I'm sorry it has been a while since I posted, and I appreciate some of you checking in on me. I actually went to the beach with some college friends and assumed I would be able to post, but I didn't have Internet access. I missed blogging and realized what an outlet it has become to post as well as read about others' adventures. I am leaving town again tomorrow for a week so I wanted to post an update before I left. . .
Before my trip to the beach, I realized I had not had a period in about forty-five days. I had taken a pregnancy test (negative results) because I was undergoing some x-rays. I called my doctor, and he assumed I hadn't ovulated but asked me to come in for a mucus test (doesn't that just sound disgusting?) and ultrasound. The results showed us that I had not ovulated; he put me on
Provera for seven days to start my period.
While on my fabulous beach trip, I spent time with three friends, two of which have children. As much as it killed me to hear stories about their
children's adventures, I also know this is their reality. They spend most days home with their young ones and had great stories to tell. Often when they spoke of their kids, I could feel myself withdrawing and being quiet. What was I supposed to say? They have every right to talk about their children.
I broke down once at dinner and was mortified. I don't want attention. I don't want people feeling sorry for me. I don't want anyone to pity me. But at the same time, I want people to think before they speak.
One day as we took a beach stroll, I ventured to my quiet place as they spoke of their kids again, and I began noticing the beautiful shells on the beach. For some reason, I was drawn to the sand dollars. There were sand dollars of all shapes and sizes- some big, some small, some perfect and whole, and others broken and cracked. These sand dollars were like my friends and me: The perfect and whole and complete ones represented my friends with children. The cracked and broken ones represented me, the infertile one. But there was even more to this comparison than not having children. The sand dollars that were broken or cracked had character, they lacked something, and they were incomplete. I so desired for them to be complete every time I picked one up on the beach. I felt they deserved to be whole. I felt they had been through tough times. I felt they were just like my life without children: broken.
Upon returning home, I started my period and headed back to the doctor for my baseline ultrasound since I'll be undergoing a frozen transfer cycle in July. My doctor saw me on cycle day 1 because I was going to be out of town when he wanted to see me. As he viewed the ultrasound, he told me he wanted my follicles to all be less than ten. He began rattling off numbers to the nurse- the thickness of my lining, the size of my ovaries, the size of my follicles, etc. Two follicles were slightly larger than ten. He
explained that I had the possibility of this cycle being cancelled- something to do with too much progesterone and possibly needing
Lupron to shut my body down next time if this doesn't end up working out in July. He also mentioned that it was early in my cycle and things could change, which is why he doesn't like to see patients on cycle day 1. I begin my
estradiol injections when my period is nearly finished, call him, and then will return for another ultrasound and
blood work when I get back in town that will give us more information on whether we will proceed with the next cycle or not.
My doctor's comments flew above my head and his words swirled around me.
My brain could only visualize those sand dollars, that walk on the beach, and my reality of broken.
"I guess when your heart gets broken you sort of start to see cracks in everything. I'm convinced that tragedy wants to harden us and our mission is never to let it." (Anonymous)
