I hadn't even wanted to go to the meeting, but I had made a commitment with the women from my church and I wasn't bound to miss an opportunity to get out of the house after being cooped up all weekend. I hadn't felt well that morning, of course that meant very little to a person that had continuous back pain and nausea caused by what her doctor diagnosed as, "Huh . . might be ulcers."
Of course when my Mother-in-law and I arrived at Melanie's house and everyone sat down in a circle in the beautifully decorated living room, all I could think was how I wanted a house just like this, and how suddenly the room was spinning and I needed to lay down.
An hour went by with my head tilted, laying against the arm rest of the sofa while the other women planned our Christmas Relief Society Enrichment night. We only had Enrichment night once every three months, so it was important to make it worth something, and here I was feeling guilty because my only participation was, "Uh huh," and "Yep."
Of course no one made me feel that way, just my usual rack of self guilt that I tend to bring on myself. I always felt sick anyways, today wasn't any different and there was no need to let the others know how I felt. Of course I think they got the distinct impression that I wasn't feeling well when they found me throwing up on the side of Melanie's house. I felt bad for the girl who brought me the hose.
Naturally, when any woman who's married (or at least having sex) starts throwing up, everyone's immediate reaction isn't so much, "Oh wow, are you okay?" or, "Did you eat something bad?" but more along the lines of, "Oh! Do you think you might be pregnant?!" Followed by the distinct sounds of squealing and baby hunger pangs clawing their way into every woman who wasn't already pregnant, or still breast feeding.
I however was too busy trying to figure out if my mouth just tasted like dirt, or if there was dirt in the hose that I was now drinking out of. Of course I thought I could be pregnant. I wasn't stupid. But after trying to have a baby for almost three years with no success, I had my doubts. I wanted a baby right away. Always had been my plan, and when my sister in law got pregnant a month after hubby and I got married, I knew I wasn't going to bring forth the first grandchild, so my next goal was to at least produce a girl since my sister-in-law already had a boy.
Matt went along with me going off of my birth control pills, but that was mainly because the overload of Western Medicinal hormones had turned me into a crazy psycho woman that threatened to throw his comic book collection over the balcony if he didn't fold the socks correctly. Heck, he was ready to flush those bad boy pills before I even brought up the suggestion. My grandmother had given us a note on our wedding night that told us how to calculate my cycles in order to avoid getting pregnant. Nice old lady that one, but considering she's far past 60 years old with twenty plus grandchildren, I think it's a little too late for her to claim that she's too young for the next generation to get pushed out.
So instead, or in spite, not sure which, we decided to use her system against her and try to get pregnant by timing things right. Granted, Grammy's little note didn't tell us that when you're overweight and 28 days means jack to you, the schedule doesn't work.
The first doctor we saw told us to keep on trying, almost as though he was telling us that we were "The Little Engine That Could", and just over that big ol' mountain was some fantastic sex followed by morning sickness. That freaking easy. We were twenty years old, of course we could conceive! But then when another year passed by and nothing had changed, I began to worry. Having a family was my greatest dream, and since Fate is a fickle lady, I was certain that she got bored and decided to just mess with my life a little bit. Fate's a fickle something alright.
After seeing a general practitioner who told us we just needed to lose weight (translation: "Stop being so fat"), we were recommended to see an OB/GYN. Another co-pay and two weeks later we sat in a office and were told by a new doctor that the problem was of course me. I received no examination, no blood tests, heck, doc didn't even check my temperature! But he did compare my body to a car and said that if I was out of gas I shouldn't change my tire. Ironically his degree said he graduated from Harvard Medical and Auto Care Center.
That was when we decided to bring in the specialist. A person who specialises in helping couples bring in a blessing to their family. A wondrous, blessed event that would change our lives forever. Of course, we did happen to step on their toes when they sent us wrong directions and we showed up ten minutes late. After asking nicely what our options were, the secretary decided sarcasm was the best way to treat the situation, and while I walked out of the building crying, my husband decided to have security called on him by cursing at the secretary and throwing papers in her face.
So a year after that event, hubby tells me he really wants to start trying. He wants to be a Daddy. The words could bring me to tears, literally. I see this man play with our nephew and I can imagine the pains he feels for wanting a child of his own. I want to give him that of course, even if he does want to name our first born son Peter Parker. So when I come home from my meeting, telling him that I threw up. He grins so brightly that I think I see tears in his eyes, and then he touches my belly. It's not really that fun to have your belly touched unless your pregnant, and I don't even really know if it's much fun then either. But we had a meeting with a REAL OB/GYN the next day, and I could only pray that this guy left his car metaphors in the parking lot.
