~~~Flashback Post~~~
Forty and Falling Apart (Feb 10, 2015)
I checked in for my mammogram appointment yesterday and was immediately brought back to their waiting room. I’d been there three years before. I already knew from that previous visit that it was a shared waiting room with the ultrasound appointments. I took a deep breath knowing I was going to be waiting in a room next to swollen bellies and excited expectant parents. That was that one desire within I most wanted God to grant us, and He never had. I also knew I would soon be having to enter the ultrasound room myself, and it left a heaviness of failure inside my still empty womb.
I’d had my first mammogram three years earlier, at 36, due to my families somewhat high risk of breast cancer. The first time I’d gone in, the first question I had been asked was if I was currently pregnant. I had looked at her and said, “I don’t think so…” She had stopped her typing and looked up to clarify. I explained we were currently doctoring for infertility, so I didn’t know “for sure” that I wasn’t pregnant, but it was highly unlikely. She had stopped the appointment immediately and made me reschedule to a date when I would know “for sure”… I returned a few weeks later, after yet another full cycle, guaranteeing I was not pregnant.
I took my seat and began reading my book ("Interupted" by Jen Hatmaker) and soon I was called in to the mammogram room, and within a few minutes I had quickly breezed through the precursory questions, and laughed with the tech about turning forty and starting to fall part (I had not been feeling well for the past three months and it was taking its toll on me.)… Soon I was standing, my little cape tied to the front, waiting for the manhandling to begin. The whole thing was much more painful than I had remembered it being before.
I returned to the waiting area and a few minutes later the ultrasound tech called my name and I slowly followed her down the hall and through a door. There in the middle of the room was a little table, next to a large machine, with a large tv on the wall. The room was dim, and I was directed to sit on the table and she began asking questions of past pregnancies, births and surgeries. I found myself wanting to cry, my mind filled with so many negative and painful memories.
I had had a horrible experience at my ultrasound with my oldest son (eighteen years earlier). The technician had a horrible bedside manner and I had left the appointment after not being able to see the screen and was not given any photos. I had another emergency ultrasound about a week before he was born due to spotting. Same guy, same grumpiness, still hadn't been able to see the screen, and wasn't given any photos. The next ultrasound I had was about a year later when I was informed my twelve week pregnancy had apparently ended several weeks early. There was no heartbeat and the baby only measured about nine weeks. The doctor had meet us in a small waiting room a short time later saying he was sorry for our news and he was going to send us home, hoping it would pass naturally.
I checked in for my mammogram appointment yesterday and was immediately brought back to their waiting room. I’d been there three years before. I already knew from that previous visit that it was a shared waiting room with the ultrasound appointments. I took a deep breath knowing I was going to be waiting in a room next to swollen bellies and excited expectant parents. That was that one desire within I most wanted God to grant us, and He never had. I also knew I would soon be having to enter the ultrasound room myself, and it left a heaviness of failure inside my still empty womb.
I’d had my first mammogram three years earlier, at 36, due to my families somewhat high risk of breast cancer. The first time I’d gone in, the first question I had been asked was if I was currently pregnant. I had looked at her and said, “I don’t think so…” She had stopped her typing and looked up to clarify. I explained we were currently doctoring for infertility, so I didn’t know “for sure” that I wasn’t pregnant, but it was highly unlikely. She had stopped the appointment immediately and made me reschedule to a date when I would know “for sure”… I returned a few weeks later, after yet another full cycle, guaranteeing I was not pregnant.
I took my seat and began reading my book ("Interupted" by Jen Hatmaker) and soon I was called in to the mammogram room, and within a few minutes I had quickly breezed through the precursory questions, and laughed with the tech about turning forty and starting to fall part (I had not been feeling well for the past three months and it was taking its toll on me.)… Soon I was standing, my little cape tied to the front, waiting for the manhandling to begin. The whole thing was much more painful than I had remembered it being before.
I returned to the waiting area and a few minutes later the ultrasound tech called my name and I slowly followed her down the hall and through a door. There in the middle of the room was a little table, next to a large machine, with a large tv on the wall. The room was dim, and I was directed to sit on the table and she began asking questions of past pregnancies, births and surgeries. I found myself wanting to cry, my mind filled with so many negative and painful memories.
I had had a horrible experience at my ultrasound with my oldest son (eighteen years earlier). The technician had a horrible bedside manner and I had left the appointment after not being able to see the screen and was not given any photos. I had another emergency ultrasound about a week before he was born due to spotting. Same guy, same grumpiness, still hadn't been able to see the screen, and wasn't given any photos. The next ultrasound I had was about a year later when I was informed my twelve week pregnancy had apparently ended several weeks early. There was no heartbeat and the baby only measured about nine weeks. The doctor had meet us in a small waiting room a short time later saying he was sorry for our news and he was going to send us home, hoping it would pass naturally.
It did not pass naturally, and I began to hemorrhage several days later. I nearly bled out on an emergency room table. The rest of the details are too hard for me to write about.
I had never been able to get pregnant again, my marriage ended in divorce, and I re-married. We found ourselves unable to get pregnant, to no surprise, and soon we were pushing open the doors at a fertility specialty clinic an hour and a half away. We doctored and doctored, returning month after month for special ultrasounds to monitor my eggs and ovaries. One appointment, after another failed attempted, I was told I had developed a very large cyst on one of my ovaries, and I would need to go on birth control for a few months to try and correct it. My regular doctor had been out that day, and a woman doctor had delivered the news. She had also briefly mentioned she had adopted her children. I refused to go on birth control while in the middle of paying a high premium for our “fertility treatments.” It was perhaps a sign ~ if this "fertility specialist" wasn’t able to achieve pregnancy herself, then perhaps it was time for us to just be done. I walked out the door, and the very next day we entered the doors of a local adoption agency, and began the lengthy journey of adoption.
All of those memories and pain triggers quickly flashed before me as I sat there, and I again found myself holding back tears. I had wanted to tell the tech I needed a minute to gather myself as I was feeling overwhelmed, but I never did. I remained silent. She finished up her paperwork, clarifying the intent of the appointment was to find out why I’d been bleeding daily for the last three months, and turned down the lights. She had me lay back, squirted the warm gel on my stomach, and placed the instrument on my skin. She immediately pulled it back up with an “Ohhh.”
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