Tell me about when you decided to mix me in a test tube, Mommy
When I began my SuperDedicatedLengthyQuestForDiagnosis (sing it--it works!) a year ago, I had no idea I would end up like this: menopausal, forgetful, and mildly medically famous, all while preparing to bring a little version of me and The Husband into the world.
For all who forgot (and that includes me--sometimes the dog has to ring the jingle bells on the back door not because he has to pee but because he has to do something to jog my memory that hey, it's dinnertime!), I was finally diagnosed with a very large fibroid. And by very large, I mean about 6 centimeters in diameter. For those of you who aren't metric, it's about the size of an orange. A goddamn orange stuck right in my soft, gooey middle.
If you're surprised by that, you aren't alone. So was the doctor. So much so that with every test, ultrasound, and consult I had, there was a cadre of residents in there with him just to peer up my crotch and see what was going on. The Husband and I were in the waiting room one day when a young man in scrubs carrying a backpack came in and disappeared. The next time he reappeared was for my hysterosonogram. And then he left. The Husband whispered as we were waiting for the nurse to come back with instructions, "That guy came here just to see your fibroid." My fifteen minutes of fame, right there.
The hysterosonogram was the second major test I had done. The first was a regular transvaginal ultrasound. So what's the difference? Oh, boy, wait 'til you hear this. They shoot your uterus up with salt water. No shit. They insert a catheter, inject your baby sack with saline solution, and then jam the ultrasound wand up there as well. "You might feel a little pressure." A LITTLE? You have just inflated my uterus like a water balloon. "Here, you'll want to wear this pad for the rest of the day. The saline has to come out, after all!" Of course it does.
This was the day when I realized why all the signs in the office ask you to use the restroom in the hallway.
So, you need an empty bladder to have the test done. "Oh," I said to the doctor, "I haven't really had anything to drink this morning. I'm fine." He insisted, and I asked for directions to the bathroom. He pointed behind me. "You can use that one."
I went in, locked the door, and sat down, idly looking around the room. Posters for childbirth and the like were here and there. To my right was a sign about collecting specimens. Well, I thought, that's probably how they do pregnancy tests. Pee on the stick, pee in a cup, whatever. I was bored, so I read the directions. "Cleanse the area thoroughly. If you are uncircumcised, pull back the foreskin and wipe." Foreskin? Oh, well, men must have to pee in cups, too. That's a normal...
My eyes were drawn to the shelves by the door stacked with magazines, magazines that I had assumed were like the rest in the office. But I found myself looking not at Better Homes and Gardens, but at Playboy.
OH MY GOD. They don't want you to use this bathroom because THIS IS THE WANK ROOM. My only other thought for the rest of my time in there was, I can hear everything going on outside this door. How can that possibly NOT be distracting for anyone in here trying to get the job done??
This was also the day when I thought our doctor would cry. "This is the best possible outcome," he said, pointing at the monitor. I looked at the cloudy mess of my insides, puzzled. "The Lupron is shrinking the fibroids [yes, by the way, there are two; a very large one and a small one, and when we found that out, I couldn't help but turn to The Husband and exclaim, "It's twins!"] and the tumor itself is outside the cavity."
He kept calling it my cavity. I had to try not to laugh, but first, I had to figure out what he meant. My husband asked for me. "What this means," said my nice doctor who once compared my uterus and tumor to an avocado with a pit, "is that the tumor isn't attached to any of the uterine walls. It's outside the cavity. The cavity is viable." The pit is outside the avocado. My avocado is still entirely capable of carrying baby avocados!
The Husband and I went home and talked about our options.
Option 1: Surgery first to remove the fibroids, then getting pregnant naturally.
Option 2: Getting pregnant naturally first, then removing the tumors.
Option 3: In vitro fertilization.
Option 3 was what the doctor was pushing, and when we returned for our follow-up visit, we found out why. The Husband did all the talking, so what follows is the conversation as best as I can recollect it.
The Husband: We were thinking that having the fibroids removed first would be our first choice, unless that would affect fertility.
The Doctor: And it would. Scarring, all of that, could compromise the uterus.
The Husband: What about getting pregnant naturally?
The Doctor: You could try, but the odds of that are slim to none. While she's on the Lupron to keep the fibroids small and stop the periods and bleeding, she's not ovulating. If you stop the Lupron, the fibroids will grow back. And she can't stay on the Lupron indefinitely. Four to six months is the limit, and she's at three months already. If you're going to have children, you're going to do it now. And I recommend IVF.
Missy: Well. It looks like our choice is made!
