I wouldn't have to use that many. I was going to get pregnant very soon.

But after several months of trying and boxes of wasted pregnancy tests, I quietly stockpiled generic pregnancy tests, purchasing them en masse when they were on sale. I did not acknowledge the fact that I might need them all. I told myself I was being frugal.

After my sister-in-law announced her pregnancy, the seeds of doubt I’d tried to ignore sprouted into hearty, aggressive weeds.

I knew there was something wrong with me.

II.

If you’re trying to conceive your first child and are relatively healthy, most doctors discourage you from seeking consultation until you've tried for a year. When I told my doctor’s staff about my wildly irregular periods, they scheduled an appointment for me to see him.

I’d only been trying for six months.

During my first appointment, I answered my doctor’s questions as honestly as possible: my periods were sporadic; my diet was indulgent; I exercised by walking Crosby; my stress levels were under control - now. I didn't know if my season of binge eating and weeping was relevant, but I mentioned it casually, like I was trying to convince us both that it was no big deal.

My doctor frowned. “That’s a pretty significant event. It was probably very stressful.”

I shook my head, the beginning of a rebuttal on my lips, when he interrupted me.

“My wife and I went through the same thing. Her sister got pregnant several times while we were trying. It was very difficult for us even though we were happy for her. We tried with IVF for four years before we had our daughter.”

Well then. Never mind.

He ordered tests and said he would see me soon.

I was cautiously optimistic during my follow-up appointment. I was going to get some answers, and I wouldn't have to wear a paper gown or put my feet in stirrups to get them. Hallelujah - God's goodness abounds. 

But the answers weren't what I expected.

“You have PCOS - polycystic ovarian syndrome.”

I stared at him hoping I’d misheard.

“It encompasses a wide range of symptoms and side effects, one of which is infertility. Essentially your hormones are imbalanced so you’re not ovulating. Let’s get you on drugs to help you do that.”

He was rather nonchalant about it, like he was a close friend telling me I had broccoli in my teeth. I willed myself not to cry. I remember him saying, “It’s very common” and “Don’t worry – we’ll get you pregnant.” He prescribed Metformin and ordered monthly blood tests.

I didn't cry till I got home.

I thought this was bad news, but that’s because I had no idea that more was still coming.

Later, after months of failed attempts, I would cry again after my doctor, puzzled over my abnormal blood work, told me to stop trying to conceive until I saw a hematologist and geneticist.

I would cry again after the hematologist confirmed that I have hemoglobin e, a common mutation that leads to thalassemia and sickle cell disease, among other blood conditions.

I would cry after he told me that there was a chance - if Mike had any blood abnormalities – our children could be born with serious blood disorders ranging from mild to life-threatening. He implied that death was a possibility, and that we should seek genetic counseling to “consider our options”.

I would cry after my doctor told me, after months of taking the maximum allowable dose of fertility drugs, that I would have to see an infertility specialist.

Had I known that I was going to have more reasons to cry, I would've held off till I received the very last of it. I would've stored it up and had one epic cry. And then, after there wasn't a drop of moisture left in my body, I would've poured myself a glass of wine and eaten a pie. Because what else can you do?

III.

The diagnosis itself wasn't bad. Several people attempted to reassure me by saying things like, “I know people with PCOS, and they have tons of kids” or “At least you know, and knowing is half the battle”. Thanks, G.I. Joe.

What hurt the most were the unspoken implications that came with it.

Having PCOS meant parenthood was not something I could plan or decide, that the life I’d imagined for us might never be realized.

I realize now I was too confident, that I somehow believed God would absolutely give me what I wanted based on years of responsible decision-making and really good behavior. Okay mostly good behavior. I mean, if he would give babies out in droves to the stars of Teen Mom, surely there was one for me?

(Yes, I know I was being totally judgy, and that my view of God as a cosmic judge/vending machine/genie is completely inaccurate. But that's just where I was.)

It would take me a few years to get comfortable with the idea that my life could look different, and that different could be good. But I was far from that place when I received my diagnosis. I was freaking out. I was trying to do everything in my power to hold onto the dream life that involved kids at that moment in time.

After hearing my diagnosis, I did what most people would've done: I Googled it. If I educate myself, I can come up with a plan (said Lina when she still thought she had control over her life).

That was a mistake.

I was bombarded with too much information, and all of it scared me. I saw the same symptoms and side effects on every site: infertility, depression, excessive weight gain, hirsutism.

I shut down.

I stopped researching.

I stopped reading the “What to Expect” books.

I stopped taking pregnancy tests.

I stopped thinking about my future-babies.

I fluctuated in and out of mild and deep depression. I denied it, told myself and everyone who asked that I was fine, that I was just really, really sad.

It was a lie I desperately wanted to believe.

I was not fine. My depression strangled my ovaries. I did not ovulate for two years. I thought I was barren, and nothing anyone said – nothing I ate/bought/drank/read/heard – made me feel any better.

Three months ago, my doctor’s office called to tell me I ovulated. I have since ovulated each month, which is, to me, a modern day miracle.

There’s a chance I could get pregnant. There are so many other factors to consider, and even though my ovaries are finally working, there’s no guarantee I could get pregnant. I’m forcing myself to focus on the good news, to revel in this miracle, this tiny victory. For now. We are celebrating, quietly, awaiting the next step, which is to meet with the infertility specialist. We are nervous and cautiously excited. This will be the first appointment we have to attend together. We don’t know what we’ll learn, but for the first time in years, we are daring to hope.

Maybe someday, this picture will be of Mike holding one of our sweet babies.

Dreaming again.