By SIMONNE MICHELLE WELLS
*Editor’s Note: If you have had trouble conceiving or are currently undergoing IVF, this story may be upsetting for you.
I think a part of me always knew I would end up on a long and winding road to motherhood. I never had much faith in my bits.
I had horrendous periods from age 13 that lasted weeks on end. I’ve had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome for the past 14 years, and I didn’t meet my true love (happy sigh) until I was 34.
I was almost 36 when we started trying to get pregnant. Six months later we were told we needed to do IVF
I barreled my way through IVF, assuring all and sundry, including myself, that I was fine, it was fine, and I had no idea why anyone ever complained about IVF.
That included when I got Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome (yes yes, I do love a good syndrome) and basically felt like a cow with giant internal udders. Turns out I had 40 follicles. 40. That’s a lot.
The upside of strung out ovaries is that we got a lot of eggs and a decent amount of viable embryos. We did three unsuccessful rounds of IVF and that was what brought my ‘I’m fine’ mantra crashing down around me, from which I didn’t recover for almost two years.
That was two years ago, almost to the day. I’m now 40 and time is seriously a-waistin’. There’s no more time for breakdowns, so we recently started again by doing another round.
We used two more of our precious embryos and again had no success. I cried non-stop for days. I’m thinking this is probably much more healthy than my previous lock-jawed railing against my emotions.
Then, last month, as we were about to try again…
My labia exploded.
Allow me to explain. It seems that an aspersioned-against fallopian tube is a wrathful fallopian tube and mine had been biding its time.
My already dodgy left tube got heinously swollen and infected and then twisted. A fallopian tube torsion is no picnic. It was so painful I bolted to the one place I avoid like the plague – hospital.
The next chapter in the evil fallopian tube story consists of me being given copious amounts of morphine that didn’t take the pain away but shut my bowel down quicker than you can say “oh-oh”. This was followed by my first ever over-night stay in hospital and an encounter with what the nurse called an “aggressive” enema. (She told me this after she gave it to me.) Let’s just say, I think I met god in the toilet that day.
After a few weeks of intensive antibiotics it was time for surgery to remove the offending tube. This time I had a much better idea of what to expect, but nothing ever really goes according to plan, does it?
First my bladder refused to work and the pain that accompanied that felt worse than the fallopian tube torsion and I was wondering if perhaps I should’ve just kept my twisted tube and to hell with everyone. Then the I’ve-been-pumped-full-of-gas pains kicked in and I couldn’t lie flat, or, you know, breathe.