The Sucker Punch

This is the third post in a series. But they pretty much stand alone.

If you want to begin at the beginning:
Click here for the first: The Stick Turned Pink
Click here for the second:
I’m Impressive

I’m sitting in my office (thankfully, I have real walls and a door) and Dr. Lovely is saying words to me over the phone; things like “premature menopause,” “repeat the labs in three months,” “early menopause,” “it’s rare,” “osteoporosis.”

I stammered through a few questions, brilliant queries such as “What?” and “Is that possible?” I think I told her a few times that I just turned 40. She knows this; we’re the same age and she’s been my doctor for 10 years. She delivered both my boys.

Somewhere in this conversation, her hearing me struggle like someone dropped into an ocean and sinking fast, she does give me the critical bit that I’m obviously struggling against: “You would need donor eggs to have another baby.”

And so life gave me a sucker punch, right in the gut. Two days ago the stick turned pink. One day ago I labeled another temperature chart. One hour ago I wondered if we’d argue over a name this time. Now I could not breathe. My tears were silent.

Dr. Lovely said, with care and still trying to convince me, “Your test results look like a 52-year old woman who hasn’t had a period in over a year. I’m so sorry.”

We hung up. I was in shock. It took me half an hour before I could walk out of my office straight to my car. I managed to pick up the boys and get home without Shark Boy knowing I was upset. P pulled in after us and as soon as I saw him I started to lose it. He wanted another baby. I was infertile. It was devastating.

I don’t remember that evening. The next day I posted this.

P talked to me for a long time the next night. He smiled a lot. He said all the right things. It didn’t change how he felt about me in any way. He didn’t think of me as suddenly older. He still thought I was sexy and he hoped I did too. If we only had Shark Boy he would be really disappointed, to be honest. But having two children of his own, perfect, healthy ones, he was satisfied with that; he felt blessed, not cheated. He pointed out what a miracle it really was that we had Honey Bear. He noted other positives of the situation. This provided clarity. Our family was complete. We don’t have to take temperatures and make charts anymore. I can heighten the focus on my career if I want to, sooner than if I’d had another baby. We will have more time and resources to give to the children. We can solidify our plans for retirement and travel. It gives closure.

Um, yeah. All that is true I suppose. Except that last thing…

Where’s my closure? I don’t even want closure. I’m not supposed to close this issue for another 12 years! Why am I tearing up when I see pregnant women? I don’t even like being pregnant. Why did three people within a week of my diagnosis ask me if we were planning to have another baby?

I felt pathetic. I felt desperate. I felt like something had died. I’d lost something that was part of me that took with it any and all future babies I might have dreamed about. No more thinking about whether to paint the nursery pink or green. No point in listing my favorite names. No wondering whether we'll get another girl to bookend the boys. I can give all my baby stuff away now once The Bear is done with it. I won't be needing it.

It was so final. It wasn't supposed to happen yet.

I felt feel old. Very, prematurely, old.

Next in the series: The Change? What Change?
(This is the one where I try to lighten up, a bit.) :)


Anonymous said...

Oh. That must have been so incredibly difficult to process. No matter how bright the bright sides, just changing your perspective on it all must have been so very difficult.

Emily R

Steph said...

Amy, as you know, I had a hysterectomy earlier this year. I'm 34. Even with fair warning and an actual desire to be all done with the baby-making, I still hurt every so often when I realize Miss T is the last of my bio babies, so I can only imagine how I'd be feeling if it had been unexpected and unplanned. Woo. You are one strong lady. Seriously.


Irene said...

Wow, that would be so hard. I turned 40 this year, so I am right there with you in age.

My youngest is 2 and I am not 100% I am done with kids, even though biologically, I feel like I should be. My husband definitely thinks we are done. Most days I think - he's right, but some days, the baby urge hits.

Anyway, I really feel for you because I know, if I found out that I couldn't have kids, I would suddenly be 100% sure I wanted more. That would be such a hard thing to accept.

Felicia said...

Amy, I am so sorry. And even though these words are often used -- you have my sincere prayers.


Rachel said...

Oh Amy.
My heart breaks reading this.
What an amazing woman you are.
My word, and what a wonderful hubby you have.

Sleeping Mommy said...

You are an amazing person, do you know that? You will get through this. You are doing a good thing sharing this too--there are other women out there who will search for information on early menopause, and they will find your story and gain comfort from your sharing it. Really, they will.

Sleeping Mommy

Cynthia said...

I turn 40 next year. I can't say that I would never want to have another baby...I am just so sorry for what you are going through. It's tough stuff for all of us...

Would a new header cheer you up?;)

OhTheJoys said...

Oh. My. Got.

Can we tawk?!!!

sam {temptingmama} said...

I don't even have the words to tell you how sorry I am. I wish there was more I could do. Leaving a comment on a blog just seems so inadequate in a time like this.

You and your family are in my thoughts.

Heather said...

Oh my gosh. I am just catching up on this. Utterly shocking...I can't imagine how shocked you are.

Don't try to lighten up on your readers account...you have ever right to mourn right now.

Lotus (Sarcastic Mom) said...

Oh, Amy. I'm so sorry. I never read this series the first time. What a craptastic turn of events.

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