5/31/2016 3 Comments Blocked.Anger. Anger, Anger, and more Anger. I have impatiently been WAITING to hear back from the doctor since my HSG. I was supposed to be scheduled for laparoscopic surgery. After 13 days of waiting I finally get the call that my insurance is not going to cover this surgery. It is going to cost $4,943 out of pocket. This is made up from three different departments. It has to be paid upfront before they will even schedule your surgery. This is also a “ball park estimate.” If the surgery lasts longer we could see an additional $1,000 (or so charge). The payment plan is pathetic. We can choose to put the facility charge of $3,300 on a maximum of a 15 month payment. BUT, if we do that the charge increases to $4,200. This would make that payment $225 per month for 15 months. AND we would still have to pay a total of $1,582 upfront to schedule surgery. Later, I called to see if we were eligible for financial assistance and we are not. I called our health insurance and at this point they consider anything reproductive related a treatment for infertility and are no longer paying for anything. Everything from here on out is out of pocket.
While on the phone with the first person I was talking to, all I wanted to do was throw my phone across the room as hard as I possibly could. But the rational part of my brain kept reminding me I have no money left to buy a new phone. Then I decided I could throw a pack of post it notes across the room instead. But, what would that solve? I decided just to weep instead. I work in two different schools. Shortly after receiving this phone call from the doctor’s office, I had to change schools. It’s a good 20 minute drive between my schools and I bawled the entire way. It took me quite a bit of time in the parking lot to get it together. I waited patiently until it seemed like I could make a straight shot back to my office without running into anyone. I kept thinking “For the love of God, please no one ask me how I am doing.” Do you know how many times per day people casually ask you how you are doing? Why is this something we do? This must be an American thing. I will NEVER casually ask anyone how they are doing ever again. The negative thoughts start to seep in. “What in the hell did I possibly do to deserve this and how do I repent for whatever it was to make this nightmare end?” Parts of me feels like the universe is sending me very clear signals that I am not fit to be a mother. Part of me wants to stop trying. I always thought I was a more resilient person because I’ve had to overcome so much in my life. But I am tired. I am tired of having to fight for everything I want. Each step of this process has almost seemed harder than the last. I know it will only get worse. I am tired and I am defeated. I feel so stupid for thinking it would be as easy as having this surgery and then getting pregnant. I even fantasized that we would get pregnant the first month after having my tubes cleared. But no, here we are being smacked back into reality. Now we have to decide if it’s worth the risk. Will this surgery actually correct our problem? We have no idea. This could all be for nothing. I’m not much a gambling person. Five thousand dollars is a lot to gamble. Then, if it doesn’t work IVF could be our only option. That will cost in excess of at least $10,000 for one round. I do not have enough money to gamble like this. I feel very hopeless. This weekend I spent a good bit of my time watching season 2 of Grace and Frankie (please go watch now if you haven’t seen this show yet). Frankie was not able to have children and adopted her two sons. Grace gets lice in one of the episodes and threatens to put a contaminated hat on Frankie. Frankie responds by saying, “Oh please do. I would love to host life.” I feel you Frankie…I feel you.
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5/27/2016 0 Comments FeelingsI wasn’t sure if I would continue with this blog after the first post. However, I’ve received so many thanks so much support from men and women it seems I will continue. It seems so odd to me how many people have called me “brave.” It is sad that this experience is so taboo that it is considered an act of bravery just to talk about it. I hope one day that this is not the case. However, this post will be exceptionally difficult to share.
