This is How a Heart Breaks

Here's the thing- I'm a researcher by nature.  It's at the core of my being. While my husband's core seeks calm, I crave data.  To me, knowledge is powerful.  Once you have the facts, you can make choices.   The trick is to remove the emotion and focus on the facts. 

Get your information.  Make choices. Move forward.

This was my internal dialogue as I sat in the waiting room of the Reproductive Endocrinologist's office.  While my unflappable  husband skimmed magazines and commented on his findings, I clasped my hands in my lap and focused on my mantra.

The bizarre humor of the situation was not completely lost on me.  Here I sat, childless, surrounded by pictures of beaming babies and copies of Parenting magazine.  The longer I sat there, the funnier this was.  Were they all sold out of cityscapes the day this doc opened shop?  Were the larger than life framed baby posters meant to inspire me?

So we waited and waited and then waited some more.  An hour later, we were called back for our consult.  For me, nothing good ever comes from stewing in a waiting room for an hour. 

My mantra was long gone.  It was slowly being replaced by a seething anger  mingled with an overwhelming desire to run out the door.

In hindsight, I should have listened to myself right there.  It was a powerful foreshadowing of what was in store for us.  We spent an hour 'consulting' with the doctor.  Another hour or so being shuttled around to various rooms and talking to a myriad of staff members.  About three hours total.  It will take me so much longer to move past this experience. 

As the one who pushed and pushed for additional tests and set up this meeting, the irony of the experience is not lost on me.

As we settled into our chairs, the first thing the doctor said to us was "Is there anything I can do for you, besides give you a baby?"  He threw back his head and howled with laughter.  My terse response was, "No, I think that should be about all".

After his next question, I began staring longingly and unabashedly at the door. ..

"So, why aren't you pregnant?"  Followed by more jolly laughter.

I may have actually gasped a bit here.  His lack of sensitivity was stunning.  My unflappable husband was sitting up straighter in his chair with widening eyes.  I managed to stammer out something along the lines of  "I have no idea, you tell me."

And this is what he told us. ..

My husband is the perfect specimen of health.  Great test results.  No problems.  I believe the phrase "strong man" was used.  Frankly, it's a bit of a blur.  So, that brings us back to me...


Dr. Wonderful was quick to point out that I am "the problem".    Apparently my ovary age is more advanced than my actual age.  A 'normal' number on this test for me would be a 5 or a 6.  My result was a  1.    Add in Endometriosis and my age and this number is a big problem.

Not good.  To make matters worse, his delivery left a lot to be desired. And that's putting it mildly. 

At this point, I'm frantically taking notes and trying to keep up with what he is saying.  He has completely stopped acknowledging me and is explaining the treatment options only to my husband.  I insert questions where I can and he talks right over me. 

At one point, Dr. Wonderful cracks a joke about me to my husband.  The same husband who has his hand glued to my back and his jaw clenched.

Really, I should have run for the door when I had the chance.

It felt like someone sucked the breath right out of me.  One of those really bad dreams you can't seem to wake up from...
And then, finally, his sales pitch/consultation is over.  And I look at him and mutter "I'm not sure about all of this."  His eyebrows raise in disbelief and he actually clucks at me as he asks about my reservations.

I sit there and feel mute.  Speechless.  Defeated.  Stare at the door for a few seconds and then splutter out something about the risks and side effects and taking the meds...wrap up by saying "It's a lot and I'm overwhelmed."

His response is twofold- first he laughs.

He laughs.  I gasp for air and struggle to control the tears that threaten to take over.

He then asks me if I would seek treatment if my husband was having a heart attack.  Of course I say.  He smiles and says that this is the same thing and I need to seek treatment.  Dr.  Wonderful continues on to say that when I have a headache I take Tylenol.  He shrugs his shoulders and tells me that the hormones, the injections and the medicines required for treatment are no different than taking Tylenol.   That even Tylenol comes with risks. 

He shrugs his shoulders and tells me that if being afraid of medicine is more important than a baby, then he cannot help me.

At that point, I stand up and start moving towards the door.  I am too shaken up to fully process everything that just happened.  All I know is I want out. NOW.

The next hour is a blur as we shuttle around to meet with various other staff members. 

When it is finally over, I am mute. 

I sit in the car, hiding behind giant sunglasses.  Unable to even make eye contact with my husband. 

He drives. I cry. He keeps driving, intuitively understanding what to do.  He gives me the space I need to find my voice.

And then in a sign of springing back to life, I do what any good Italian does in a time of crisis, I demand food...  We eat the meats and cheeses of my childhood.  Sample simple pizzas and pasta.  Drink red wine out of chipped glasses that remind me of my grandmother.  I feed my soul and my broken heart.  My husband holds my hand.  We are one.  We will survive this sadness.

At home, I fall into a deep and restless sleep.  I wake with tears on my pillow and the knowledge that we will be ok.