August 2, 2008
Ripping Off the Band-Aid, Part I
Alternate title: Confessions of the Queen of Denial.
When I attended last year’s BlogHer Conference, I was a newbie; a virgin so-to-speak. I didn’t quite know what to expect and I was rather overwhelmed with all the sessions and blogger meet-ups and overall conference what-to-do.
This year, I considered myself a veteran and I found it easier to meet new bloggers as well as re-connect with my pals, and when it came down to choosing which sessions to attend, I chose the Mommyblogging track. And it was the Infertility panel that struck a chord that still resonates within me, weeks later.
I’m in a point in my life where motherhood consumes me. I’ve been at this Mommy thing for almost four years now; longer if you count pregnancy and all the worrying I did about my son’s impending birth. The fear of breaking my vagina as Dawson’s head pushed through was always teetering at the back of mind. Perhaps because it took so long for me to conceive, I was nervous and worrisome for the entire nine months.
Looking back on those years before I became a mother, I remember quite vividly the feelings of frustration, sadness and anger I felt over my conception woes. It was an emotional roller coaster, and I felt like I was held captive on this ride and never let off. To completely understand what I went through, I’ll have to give you a little back story.
I was raised in a Polish, Catholic family where it was commonplace for women to get married, have lots of babies and constantly feed everybody. My parents were born into large families; my mother the oldest of seven and my father the youngest of nine children.
Family gatherings were big as well as blithe, laughter was never hard to find, and our extended family grew every year. I remember Christmas holidays when year after year at least one of my aunts was pregnant. I never had a shortage of cousins to play with when I was a kid.
I can still remember how easy, and somewhat glamorous, the women in my family made motherhood appear. No one ever complained about the lack of sleep or trouble with breastfeeding they experienced. There was never any talk about the hundreds of diapers that needed changing. No one ever discussed the fact that their husbands became useless and clueless after the birth of a baby. Instead, it was all happy babies and loving mamas sharing peek-a-boo moments. Boy, what a delusion.
Naturally, I grew up believing that motherhood was the grand poobah of aspirations. This was what little girls dreamed of becoming. At the age of 13, wifedom and motherhood was the end all, be all in my book. In all honesty, if the fear of God and my father weren’t as strong as they were when I was 17, I’m pretty positive I would have gotten pregnant in high school. I know that’s an almost insane thing to admit, but I couldn’t wait to be a mother.
I remember when a schoolmate told me she was expecting during our senior year. I was shocked at first and then later I was somewhat jealous. Of course those feelings dissipated when I watched her struggle with pregnancy and later childbirth and the day the baby’s father abandoned her. That was my first glimpse of the reality that is motherhood. That was the day I realized that there is no glitz and glamor to becoming a mother. And yet, I desperately yearned for the day I would have my own child. I didn’t realize the difficult journey to motherhood that was ahead of me.
My first brush with the infertile world (although I didn’t know it at the time) happened a year after I graduated high school. It was May of 1998, and my period was late. I remember the fear that something was wrong with my body. I was still a virgin, so pregnancy was not possible, unless of course I was chosen by God to give birth to the next Savior of the world.
It turns out my periods would cease for 19 months. After a year and a half of this craziness, I decided it was time to see a doctor. I didn’t have health insurance, so I didn’t go to the clinic, but instead I scheduled an appointment with the local Ruth Gilfry office. They referred me to a physician who prescribed progesterone/progestin to start my periods again, but no explanation was given as to why they stopped to begin with.
There were speculations, such as my rapid weight loss (at age 20, when I got down to 130 pounds, my lowest weight ever. I graduated high school at 150.) or the fact that I was exercising too much and eating too little, as well as my family history of ovarian cysts and fibroids (I had a cyst burst during math class once, causing me to double over in pain), and the possibility I had endometriosis (an ultrasound and laproscopy ruled that out, thank God).
At age 21, I got a job that offered health insurance and I decided to finally have a full physical examination to see what was happening with my ovaries and uterus. My periods had finally started again a few months before, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right, reproductively. I had gained back all of the weight I lost and then some, causing my menstrual cycles to last 40 days or longer and I wanted an explanation. My doctor told me I had polycystic ovarian syndrome. WTF is that, I thought.
I honestly thought it was some made up “disease”, a diagnosis created to group a whole bunch of symptoms and unexplained conditions together. I was told I was overweight and suffering from a metabolic disorder, yet my thyroid checks came back normal every time. My doctor prescribed Glucophage (metformin) to keep my insulin levels in check. Several months later, I was told I was a “borderline diabetic”. My world felt like it was crumbling, especially when the doctor explained, “this condition will make it difficult for you to have children.” I was crushed. I felt as though my dream of motherhood was being pulled away from me. Stolen. I felt robbed.
I was advised to lose weight, but not too much and told not to continue the excessive exercise regime. It was thought that if I lost twenty pounds, having a baby may not be so difficult.
After my husband and I were married, we decided to begin trying to conceive immediately. After 12 months of no luck, I went back to my doctor who referred me to a specialist. The doctor ordered me to continue taking the Glucophage as well as Clomid, a fertility drug.
I began charting my cycles, and taking my temperature every morning and still, I wasn’t pregnant. Every time my period was late, I’d pee on a stick and become angry and frustrated when a big, fat negative result turned up in the test window. After another year of this, I lost hope. I told Doug that I didn’t want children anymore. Not if it meant going through that, month after horrible month.