After my first doctor’s appointment I felt a surge of emotions I couldn’t even identify. Anger, self-loathing, sadness, emptiness. I felt like I cycled through the “7 stages of grief” hourly. I was shocked and disbelieving, I was angry and self-loathing. So many “What-if’s” floating around in mind. “What if we had started sooner? What if I was healthier? I need to lose weight right now.” I was guilty. I was so guilty and self-loathing. I hated myself and my body and my life. This was so unfair. My life’s biggest and most pervasive lesson has always seemed to be “life is unfair.” I could hear my father’s voice in the back of my head from when I was a teenager, “I know it isn’t fair. But that is life. We just do the best we can.” Instantly arguing with myself that “the best I can” never seems good enough. I would bargain with the universe. “Please, if I could have just one healthy baby, I’ll never ask for another thing.” I would feel depressed and lonely. Suddenly, I would convince myself that money is no object and we could totally afford IVF if it came to that. Then reality would come crashing down and I would begin to realize there would be no way we could afford IVF. Then the cycle would start again. This lasted for at least a week that felt like a month. I now understand why hygiene is the first thing to go when you are depressed. EVERYTHING is so overwhelming. I don’t particularly enjoy washing and drying and styling my hair on a normal day. But now, everything I do feels like I’m trudging through molasses in order to do it. Getting out of bed in the morning is the hardest thing I do all day. Every morning I wake up and ask myself, “Can I make it to the end of the work day?” Generally, the answer is yes. Some days I have to readjust my expectations. When the answer is “no” I ask myself, “Okay, can I make it to lunch? If I can make it to lunch and I still want to go home then that’s my compromise.” If the answer is still “no” I ask myself, “What can I do to increase the odds I will make it to lunch?” On those days, I wear jeans. So far, if I’m able to get out of bed and get to work things generally work out. All these doctor’s appointments have taken their toll on my sick leave so I can’t afford to miss any extra days. Then, when I get to work it generally takes some coercing to get myself out of the car. I have to be my best self at work because it’s my job to help other people. I have to wrangle all of my feelings, box them away, and store them in a place where they can’t get out until I get back to my car. Part of me wants to just leave those feelings there until they die. But I know that once they die they begin to rot and the stench will seep out in places I would least expect them. When you suppress negative emotions you also take the positive emotions with them. So, every afternoon on my lengthy commute home I unpack each feeling and let them wash over me. I take out the sadness, the despair, the anger and resentment, the jealousy and self-loathing and I feel each one until I can get back to “normal.” Then I try to find something that brings me some sort of sense of normalcy. I’ll watch funny videos or play mindless games on my phone. My cats have brought me more happiness and peace than I ever thought possible. (Spoken like a true cat lady.) This is a pretty exhausting process and some days I’m reluctant or don’t have time. I try to make time each day when I’m alone so that I don’t start storing them up. Although it seems my natural inclination is to lay on the couch until the apocalypse, I try to find friends to go out with during the week or on weekends to just feel like a person. Some people don’t understand this. How can something that doesn’t exist cause so many emotions? I don’t have an answer. I just know that it does. For at least the last five days, the neighbor’s directly across the street from us have had a flamboyant display of baby paraphernalia in their yard. There’s a giant pink banner proudly announcing the arrival of their baby girl at the end of the driveway and a giant poster board just off the side of their porch, which is delicately protected by a large pink beach umbrella, with a stork carrying a baby girl and an announcement with the baby’s name. The first day I saw this I was overwhelmed with anger and despair and had flashes of the scene from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes when Kathy Bates rams her car over and over into the back of a VW bug owned by two younger girls who stole a parking spot Kathy Bates had been waiting for. Luckily, this was a fleeting thought. Then I had to remember that they are just proud and overjoyed about their new arrival. I hate these feelings that come with this experience. Sometimes I will see or hear about people having babies that are not in the stage of life I am in. They aren’t married (which is fine) or they don’t have jobs or stable income. I see broken families and families with children who have all different fathers. I see families with 4 or 5 or more children. It just didn’t seem fair they