This blog post is all over the place, disjointed, and full of bad jokes. It is a complete reflection of how I feel on the inside. Emotions all over the place, disjointed, and filling my life with bad jokes to avoid the tears.
Broads
When I first started this blog, it was obviously supposed to be “a feminist abroad.” The irony was not lost on me that it could also be read as “a feminist; a broad.” And honestly, I don’t really mind. It’s good for branding; when I move home I can still use the link, I’ll no longer be a feminist abroad but I will still most certainly be a feminist and a broad.
You can definitely use the word broad to disparagingly describe any female. For example, out with the girls on a Saturday night, “look at this broad” *points across the bar at the chick getting sloppy drunk.* But I prefer to use it as a term of endearment: “what are you broads up to!?” Keeping in mind I use this interchangeably with bitches, chicks, betches, batches…it’s all out of a real fondness for the girls I am talking to.
Losing your superpower
The thing about being a broad is that our bodies are literally built to make and carry life, if you want! As a feminist, I totally understand that not all women feel the desire or need to do that but as a broad, I definitely want to experience that phenomenon. In the span of 10 months (give or take), our bodies take a clump of cells and grow an entire miniature human. It’s like a superpower! Dudes can’t do that. So after my miscarriage, I was ready to get back up and try again. But it just wouldn’t happen. Month after month, one single pink line. The ovulation kits; no LH surge, no estrogen surge. You can’t really expect two pink lines if you’re not even ovulating.
So we finally decided to see someone. Compared to America, fertility testing and treatment is actually quite affordable here. A lot of blood work and weeks of waiting I had my first answer. My superpower was fading. I imagine this is what Wolverine must have felt like in Logan (decent movie, not Marvel’s best *shoulder shrug*).
I’m not trying to make light of the situation, I’m not Hugh Jackman in a make believe movie about a superhero losing his superpowers. I have spent many days and nights crying over the fact that I feel like my body has betrayed me. But I have to laugh where I can find the humor because otherwise I’d be a lump of flesh lying on the couch refusing to eat or move (except maybe for a glass *ahem* bottle of wine).
The diagnosis
I’m sitting in the office of the reproductive endocrinologist. Covid has changed everything. The receptionist, nurses, and doctor are all wearing masks. I’m wearing a mask and Rob, my husband, can’t even be in the clinic with me. He’s on FaceTime from the car in the parking lot. No one can shake hands so we do a weird air handshake. The doctor is a nice man, middle-aged, very matter-of-fact. He sits me down with my lab results and tells me the bad news: my AMH is low, my FSH is high, my testosterone and progesterone are low. I’d already been sifting through all my medical literature to diagnose myself so I knew what was coming next. Primary ovarian insufficiency or POI, aka premature ovarian failure, aka early monopause. FML.
I’ve given lots of bad news to lots of families and patients. Conversations can be broken down into two categories: what the provider says and what the patient/family hears. He said a lot of stuff that I was numb to I can’t really remember the specifics. I think he said something about in a year from now, IVF might be impossible. What I heard was: You’ll be infertile in a year.
But, seriously, menopause? I said the words out loud to Rob a few days later and it sounded so wrong. I’m 37! Menopause doesn’t happen to women my age, it happens to our mothers…in their 50s! We can go forward with IVF if we choose but there will only be a 20% chance that I even make enough eggs to extract. Even with the best medical intervention, my chances of having a biological child are only 15-20%.
And I’ve told Rob, I’ve felt like something was wrong for a couple years now. When we got married I felt like we needed to start trying for a family right away, time was getting away from us. “My eggs are already over-easy” I’d say jokingly to him. I’d kind of giggle because it was supposed to be funny but recently it was more of a plea. I knew something was wrong and now I had my answer. Was it a woman’s intuition or just my uncontrolled anxiety, the world may never know.
I have heard people say that a woman shouldn’t have fertility treatments. If it’s meant to be, it will be. But that is an absolute load of crap. When you’re in this position everything changes. I never thought I’d have fertility treatments, yet here we are. The fantasy of having a baby that is a perfect blend of Rob and me is quickly slipping away. Women in my situation do better with donor eggs or donor embryos but I haven’t lost complete hope of the fantasy. So we’re going to start IVF. In true feminist fashion, I’m taking control of my body. We’re going to roll the dice and hope that we are lucky enough to land among the 20% of successful cases.
This blog was never supposed to be about our trials and tribulations. It was going to be all sunshine, daisies, and rainbows while the most awkward person I know (ME!) navigated a foreign country while trying not to make a complete ass of herself: The Misadventures of Samantha. But then life happened and you can’t have rainbows without rain or some bullshit like that. So this post isn’t a happy one but it’s as optimistic as I can be in this thunderstorm.
