First comes love.
I was thirty seven when I first met my husband in 2013. We were introduced by a mutual friend via a text I insisted she didn’t send. A spontaneous road trip to China Town for dumplings became our first date. I felt at home sharing dinner with the EMS family of this man I had only met a few hours before.
I had started skipping periods a couple of years before we met. I assumed it was stress related. A lot happened in a really short time. I moved twice. I changed jobs. My father, who had never had more than a cold, was suddenly in hospital. Doctors found problems with his kidneys. Then his bladder. He underwent surgery. We finally got him out of hospital and into rehab. Shortly after he passed.
The discussion of family and future children came a few months into our relationship. By then my cycle had settled into skipping a month a time. I had also learned that my grandmother (maternal) was in her thirties she went into premature menopause. The question switched from do I, to can I?
Then comes marriage.
I was thirty-eight when Doug proposed. Exactly one year and two days after our first date. We were back at the station surrounded by dumplings and our EMS family. Doug got down on one knee. I yanked the ring out the box before he could finish asking, lol!
It had been a busy year Doug had been promoted from EMS to FIRE. There was a wedding to plan. There was our future family to think about. I brought up my concerns with my then Gynecologist. He ran a full panel of blood work on me. He could not find any reason for the irregular period. He did show concern that the Anti-Mullerian Hormone results were abnormal for my age. Meaning my egg reserve was low. Repeating the test did not improve the result.
I was just shy of thirty-nine when Mom walked me down the aisle, our arms linked. The Church’s pianist was playing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. The closer to Doug I reached, the more tears that threatened to spill over. After our Deacon pronounced us official, we turned to face our newly combined families. Hands linked and held high above our heads, I may have let out a loud “Yes!” as we walked out the church to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus on the organ. Hallelujah indeed!
Six months later and my cycle had changed yet again. I went from every other month to one every two months. I had since changed gynecologists, and this was my first visit to the new doctor. He expressed some concerns about my cycle and age. He took sonograms, tests, and more blood work.
All but one test came back normal. The AMH was still abnormal. My egg reserve had dwindled even more. My doctor had suggested that we keep trying, but felt that we might want to start thinking about other family building options.
We celebrated our first anniversary in Savannah over this past Thanksgiving. I had read about a newborn who had been given to a Safe Haven location not too far from our home. I wanted to book a flight back to NY right away. Ten little fingers. Ten little toes. Another negative pregnancy test.
I recently turned forty. Doug and I have been married almost two years now. I still have not been able to conceive. My periods went from two months apart to four. They are so light, it is almost like they aren’t there. I brought this up at my recent wellness visit to my Gyno. This time he used the phrase egg failure. He suggested Doug and I seriously discuss seeing a fertility specialist but felt that there was a very good chance that I would not be a candidate for IVF.
I left the office and I was okay. I was okay because two days earlier Doug had run into an old friend. Two days earlier they discussed our problems conceiving. Two days earlier his friend asked, “Have you considered adoption?”
I was okay, because two days earlier Doug and I sat down, and we talked. I was okay because two days earlier we made a decision that is right for our family. We said, “Yes” to adoption. Then comes the journey.