could have children and I can’t. I would see friends announcing their pregnancies and be filled with jealousy and anger. “When is it my turn?” I felt horrible for these feelings. However, this is one emotion everyone who has reached out to me seems to share. One friend admitted to throwing her laptop across the room after seeing another Facebook pregnancy announcement. These feelings in these instances feel like the dirtiest of dirty secrets. Am I really begrudging someone for having the most joyous occasion of their life? I don’t want to be that person. Of course, I would never be truly begrudge someone for having a child. At least, I hope not. Of course I am genuinely happy for my friends. But, it is truly bittersweet. A friend who had been struggling with fertility who is currently pregnant posted on Facebook on Mother’s day that she felt a little guilty about being finally being pregnant and having the chance to celebrate Mother’s day. I knew exactly why she felt guilty and I know that I will feel guilty if ever I have the opportunity to be pregnant. No one should have to feel guilty. Every morning my school principal ends the morning announcements with the quote, “Make it a great day or not. The choice is yours.” I used to think, “What a great message to start the day.” Now I think, “Who has the audacity to think I can truly control the feelings I’m experiencing enough to make it a great day?” Can I really choose to have a great day or not? In a rare moment of clarity I experienced, I realized that I can choose to have a great day. I just have to adjust my definition of “a great day.” Now my definition includes: Was I able to go to work and be a functioning member of society? Was I able to interact with others without becoming overwhelmed with emotion unexpectedly? In a moment of jealousy, anger, self-loathing, or resentment, could I take control of this, recognize it, and attempt to be a rational human being again? On the days that aren’t felt to be so “great” I try not to beat myself up over them. I let them pass and know that in the next hour or day things will be better again. A friend shared with me this C.S. Lewis quote that really resonated with me: “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.” I know that even if we aren’t able to have our own child that we do have the option of fostering or adopting. I know that even if we choose not to go down that road that my husband and I will still love each other and we are capable of creating and maintaining a fulfilling life in other ways. 5/26/2016 2 Comments FIRST POSTI’ve been toying with the idea of starting a blog about my journey with infertility. I’m not great with follow through, but I am addicted to the internet. So, there’s an excellent chance that this could be the only blog post I create or I could post twice daily or somewhere in between. I want to create this post and/or blog (whatever this turns out to be) to educate the public on the topic of infertility. I am not nearly as eloquent as I would like to be, but I hope that my story can make other women feel less isolated. I will constantly reiterate the fact that one in eight couples struggle with fertility and one in four women experience a miscarriage. These statistics are mind blowing. The next time you find yourself in a room full of women, consider yourself lucky if you don’t fall into one of these categories.
A little about myself. I am a 28 year old school psychologist (not to be confused with a guidance counselor). I have had to overcome numerous obstacles and disappointments in my life. When the movie A Series of Unfortunate Events came out, I could have sworn someone had created my biography. I grew up in Southwest Virginia. I wasn’t the poorest kid in my school, but I’m sure we were not quite “middle-class” either. I have struggled with my weight my entire life and was bullied horribly. On my 15th birthday, I woke up with Bell’s palsy which lasted for several months and never healed all the way. When it came time for college, I genuinely didn’t know if I could afford to go. Luckily, I received numerous grants and scholarships and ended up with basically a free ride. I worked my butt off to finish in three years (with a 4.0 GPA, I might add). A few months before I graduated my father lost his job (on my birthday). I had no idea if I would be able to go to graduate school. Luckily, I had made the kind of connections I thought only privileged people had and I landed a job as a Resident Director which paid for my tuition. Since then, I have never had trouble getting the jobs of my choice. I felt like I was finally leading the life I had always hoped and dreamed about. I married the most wonderful man who loves me more than I ever thought anyone could. We had our dream wedding. Just last year we bought the biggest, most beautiful house I never could have thought I would own. On our house tour I noticed how one of the bedroom floors squeaked and I said aloud, “when our kids are teenagers they’ll have trouble sneaking out at night.” I knew we would have