Right after my womb surgery the anesthesiologist asked how I was feeling.
I felt like vomiting. A strong belt of iodine whacked me in the nose. I swallowed hard, then lied.
“Fine.”
“You’re 43? You sure don’t look your age.”
I was groggy so I wasn’t sure if that was a standard anesthesiologist one-liner or what. On any other day I would have just taken the compliment without question.
Today I didn’t feel any sense of pride. Just irony. Yeah, I thought, maybe I don’t look so old on the outside. On the inside my eggs had expired, so I can’t get pregnant. That’s why I need donated eggs from a younger woman.
I was here getting medically prepared for those eggs, prone, at the University of Washington Medical Center with three slits in my abdomen which my doctors had opened to perform a laproscopic myomectomy.
A fibroid tumor in my uterus had been taking up valuable real estate needed by the donated eggs.
A few weeks earlier Peter and I had agreed to evict the tumor after doctors at the UW’s Fertility and Endocrine Center explored the inside of my uterus with a small camera.
The medical literature calls it a telescope.
Well, whether a camera or telescope, it was hard for me to imagine how that feat was physically possible. But the doctors reassured me that the thing was quite small. And they told me that other patients who had undergone the procedure described the pain as no more than bad cramping.
When the training doctor showed up and asked if he could take a swing at it, I agreed, no problem.
I think of myself as having a high pain threshold. That made me tell the doctor I was fine, even as tears rolled down my face and I felt like passing out.
The device seemed to keep getting caught, the doctor said, sounding a bit frustrated. I heard the nurse say something about a lot of blood. The more the doctor persisted, the more I wondered if he was in fact trying to insert a real camera inside me.
Then one Dr. Paul Lin took over. In seconds the camera was inside, pictures appeared on the monitor and I sighed.
That grabby tumor was taking up more than a third of my uterine lining. Not good.
Lin explained that transferring fertilized eggs is not a precise science. The docs can’t pinpoint exactly where the eggs might land.
It was best to have the fibroid removed, he said, because there was a chance the eggs could land on it.
And tumors cannot grow babies.
The surgery came with risks, though. Extensive bleeding, for instance, could require removing my uterus entirely — meaning, of course, that I could never reproduce. Or the surgery could leave scar tissue, which could again impair or prevent egg implantation.
I listened as he explained. I felt a bit woozy.
Do you have any questions, he asked. Would I have to be unconscious during the operation? Yes. I wanted to ask why was this happening to me? But I didn’t see the point. I shook my head. No, I didn’t have any other questions. I was exhausted.
I gave Peter the rundown at home later that night. We agreed that even with the risks, surgery was the only way to go.
The operation went fine. No excessive bleeding. No scar tissue. No tumor. No more obstacles.
I could finally start becoming pregnant.
Nothing happened fast.
The first step was getting my menstrual cycle regulated. That meant another twist in this whole thing: I was put on birth control pills.
And just to make sure, Lupron was also prescribed. Lupron is a drug that interferes with the menstrual cycle and suppresses ovulation.
The docs didn’t want me producing any of my own old eggs. Which was really fine with me. Periods? Who needs ‘em, anyway?
Peter and I were back to playing doctor.
Every night Peter would take a small needle — a 1/2 milliliter syringe with a 28 gauge needle, the kind diabetics use to give themselves insulin — and inject Lupron into my thigh. We got one of those red plastic containers, the kind hospitals use to store sharp medical waste.
Those shots. The pills. The bathroom sharps container filling up with discarded needles — last night’s, tonight’s, tomorrow night’s …
For the first time all year I believed we were really getting somewhere.
At least I felt that for a little while.
In October, we called the clinic and asked for Leigh Bell, our donor egg coordinator.
We told her something happened. We’d have to postpone everything for at least two months. We told her why.
“Well, no one has ever done that before,” she said.
Next part: Baby on hold, again
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