It's CD 94, and I just got back from seeing Dr. K., and we had "the talk." Actually, it wasn't a talk as much as it was me informing her that my goal in seeing her is no longer to get pregnant, but only to be as healthy as a girl living with PCOS can be.
Maybe that's why I've been in a funky mood the last week or so. I've know this "talk" has been coming for at least 2 months. I deliberately put off scheduling my well woman's exam because I didn't want to have "the talk," maybe.
I'm not sure when I officially stopped caring. I think it was somewhere around Nov. 16 when I had finished my first (and only) "Femara Rage" and was waiting to see if I got a period or any sort of PMS/pregnancy symptoms. None came that week, so by the time I took a pregnancy test on P+16 and it showed up negative, I wasn't even disappointed. I just knew in my heart that none of this was going to work for me, and I still feel that way now.
Two surgeries, one beautiful, natural cycle a month to the date of my last surgery, a "cycle" that seemed to have no end, and then two rounds of drugs (Clomid, Femara) that turned me into a mega bitch and never brought a period. How depressing.
One might be reading this and think that we haven't tried very hard to conceive. I can see how it looks that way. Some couples do month after month of fertility drugs, including the expensive injectables, and other couples go even further and use artificial means. This seems like giving up during a marathon at mile 5. I get that.
But it's really hard to explain how in a way, I think I always knew this wouldn't work for us. I've never had a dream that included a biological child or a viable pregnancy. The only glimpse of hope I've received this whole journey was that single period after my second surgery, and 7 months later, I've still yet to experience that again.
So while this whole time, my body's never been to a healthy enough place to actually call it "trying to conceive," I guess that is what we were trying to do, and today, I told my doc that we are done with that, at least for now.
So, obviously treatment changes. I'll continue to chart (joy), and I'll get progesterone shots every month to trigger a bleed because there's no reason to believe my body will ever do this on its own again. I'm getting choked up as I type this part because even though I think I've been in acceptance for a little while now, it still hurts to acknowledge in some concrete way -saying it, writing it- that my body is broken and will probably never be fixed.
In the PP.VI office, there are a few giant tack-boards filled with "miracle babies" - all the children conceived and born with the grace of God and the help of PP.VI. As I walked out of the office today, I acknowledged that I'll never have a baby on that wall. And even though I accept that, it still really hurts.
Am I healthier because of PP.VI? No, I don't think I am. I still can't cycle, I still can't get pregnant. But I am grateful to PP.VI because they gave me my diagnosis and almost a year of hope that we could fix me. Dr. K. didn't encourage me to give up or keep trying today, which I appreciate, as we have made our decision. There are options out there for us to keep trying to achieve pregnancy, but with us going live with our adoption profile in the next 6 weeks (God willing), we really are at peace with not continuing, at least not right now.
So, enough of the sadness, because in reality, I've been filled with the most hope related to parenthood that I've ever experienced in the last 3 months. Our home study was completed last week. We will become parents through adoption, and that excitement and joy dwarfs the pain of infertility, even on a day like today where I do feel pangs of sadness. No, my baby won't be on the PP.VI miracle wall, but my baby, our child, is out there someone. Maybe she or he is known only to God right now, maybe he or she is conceived and on their way already, but they're out there and are already more precious to us than anything. We have drastically changed our lifestyle and asked our network of friends and family to help us however they can -spiritually, emotionally, financially- to bring our baby home to us, and to be this close to really putting ourselves out there is scary and exhilarating.
So, as I hang up the TTC hat that my body never really let me put on in the first place, I snuggle up in my "adoptive parent" blanket that is warm, inviting, comforting, and full of room for my growing family.