children and I knew they would grow up in this beautiful house in a wonderful neighborhood that I would’ve wanted to grow up in. Time kept moving forward and I began to get worried we weren’t going to have these children. My doctor told me we would have to wait a whole year until we could undergo any fertility testing or insurance wouldn’t pay for it. She ran some basic blood tests and said everything looked normal. A few more months past and nothing. She ran more tests and still said everything looked okay. We hit our year mark. I was terrified to make an appointment. At this point, I know my luck and I know something is wrong. I didn’t want to make an appointment. What if I was the problem? What if my husband was the problem? Would we be resentful of each other? I think I failed to mention I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and I am really good at jumping to conclusions and expecting the worst case scenario. I finally made the appointment for a referral. I go to the doctor and of course the doctor again says, “You’re so young. You have plenty of time. Just enjoy getting to try for a baby each month.” Clearly, this woman never had trouble having children. My appointment was scheduled for almost 2 months from my original referral date. The waiting is the worst. I am impatient and having infertility requires a significant amount of patience. At work a few days later, I got a call saying there was a cancellation and I could come that day in just two hours. I texted my husband. He wasn’t able to go, but I wasn’t willing to wait any longer. I had no idea what to expect. The doctor was old and looked like Dumbledore. He’s very nonchalant and did little to no explaining of what I was going to undergo that day. But somehow, he was still very calming and made things seem like no big deal. He left me in a room with all kinds of machines I had never seen before. The nurse saw my “deer in the headlights” look and explained I would be getting a vaginal sonogram and some blood work. Great. Not prepared in the slightest. For my entire life I had always gone way out of my way to find female lady doctors. I had not adequately prepared myself for this. But I braved up, put on my gown and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor calmly explained to me that they like to see 12 follicles, but at any given time there should be at least 6 and I had three. I had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t sound good. He also explained that the current egg I had was much smaller than it should have been and probably wasn’t viable. Again, I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I’m pretty sure “not viable” is a bad thing. As I laid on this table, with my feet in the stirrups, I began to wonder if this would be the only pictures of my uterus I would see. I was sad my husband wasn’t there. Then I was whisked away into a room where they attempted to take 10 different blood samples. I have the WORST veins ever. After an hour of trying and three different vein attempts I had eaten half of their lunch hour. The nurses took my blood samples and put them in a bag and asked me to walk them downstairs to the lab. GREAT. Worst day ever and now I have to take my own blood to the lab to see if it is enough. If it wasn’t enough I would have to start over. I gave my blood to the phlebotomist. She wasn’t sure if the vials had enough blood so she had to call a specialist down to see. I had to sit in the waiting room with a lady with a young daughter. She seemed so annoyed by her daughter she just gave her a phone and had her playing games. I had no idea what this lady’s story was, but I was immensely jealous and angry that she seemed to not appreciate her daughter. I had to keep reminding myself I was in a hospital and this lady’s day may have been as bad as mine was. Finally, the specialist came and said that was enough blood and sent me on my way. I barely made it to my car before I broke down sobbing. I cried in my car for an hour before I was able to drive. Luckily, I have an incredible supervisor and she understood that I could not go back to work. Then, more waiting. I had to wait for what felt like forever to get my results. I listened to “The Scientist” by Coldplay on repeat every day. Apparently, when I get depressed I like to wallow in it. The nurse called and said my progesterone was low, but that’s fixable. Although my follicle count was low, my AMH and FSH are okay. Not great, but workable. The nurse then said my husband’s semen sample was in the 99th percentile and she was shocked I wasn’t pregnant already. Thank you. Here’s your award for worst bedside manner ever. Next stop: HSG. A few days later I woke up with a horrible pain in my side. I had to ask my husband to take me to the emergency room. Turns out I had a kidney stone. Great. Worst pain I’ve ever experienced. Because I’m trying to get pregnant they could not do a CT scan, but did do an ultrasound. While the lady scanned the entire right side of my torso I again had the thought, “What if this is the only