I called my parents at lunch. They were happy and supportive, particularly my dad who donated a chunk of his future grandchild's college fund to us. "Dad, we've got money saved up. We have just enough to pay for the IVF." "No, no, I want you to have this. I mean, if you don't have a kid, then there's no point in a college fund, right? I want to do this for you." Well, if we weren't going to name our son after him already, that would have probably cemented it. I hung up teary-eyed. "My dad just bought us our kid."
But I will admit this now. I felt backed into a corner. I went back to work that afternoon reeling. In hindsight, I should learn that when I have appointments like these, I should just take the rest of the day off. I went through my afternoon class in a fog, and thought, how am I ever going to have time to have a baby? But it didn't matter, because the decision was out of my hands.
And that terrified me.
I hadn't planned on having kids until at least after I got tenure. And even then, I wasn't sure I'd be ready. But I just had a very qualified man tell me that if we wanted children, the timeline we were looking at was to do the procedure in January. A year from now, we would hopefully be looking at our child.
I had a private conversation with my department chair next. We found this all out on Monday. I sat down with him Wednesday. "I'm only telling you this now because if all goes well, I'll be giving birth halfway through the fall semester, and if you need to find a replacement for me for those ten weeks--" He told me, in a nutshell, that everything was fine. When I got up to leave, he said, "I think congratulations?"
I was clearly not giving off "I'M THRILLED!" vibes. But I'm a good actress.
I put on a sunny smile and nodded. "Oh, no, it's definitely congratulations!"
When I went back to my own office, I just sat and stared at the wall. Okay, all kinds of morons have babies. Teenagers have babies. Surely I can have one, and raise it, and not go crazy, or mess the kid up. Right? Right. I mean, you were super scared about getting Fry, and look how great that turned out! But I had a nervous breakdown in our kitchen when Fry refused to pee outside. Kids wear diapers. You'll be fine.
A funny thing began to happen, however. Even though the literature we got about IVF advised us not to tell too many people, because emotionally, if it doesn't work, having to break the news to all those people can be really hard, we started to tell everyone. And each person we told got progressively more excited. Terri and Wendy were especially eager, at least, on my side. The Husband's best reaction came from his brother. And the more people we told, the more excited I began to get.
And that brings us to today. I have an appointment on December13th to schedule all the requisite "harvestings". I have until after the New Year to enjoy my beer and Diet Coke and prescriptions. And then? Then, in the words of a student of mine, I "thank Baby J" that my cavity is viable.
*snicker*
Cavity.
For all who forgot (and that includes me--sometimes the dog has to ring the jingle bells on the back door not because he has to pee but because he has to do something to jog my memory that hey, it's dinnertime!), I was finally diagnosed with a very large fibroid. And by very large, I mean about 6 centimeters in diameter. For those of you who aren't metric, it's about the size of an orange. A goddamn orange stuck right in my soft, gooey middle.
If you're surprised by that, you aren't alone. So was the doctor. So much so that with every test, ultrasound, and consult I had, there was a cadre of residents in there with him just to peer up my crotch and see what was going on. The Husband and I were in the waiting room one day when a young man in scrubs carrying a backpack came in and disappeared. The next time he reappeared was for my hysterosonogram. And then he left. The Husband whispered as we were waiting for the nurse to come back with instructions, "That guy came here just to see your fibroid." My fifteen minutes of fame, right there.
The hysterosonogram was the second major test I had done. The first was a regular transvaginal ultrasound. So what's the difference? Oh, boy, wait 'til you hear this. They shoot your uterus up with salt water. No shit. They insert a catheter, inject your baby sack with saline solution, and then jam the ultrasound wand up there as well. "You might feel a little pressure." A LITTLE? You have just inflated my uterus like a water balloon. "Here, you'll want to wear this pad for the rest of the day. The saline has to come out, after all!" Of course it does.
This was the day when I realized why all the signs in the office ask you to use the restroom in the hallway.
So, you need an empty bladder to have the test done. "Oh," I said to the doctor, "I haven't really had anything to drink this morning. I'm fine." He insisted, and I asked for directions to the bathroom. He pointed behind me. "You can use that one."
I went in, locked the door, and sat down, idly looking around the room. Posters for childbirth and the like were here and there. To my right was a sign about collecting specimens. Well, I thought, that's probably how they do pregnancy tests. Pee on the stick, pee in a cup, whatever. I was bored, so I read the directions. "Cleanse the area thoroughly. If you are uncircumcised, pull back the foreskin and wipe." Foreskin? Oh, well, men must have to pee in cups, too. That's a normal...
