Warning: this post contains words like ovaries, uterus, and fallopian tubes.

Warning: this post contains words like ovaries, uterus, and fallopian tubes. Proceed at your own risk.

At the end of a year that has had more crap chaos plot twists than most, I am trying hard to focus on blessings, rather than complaints. I have spent most of this year knee-deep shoulder-deep up to my ears in therapy, processing my health and trying to accept that the vision I had for my life is not what is actually playing out, and that is okay; as well as processing trauma that was never healed and has reared its ugly head as I’ve been dealing with my various health issues this year.

January 2019 started off with a bang: my usually-low blood pressure decided it needed a life change and climbed to crisis levels, and landed me in the hospital more than once. For someone who likes to be in control of my surroundings, it was one of the scariest and most helpless situations of my life. When it was determined that my anxiety medication was the culprit, I was forced to abandon my (much-needed) medication while my blood pressure evened out. At this point, in early February, as I entered the seventh circle of hell, my anxiety was through the roof and my depression began resurfacing. After a nearly two-week roller-coaster of time off work and time off medication, I realized how desperately I needed help.

What most people don’t know is that in the months prior to my blood pressure debacle, I was trying to process an entirely different, life-changing diagnosis and health concern. I had recently discovered that, after years of trying, I would not be able to have more children and that my reproductive system was in turmoil. Endometriosis and the resulting endometriomas had basically destroyed my ovaries. The pain was debilitating and the bleeding severe. Blood work was done to establish a baseline for ovarian cancer, because the risks of cancer also increase with all the symptoms I was experiencing. With those odds, I probably should have bought a lottery ticket! 

Throughout this process, I also learned about an abnormality in my uterus that likely led to Holt’s premature birth, and would likely lead to another premature birth if I was to take the drastic medical measures to attempt to become pregnant again (spoiler alert: I’m not). Learning that information was incredibly liberating and stifling at the same time. I finally received the answer to something I had questioned for so long, but it also confirmed my worst fear about having a second premature child. The answer that felt liberating and empowering also closed a door for me that I wasn’t ready to close. I’m not ready to write about that yet, but I will someday.

Oh, I’m also in forced menopause right now and for the foreseeable future. Pray for Clint, the poor guy has been put through the wringer with my health and hormones in the past 15 months.

So, here we are, 15 months later. After ultrasounds, appointments, blood work, more appointments, shots, and more appointments, my pain is (mostly) under control and I finally have surgery scheduled for next week. This laparoscopic surgery will remove the multiple growths from my ovaries, any endometriosis they can find, and, as if that wasn’t enough, my left fallopian tube.

Y’all. It is a FALLOPIAN TUBE. I’m trying to channel my inner Elsa and let it go, but I’ll be damned if I thought I would ever be this emotional about my left fallopian tube. It isn’t doing its job and it hasn’t been for years, and it is causing all sorts of problems, but I still have a fondness for it. It’s part of who I am, and it wasn’t always this way. It’s like that cousin who spends most of their time in and out of jail or rehab; we still love them despite their shortcomings. Only, my left fallopian tube can’t have rehab and it can’t go to jail, so it just needs to go, and I am having a hard time with that this evening.

I would like to part with a Public Service Announcement on behalf of all women:

• Please don’t ask when we are having another child. It is a painful reminder that we can’t have more children, and it sucks to have to explain it to you.
• Please don’t joke about when we are having another child. It is a painful reminder that we can’t have more children, and it sucks to have to explain it to you and to politely laugh at your joke.
• Please don’t assume everyone is a candidate for IUI or IVF just because they can’t get pregnant naturally. It is a painful reminder that we can’t have more children, and it sucks to have to explain it to you.
• Please, for the love of all things holy, don’t tell infertile women to look into adoption. It is a painful reminder that we can’t have more children, and it sucks to have to explain it to you.

For those of us struggling (FYI: you might not know it to look at us) nothing is easy and nothing is okay. The way we thought our lives would go and the picture of life we had in our mind has been shattered. Anything you say just adds to the painful, childless hole in our hearts. Instead, try offering: 

• Wine and/or cocktails. We aren’t pregnant (or ever going to be again!), so drinks are always accepted.
•  A smile and a hug. We might cry, but it’ll be a good cry.
• Jokes about no longer needing to go through the hormonal hell that is birth control.
• Stories about your kids being awful that will make us remember the not-so-great parts of parenting tiny humans. Double points if the story involves your kid being awful in public.
•  Your baby to snuggle.

And there you have it. There are good things around the corner, I am sure of it. 💗