ultrasound I ever get to see?” A few days later, I had an HSG test. This test required them to shoot iodine dye into my uterus while using an X-Ray to see if I have blocked fallopian tubes. Again, I had to go alone because my husband was in the middle of studying for his PhD qualifier exam. When I was a child, my father had had a CT scan that required iodine dye and he had a severe allergic reaction which caused him to almost die. So me with my anxiety disorder knew this would also be my fate. The doctor prescribed me a cocktail of Prednisone and Benadryl that I would take 13 hours, 6 hours, and 1 hour before the HSG to reduce my risk of anaphylaxis. I was so worried about taking this I completely forgot to take some ibuprofen beforehand. The appointments were an hour behind schedule. Again more waiting. The doctor was very kind and kept asking how I was doing. Suddenly, I felt horrible pain. I could tell something was wrong because the young nurses did not have good poker faces. The doctor kept saying, “Your fallopian tubes may be having a spasm. Let’s just keep trying to wait it out.” After waiting and waiting and excruciating pain, he finally decided to stop. I definitely showed one blocked tube and one that he could not definitively say if it was blocked or not and that I would now need to have laparoscopic surgery. I began to weep right there on the spot. Then the doctor asked, “Which part of what I said made you upset?” I had no idea how to respond so choking back my tears I mustered out, “All of it.” He continued to attempt to reassure me that everything would be fine. Things did not feel fine. I had to go upstairs to schedule another appointment with the doctor. At this point, I did not care if people saw me crying. I’m in a hospital for Christ’s sake. I scheduled my follow up appointment and ran to my car where I wept until I felt like I could go home. Again, my lovely supervisor being so kind and understanding. The doctor prescribed me an antibiotic because the HSG test has a low risk of pelvic infection. But, if you have blocked tubes the risk is higher. This was happening in the middle of a very busy work week and some out-of-town friends were in for a conference (perfect timing for a fun night out). My face was red and hot all night and the following day. I just assumed it was because of all the stress and not having time to really process everything. Turns out, it was an allergic reaction to the antibiotics. Of course, I’ve never had an allergic reaction to medication until now. Perfect timing. After meeting with the doctor the following day, we didn’t hear anything we hadn’t already heard before. Now here are again waiting for my surgery date. Waiting and waiting and waiting. If waiting could kill I would’ve been dead weeks ago. I know we have so much more waiting and hoping left to do; it’s overwhelming just to think about it. I’ve joined a TTC (trying to conceive) Facebook group. I can’t believe how many people have been trying for 3, 5, 7, 10, or 15 years and have yet to have any “BFPs” (big fat positive pregnancy test). I work in special education so I am no stranger to acronyms, but man have I had to learn a thousand more. At this point, I’m pretty sure I can have an entire conversation without ever having to say a whole word. I’ve been pretty open about our experience on Facebook. I am shocked and humbled by the outpouring of support from my friends. I feel so blessed to have had so many people reach out to me to share their stories. I will cherish these stories and be your voice. If I am going to carry this burden I will do so in a way to educate and eradicate false conceptions of our struggles. All this time I have always thought of infertility as some urban legend that is no more real than Bigfoot. No one ever talks about infertility or miscarriages. One in 8 couples experience infertility. One in four women have a miscarriage. That is not an urban legend or something so infrequent it shouldn’t be discussed. This something that should be talked about regularly. We are not alone in our struggles. Our experiences should not be shrugged off or go unnoticed. They are real and they are the most painful of painful experiences. I used to think after having Bell’s palsy I should not have to experience any other traumas. Now, it just seems like that was practice. The last thing I want to leave in this post is about what to say (and not to say*) to those struggling with fertility. I do want to preface this by saying I appreciate every single one of my friends for reaching out and showing your support no matter what you said or how you said it. I know what you say has good intentions. However, these are things I wish to never hear again.
This is a long post, but I am grateful to those who made it through the whole thing. *Writers note: I only intended to write one or two things not to say, but as I typed my fingers wouldn’t stop typing. This list is also not exhaustive. |
Heather Joyce
Trying to conceive. Archives
April 2018
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