When we get to the doctors office, all I feel is the strong need to throw up again, this time from nervousness. I have all the signs though. Morning sickness, tender breasts, aversion to smells, light-headedness and feeling dizzy. I am pregnant.
Of course I can't even say the words cause I know that because I'm Irish superstitious, that some dirty little internal faerie is going to somehow get inside of my uterus and take away the cell sized baby that I'm sure isn't even there. So because I'm Irish, and now VERY superstitious, I don't say a word. These doctors are nice though, which relaxes me. It's so far better than The Little Engine That Couldn't Conceive, "You're Fat" MD, Doc Auto, and the Psycho from Secretary Hell, so I'm feeling less like vomiting. I tell them I think I'm pregnant, and since it's a doctors office and I'm sure they all get a kick out of it, they make me pee in a cup. I hate those tests. Everything about it is uncomfortable. Not only the fact that someone else is looking at, and occasionally touching your urine, but you have to actually piss in a cup! Now if you're a guy, then you've got to be a pro, but I don't know many women who can aim at such an angle.
So after washing my hands thirty-six freaking times cause no matter how great my aim was, I still feel gross, I return to the office where my husband awaits me and asks, "So everything come out okay?" Kidding, he really didn't say that. He would have, had the situation not been as serious as it was.
Fifteen minutes feel like three hours when you're waiting for your life to change. I tell hubby that I don't think I can take hearing, "The test came out negative," one more time. Our doctor saves us from that fate though, and instead begins asking me more questions.
"Are there any other problems you've been tested for?"
"Well yeah, I'm overweight, so "You're Fat" MD, told me that I'm pre-borderline diabetic."
He marks something off on his papers which instantly gets my attention.
"Are your cycles regular?"
"No. Fate is fickle, we've been through this before."
"Do you have back pain? Lightheadedness? Nausea?" His list went on, and I nodded my head to every single thing he asked me, wondering the whole while if he's either a mind reader, or I'm a hypochondriac. And that's when he said it.
"You have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome." I had heard the words before, but never knew what it meant. The Doc's a good man, and goes on to explain it all to me. Something about levels of insulin not working, estrogen not being produced, and other hormones going off the scale. Turns out this PCOS stuff makes it so it's very difficult to lose weight. TAKE THAT YOU "YOU'RE FAT" DOCTOR! That's about the time that hubby and I realised that the test came out negative, and instead of ruining our pretty instant baby dreams, our Doctor took the better way out and diagnosed me with an incurable disease instead.
That's right. Incurable. Manageable . . . but incurable.
I'll have to take medicine for this probably the rest of my life, and it's not the happy Vitamin C pill I had been hoping for. It's called Metformin (aka Glucophage) and the side effects aren't pretty. I swallow my pride, take the pills which within an hour make nausea seem like a day at the spa. For over a week I'm tired, sick and so pissed off at the world I barely want to move. Why me? Sixteen year old girls get pregnant by seventeen year old guys every day and I can't. Women who just want a career choose abortion over adoption or family because it's the "easy way out", and I have to go on fertility drugs just for the privilege. I'm angry at those women, those girls, and the clinics who allow the crap they get away with. The politicians who support it, and suddenly I find tears streaming down my face asking over and over, "Why me?"
But I've delt with the possibilities of infertility before. I know how to scream at God over my missing family and frankly it's getting me no where. So then come the other questions. Will this thing eventually kill me? Will I screw up somehow, get diabetes and be forced to spend my remaining days in a wheelchair because my lack of insulin took my legs? Will I actually concieve only to find that my crappy genes have passed this crap onto my kids? But mostly I thought, does my husband think I'm broken? Did he get the bad deal at the wife lot? Will this destroy us?
It's amazing what a little acronym can do to your life. PCOS. When you think somethings wrong with you, all you want is to find out what it is and then you'll be fine. I wanted that. I just wanted an answer. I got it, and now what? Now I live with this. Pissed off, but determined to fight. Pills make me sick, but after I've cried out my frustration I somehow have found the determination to get off my backside and make a salad instead of a bowl of icecream (see, the diabetic thing is a little worrysome). This thing, this disease has me paralysed physically and emotionally, but it won't last forever. I just wish I knew where it's ass was, so I could seriously kick it. I have strength, I have the power to deal with this. I have to believe that. I don't know what else to do.
And I'm only on week three. I'm doing okay. I'm still angry, but I'm hopeful.
So check back with me in a month or something.
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