Once upon a time, I wrote a blog about my need for recovery from bulimia and binge eating disorder stemming from my intense desire to have children one day. (You can read about that here). That blog focused around a meeting with my OB/GYN that had left me with more questions than answers. She had explained to me that it would be incredibly difficult for me to have children, although she’d been incredibly vague on why. I was too shell-shocked to ask.
My most recent OB/GYN visit was the opposite, giving me more answers than I had questions to. The most basic run down is this: one ovary doesn’t work, and the other has about as many eggs left as a forty year old woman. The conversation quickly turned from “you probably can’t have children,” to “here are some pamphlets on IVF and adoption.” Though medication is still an option in the future, it’s a dismal option at best. Long story short, if my mother wants more grandchildren, she should probably start bugging my older brother about it instead of me.
The emotions have been coming in waves. At first, I was in shock, and I honestly didn’t feel much of anything for two or three days. Then reality set in, and ever since, it’s been a roller coaster of anger and grief. Never had I imagined that a doctor’s visit would leave me feeling like someone had stolen something from me, something so taken for granted that I had hardly known it was mine to begin with. Though the doctor had been clear the first time when she said that having children would be difficult, the gravity of the situation had been lost on me until I’d been shown a clear ultrasound of just how hopeless my ovaries were.
I am 21 years old, nearly 22. Not once did I think that infertility would be on the list of things I had to worry about. Going back to college, sure. Getting a raise at work, most definitely. The last two months have been spent Googling words like “escrow” and “home appraisal” in anticipation to buy a house, but now my most recent history has turned into a long line of “in vitro fertilization,” “adoption in Illinois,” and “dealing with infertility.” It seems grossly unfair to have lost something so connected with my hopes and dreams for the future.
Throughout all of the upcoming appointments and surgery consults, I would love to remain optimistic. I would love to cling to the thought that maybe, just maybe, some form of medication will fix my broken womb and make me capable of being a mother. I don’t think there will ever be a time where I stop praying for a missed period of two little pink lines. But at the same time, with a heavy heart and a realistic outlook, I’ve come to realize that maybe not being able to have kids means I won’t have to lose any more.