My eyes were drawn to the shelves by the door stacked with magazines, magazines that I had assumed were like the rest in the office. But I found myself looking not at Better Homes and Gardens, but at Playboy.
OH MY GOD. They don't want you to use this bathroom because THIS IS THE WANK ROOM. My only other thought for the rest of my time in there was, I can hear everything going on outside this door. How can that possibly NOT be distracting for anyone in here trying to get the job done??
This was also the day when I thought our doctor would cry. "This is the best possible outcome," he said, pointing at the monitor. I looked at the cloudy mess of my insides, puzzled. "The Lupron is shrinking the fibroids [yes, by the way, there are two; a very large one and a small one, and when we found that out, I couldn't help but turn to The Husband and exclaim, "It's twins!"] and the tumor itself is outside the cavity."
He kept calling it my cavity. I had to try not to laugh, but first, I had to figure out what he meant. My husband asked for me. "What this means," said my nice doctor who once compared my uterus and tumor to an avocado with a pit, "is that the tumor isn't attached to any of the uterine walls. It's outside the cavity. The cavity is viable." The pit is outside the avocado. My avocado is still entirely capable of carrying baby avocados!
The Husband and I went home and talked about our options.
Option 1: Surgery first to remove the fibroids, then getting pregnant naturally.
Option 2: Getting pregnant naturally first, then removing the tumors.
Option 3: In vitro fertilization.
Option 3 was what the doctor was pushing, and when we returned for our follow-up visit, we found out why. The Husband did all the talking, so what follows is the conversation as best as I can recollect it.
The Husband: We were thinking that having the fibroids removed first would be our first choice, unless that would affect fertility.
The Doctor: And it would. Scarring, all of that, could compromise the uterus.
The Husband: What about getting pregnant naturally?
The Doctor: You could try, but the odds of that are slim to none. While she's on the Lupron to keep the fibroids small and stop the periods and bleeding, she's not ovulating. If you stop the Lupron, the fibroids will grow back. And she can't stay on the Lupron indefinitely. Four to six months is the limit, and she's at three months already. If you're going to have children, you're going to do it now. And I recommend IVF.
Missy: Well. It looks like our choice is made!
I called my parents at lunch. They were happy and supportive, particularly my dad who donated a chunk of his future grandchild's college fund to us. "Dad, we've got money saved up. We have just enough to pay for the IVF." "No, no, I want you to have this. I mean, if you don't have a kid, then there's no point in a college fund, right? I want to do this for you." Well, if we weren't going to name our son after him already, that would have probably cemented it. I hung up teary-eyed. "My dad just bought us our kid."
But I will admit this now. I felt backed into a corner. I went back to work that afternoon reeling. In hindsight, I should learn that when I have appointments like these, I should just take the rest of the day off. I went through my afternoon class in a fog, and thought, how am I ever going to have time to have a baby? But it didn't matter, because the decision was out of my hands.
And that terrified me.
I hadn't planned on having kids until at least after I got tenure. And even then, I wasn't sure I'd be ready. But I just had a very qualified man tell me that if we wanted children, the timeline we were looking at was to do the procedure in January. A year from now, we would hopefully be looking at our child.
I had a private conversation with my department chair next. We found this all out on Monday. I sat down with him Wednesday. "I'm only telling you this now because if all goes well, I'll be giving birth halfway through the fall semester, and if you need to find a replacement for me for those ten weeks--" He told me, in a nutshell, that everything was fine. When I got up to leave, he said, "I think congratulations?"
I was clearly not giving off "I'M THRILLED!" vibes. But I'm a good actress.
I put on a sunny smile and nodded. "Oh, no, it's definitely congratulations!"
When I went back to my own office, I just sat and stared at the wall. Okay, all kinds of morons have babies. Teenagers have babies. Surely I can have one, and raise it, and not go crazy, or mess the kid up. Right? Right. I mean, you were super scared about getting Fry, and look how great that turned out! But I had a nervous breakdown in our kitchen when Fry refused to pee outside. Kids wear diapers. You'll be fine.
A funny thing began to happen, however. Even though the literature we got about IVF advised us not to tell too many people, because emotionally, if it doesn't work, having to break the news to all those people can be really hard, we started to tell everyone. And each person we told got progressively more excited. Terri and Wendy were especially eager, at least, on my side. The Husband's best reaction came from his brother. And the more people we told, the more excited I began to get.
And that brings us to today. I have an appointment on December13th to schedule all the requisite "harvestings". I have until after the New Year to enjoy my beer and Diet Coke and prescriptions. And then? Then, in the words of a student of mine, I "thank Baby J" that my cavity is viable.
*snicker*
Cavity.