As I sit here in my favorite gray sweatpants eating my low-fat peanut butter greek frozen yogurt, I am struggling with trying to find the words to type to tell my story. It’s not hard because it’s complicated, sad, or hopeless. It’s hard because I’ve tried to block out most of what I’ve experienced these last few years. As Julie Andrews says, “Let’s start at the very beginning, the very best place to start.”
I have been married since September 16th, 2009 to my best friend. He is amazing in every way I could possibly think of. I look up to him, I adore him, I need him. I tell him everything, and I love having that privilege. We want to be parents more than anything. Especially me. For as long as I can remember I have excitedly and anxiously waited for the day I can look into my child’s eyes and feel that connection.
We have been trying to have a baby since around June of 2009, but have been actively trying since December of 2010. I am not (well, was not) a patient person by any means, so when we still hadn’t conceived, I was really angry. Not frustrated… Angry. I thought there was something wrong with me. I’m sure every woman with fertility issues thinks that, but I was devastated. I went to my OB-GYN and sat nervously in the waiting room dreading the answer to the question that had permanently burned itself into my consciousness, surrounded by pregnant women, smiling couples, and babies… Babies where everywhere I turned. After what seemed like an eternity, my name was called and I walked the hall to the exam room. The doctor asked me a litany of questions, took blood, examined me, and let me voice my concerns. She then looked me straight in the eye and said ” You have PCOS, or polycystic ovarian syndrome, but you are perfectly fertile.” She smiled, gave me the phone number for the Houston Fertility Institute, shook my hand, and walked out of the room. In the minutes that took me to get dressed, gather my things, and walk to the elevator, I was mentally running a marathon of relief, anxiety, and joy. There is nothing wrong with me! I could have cried. Instead, I calmy walked across the parking lot to my little silver car, got in, and turned on the engine. As I drove the 30 miles home, I was already planning my next course of action.
Two weeks later, I was back in the same building, this time sitting in a waiting room one floor above my OB-GYN’s office at the Houston Fertility Institute. This entire visit is a blur to me, so I will fast forward to a week later, when my husband and I recieved the test results we had been restlessly waiting for. The call came and went in the blink of an eye. My husband hung up the phone and looked at me with a mixed expression of relief and apprehension. His sperm count was normal, motility was normal, everything checked out. They had ordered that I come back in for the next step.
Instead of putting me through a crazy amount of tests and poking and prodding, they prescribed me a pill to take 5 days a month, and keep them updated on if it was working.
The first two months went by and the only thing that happened was my wonderful husband got me a sweet puppy. We named her Lilly. The side effects to the medication were grueling, often to the point of me having to stay in bed for a couple days over the last week of the cycle.
I decided to take a break the third month, and that was sweet bliss.
The fourth month, June, I took the medication again, and seeing no change, I stopped taking it. I went about my life as usual, albeit a little miffed.
September rolled around and I was anxiously awaiting my birthday and wedding anniversary. On my birthday, I realized my period was late and my breasts were hurting terribly. I had one pregnancy test left over, so I took it. I almsot passed out when I glanced down at it. On the screen in the most wonderful little black letters I had ever seen, read one word. “Pregnant”
My husband’s first reaction was “Is this a joke?” (Not kidding!)
Just to be sure, my husband went to the store and got three more boxes of tests. I took every single one of them. All 9 of them were positive. We enjoyed that day more than I think we did our own wedding day.
I scheduled an appointment a few days later to have my first ultrasound because I had caluclated that I was about 8 weeks along.
The ultrasound tech got set up and started her thing. She found the baby right away and said a sentence that I will never forget.
“Umm, Mrs. Barron, you’re actually 12 weeks and 1 day pregnant.”
I was not only pregnant, I was 3 months pregnant, with an obviously healthy baby bouncing around on the monitor.
That day was hands-down the best day of my life.
It was short-lived.
8 days later, my husband and I decided to have sex for the first time since finding out that we were pregnant. We got the okay from my doctor, and went for it. It was uncomfortable, but it passed quickly, and we went to sleep. At 2 am, I woke up with horrendous cramps and and some bleeding. for the next four hours, I was up and down to the restroom, and the bleeding and pain got worse. My husband made the executive decision to take me to the ER. The ride to the hospital was excruciating, but it was nothing compared to what I was about to endure. I will spare you the scarring details, but sadly, at 7 am, I was laying in a hospital bed on morphine, no longer pregnant, with my husband crying by my side, trying not to let me see, trying to be strong for me. I fell in love with him all over again that night. He didn’t get to see our baby’s little hands like I did, and I wish I hadn’t, but I wish he had. I will regret that until the day I die.
My husband is my hero. He took care of telling our families and friends. He held me while I cried, while I let out the most pain-filled sobs I have ever felt. He stayed by my side that night, and I will never forget waking up to his face in my morphine-induced fog. That night had seemingly aged him about 10 years, but he just held my hand and looked at me with love in his eyes. He never blamed me…
I hated myself. I couldn’t even look in the mirror. I couldn’t answer the phone. I couldn’t face the neighbors.
It took me a few weeks, but I slowly returned to a semi-normal functioning level.
Six months and 10 days have passed since that horrible night, and I am happy to say we are stronger than ever and trying again.
In February, we contacted the hospital to find out if they knew the gneder of the baby we lost. I was doubtful, but sure enough, they knew.
I asked my husband to have them call him and tell him, because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. I know that’s selfish, but by not associating it as my son or daughter that I lost, I felt I could cope easier.
I was shocked when my husband told me it had been a boy. I was convinced it had been a girl.
A boy. My boy. My son. My heart aches writing this.
My due date was eight days ago.
I lit a candle, and shed more than a few tears. I had wanted that baby so badly.
Now that you know my back story, I will post updates on my journey to become the mother I long to be.
Thanks for reading.