Down for the Count

“…everything looks great…but…”

Here it was. The phone call I had been fearing for so long. Up until this point every scan, ultrasound, blood panel, and test had all come back with positive results…and yet every pregnancy test I took continued to come back negative. It didn’t make sense. You can only be told, “Everything looks great…that’s what we want to see…you’re exactly where we want to be at…” so many times until your stress and anxiety turn into frustration. If everything appears “as it should”, then why isn’t it happening? Then the phone call came…

I could immediately tell by the nurse’s tone that the news wasn’t good—you know, that tone where someone is trying to overcompensate by sounding almost too positive. She said, “Well, we got your bloodwork back, and your levels are good, your thyroid is good, and really everything looks great…but…” I held my breath and braced for the impact. “…we would ideally want your AMH number to be around 1.5 or above…and well…yours is a 0.48.” My heart instantly sank in my chest, and I could feel the tears burning in the corners of my eyes. What the nurse had just told me was my greatest fear—in layman’s terms, my ovarian reserve (egg supply) was significantly diminished. I struggled to hear what she said next…a mix of encouraging words and next steps, I think. I somehow managed to hold it together through the rest of the call, politely thanked her, and then upon hanging up proceeded to enter a full. on. breakdown.

I am someone who admittedly cries often—I cry when I’m sad…when I’m mad…when I’m frustrated… even when I’m happy—and I don’t know that I’ve ever wailed like I did in that moment. It was a validation of my anxiety, the actual manifestation of my greatest fear. After suffering my first miscarriage almost two years ago, those dark (and at the time unfounded) thoughts I had held in the back of my mind since I was a teenager that I would never be able to have children definitely began to fester, but this news felt like confirmation. And compounded with the fact that I just celebrated my 35th birthday, it felt like my window of opportunity for motherhood was shrinking by the second.

But (as my nurses and therapist continue to remind me) it is not hopeless. It may take more meds and tests and procedures and medical intervention, but there is still a chance. And in the throes of the depression and despair that this recent news has caused, that’s what I’m choosing to cling to. I have to. I’ve also realized that part of what I’m feeling is grief—mourning the life I had envisioned for myself…a life that included a “normal” conception and pregnancy…a life where I would possibly even have baby #2 by now. But as that is clearly not the path we were destined for, I am taking heart in the encouraging words of my family and friends—some of whom have fought similar battles—and the confidence of my nurses and doctors.

So, I may be down for the count, but I am most certainly not out. Not yet…