We meet with our first, and hopefully only, Reproductive Endocrinologist tomorrow.
He’s the guy I hoped we’d never need to meet, yet, now that we know what we know, I’ve been eagerly awaiting our introduction for months.
He’s the guy.
He will hopefully have answers and confidence and words of encouragement.
The medical world fascinates me. Until I had my first surgery, I didn’t “get it” the way I do now. I’d never been put under before. When I awoke, I was certain I’d not yet undergone my surgery. Kind nurses assured me I had. George was there telling me I’d done a great job, but I remembered nothing of it. I felt rested, pain free, and perfectly normal. To accept that only hours before, I’d been lulled into a medical slumber so deep I had no recollection of a team of surgical magicians positioning my body on an operating table. It’s kind of creepy, really. What do you suppose they talked about while they were face to face with my cervix?
And then, when I lost my voice, I thought I was going to be mute forever. I spent over a year fighting it, going from hoarse, to raspy, to deep, to barely mustering a whisper. A doctor, probably the age of my George, promised me to do his best to fix me. Two simple, relatively painless surgeries later, he did.
But what pressure, right?
I can’t help but think about the stress I put on myself in my previous line of work. Pretty insane considering never once was it possible I could permanently sever someone’s vocal cords. Never once did I put someone to sleep and hope I had the right cocktail of meds to wake them up again feeling refreshed and pain free.
I’m trying to picture the life of a Reproductive Endocrinologist, or a fertility-specialized RN, or an embryologist. I can’t imagine.
Their patients are defeated. They come to them after hitting countless roadblocks, after trying and trying and trying again. They are empowered with the ability to play puppet master with hormones, making their patients even more emotional and sensitive. They are entrusted to play God. In a collaborative effort, they circumvent the birds and the bees and build hopes and families in laboratories and doctor’s offices.
Some days, I would argue they have the greatest job in the world. On those days, they tell tired, hopeful couples they are pregnant. On those days, babies they helped create are born. But on the other days, they deliver bad news. I would want to call in sick on all of those days. All of them.
I’ve been super nervous about manipulating my hormones and doing this dance again. We are now living in New York City, which basically translates to: We are now living in my dream. I shudder to think of missing one single moment here because I’m feeling icky and out of control of my body and emotions. The total truth? Since moving here, I’ve been having second thoughts.
Isn’t that nuts? I’ve been putting in blood, sweat, and tears for nearly two years. Being a mother is one of the few “requirements” on my life list, and I’m having second thoughts?!?! I have enjoyed this break from the challenges of infertility. It’s felt mildly selfish, which I know is stupid, but there is a pretty big part of me that likes the relaxation brought upon by not trying.
I’ve hesitated to say that out loud. I only told George what I was feeling last week. Like if I stated it, I’d jinx my uterus or something.
If I weren’t 31 years old, and George wasn’t 37, this wouldn’t be as big a deal. But the fact is, we are reproductively challenged. Reproductive challenges grow exponentially with age, and I can’t be childless at 55 wishing I would have tried harder when my eggs weren’t fried.
But if we are gonna do this, I have to really DO it. I have to forget about the phobia of fertility drugs, and I have to toughen up. I have to commit. I have to commit to appointments and blood work and injections and counting days. I have to commit to our doctor and the hope of our future family. I have to be stronger than the stress. Mind over matter.
My first nephew will soon be born. My cousin gave birth to her first daughter this weekend. I watched Tori Spelling give birth to her third child in an episode of Tori and Dean (what?) on Friday. All of this, all the pregnancy announcements, impending births, and baby arrivals surrounding my life make me emotional in the very best way. Those emotions are stronger than the sad ones, which probably explains how fertility specialists get out of their beds each morning.
So tomorrow, we meet our team. We will go over my thick file of previous fertility efforts, we will interview each other, we will talk about options, and we will leave with a plan.
We will commit. Whole heartedly.
And someday, sooner than later, I hope, our commitment will pay off. I’ll look at George holding our baby and I’ll forget all about the days I spent tangled inside my emotions, and every single bit of this will have been totally worth it.