I confided in my mother about my frustration and she was supportive, yet she told me she didn’t believe anything was wrong with me — that maybe Doug and i weren’t having sex at the right time of the month. Other friends told me to relax, that it would happen when I least expected it. I know they meant well, but these words pissed me off. I wanted so badly to tell them all to shut up. I wanted to say, “You don’t know what I’m going through…you don’t understand how difficult this is!”
Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I wanted to run away. I wanted to cry and yell and throw things. I wasn’t mad at the person, I was mad at my situation. And maybe I was jealous. I didn’t understand why that couldn’t be me.
When these feelings surfaced, I stopped taking the drugs and decided to concentrate on other things. It was November of 2003 and my co-worker Melissa and I decided to try the Atkins diet. It was all the rage back then and we both thought we could stand to lose a few pounds. It was the dumbest thing I did, I realize that now, but the rigidity of that “diet” gave me something else to focus on. Counting carbs and peeing on Keto sticks took my mind of taking Clomid and peeing on ovulation sticks. I lost 37 pounds in 3 months.
In January of 2004, Doug and I decided to get a dog. Murphy became our baby. And then one day I stepped on the scale and discovered I had gained 9 pounds in a week. My fear consumed me, because I was following the Atkins diet religiously. Later, I noticed my period was five days late. I took a pregnancy test. Negative. The old feelings of anger began to rise in my throat like bile. It was devastating. I felt like the universe was jerking my chain and taking great pleasure in it.
Ten more days go by and still no period. My breasts were sore. I was tired all the time. Something didn’t feel right. Never did I think I was pregnant, and I pushed the thought out of my mind. The fear of that negative stick haunted me.
On January 26th, I threw up at work. What the hell is wrong with me? Do I have the flu? It didn’t feel like the flu. On my lunch break I walked to Shopko and bought an E.P.T., but when I returned to work, I couldn’t take the test. I was scared. I confided in Melissa (we both worked the 2nd shift so she was my sound board for many things) and she and another friend, Shannon, urged me to take the test. I went to the bathroom and bit the bullet. And then suddenly, through my tears, I saw two pink lines appear. Then I dropped the stick in the toilet.
The utter disbelief paralyzed me. I fished the stick from the bowl and hurried to the sink. As I was rinsing it off, I noticed the line getting somewhat darker. I wrapped the test in paper towel and ran to my desk.
“Is this a line?” I shrieked at my friends.
“Is what alive?” asked Shannon.
“Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant!” Melissa said.
My boss, Angela, who was also pregnant at the time, rushed over to confirm the results.
“Congratulations!” she said, as she hugged me.
I took another 15 minute break to regain my composure, and then called my husband, my mother and my friend Kelly. I couldn’t hold back the news. It finally happened. I was pregnant. Those two pink lines were so exciting and thrilling.
Little did I know they would spring me into a state of panic and fear that consumed me for the duration of my pregnancy…
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August 3rd, 2008 at 10:49 PM, bloggymommer Says:
geeeez, Dana,
What seems so aweful about IF-after-a-birth is that you think you can put it all behind you, because “Look, I had a kid! I’m cured!”
I’m sorry you’re getting dragged back through the mud again, nooone wants to join the IF club, I can’t imagine wanting to “rejoin.”
I’m glad you’re talking about it, thanks!
bloggymommers last blog post..Aaaack! It’s August!?
August 4th, 2008 at 12:47 AM, nonlineargirl Says:
I recognize so much of what you have written, especially about how it feels to want to get pregnant and to see others having that easily.
It was good for me to see the other women at the infertility panel in various stages of dealing with infertility and various levels of acceptance or not. Every time someone started to speak I welled up.
nonlineargirls last blog post..Beach Photos (or) If one picture is good, three are better
August 4th, 2008 at 12:52 AM, The Dana Files » Ramblings of an Insomniac Says:
[...] « Previous Main [...]
August 4th, 2008 at 1:27 AM, Sunday Linky Love | The Bean Blog Says:
[...] Dana shared her great story of overcoming infertility and getting pregnant. [...]
August 4th, 2008 at 5:11 AM, Bad Mummy Says:
I didn’t go to Blogher (too many oceans to cross
) but I too understand what you’re saying. DH and I tried for six years with two miscarriages to conceive and I have to say, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. We had to take a break for a year before DD was conceived because it was all just driving me crazy.
August 4th, 2008 at 5:12 PM, The Dana Files » Part II, The Wound Is Healing Says:
[...] you haven’t yet read the first part of this series, please click here to do [...]
August 6th, 2008 at 1:12 AM, RBM Says:
Thanks for sharing your experiences. I truly admire your courage and willingness to open up your raw emotions. I love that I was able to meet women like you at Blogher this year.
August 6th, 2008 at 10:12 AM, Dana Says:
You all are amazing. Thanks so much for coming over to share your support and advice and encouragement with me. I really appreciate it.
October 16th, 2008 at 4:53 PM, The Dana Files » It Happens Every Time, But This Day Is Different Says:
[...] she was going to help me, I wondered. Does she even know anything about me? Does she know that I’m struggling? Does she know about my history with PCOS? Does she know it took three years to conceive [...]