A little over a year ago, I called my doctor to tell her that I hadn’t had a period for several months.  She prescribed progesterone, like all the times I had called her before with the same problem.  Only this time, for the first time, it didn’t work.

So she sent me to get some blood work and prescribed a different form of the same drug.  The good news was, I wasn’t going through menopause at 37.  The bad news was, they still didn’t know what was wrong with me, and the drugs still weren’t working.

So she sent me to get more extensive blood work, and an ultrasound, and prescribed a double dose of the first medication.  My hormones were completely normal, the drugs still didn’t work, but they saw  “something” in my uterus on the ultrasound.

She had me come into the office so they could fill my uterus with saline and do another ultrasound to get a better look at what was in there.  But my cervix wouldn’t close, so the saline just kept coming back out, and they only got a slightly better view.  There were several small masses.

She suggested surgery, to remove whatever was in my uterus – possibly fibroids, possibly calcified tissue.  Calcification terrified me more than anything, for some reason, almost like my uterus was such an unused barren wasteland that it was literally turning to stone.  My friend Jen and I spent a giggly night creating a whole story about my reabsorbed twin, Brock, hiding out in my uterus for 37 years and coming back for revenge after I’d have him removed.  It was morbidly therapeutic.

Nearly 9 months after my initial call to my doctor, and more than a year since my last period, I had day surgery – basically a d&c with the added removal and biopsy of the foreign object residing in my womb.

It turned out to be cysts.  The fuckers that had been plaguing me since I was 15 had now decided to start raising hell in a new part of my body.  The biopsy came back normal.  Nothing to worry about.  Huge weight off my shoulders.  No cancer, no metamorphosis into The Thing.  All was good.  Until 3 months later when, once again, I had to call my doctor to report, you guessed it, no periods.

She prescribed meds.  Didn’t work.  She had me get blood work.  Normal.  So she decided to try 2 drugs, estradiol for 35 days with progesterone added for the last 10 days and ordered some more extensive blood work and an ultra sound.  When the nurse called with my results (normal, and a couple small cysts on my ovary, but nothing abnormal in my uterus), she said the doctor wanted me to come in for a follow up after I was finished with the meds.  A week later, they called saying my doctor has spoken to the resident oncologist (alarm bells), and he suggested another endometrial biopsy, even though I had had one with my surgery 6 months earlier.  Okay.  They were just being cautious.

The biopsy procedure is not pleasant.  I had had one about a decade ago when starting fertility treatment, and it was something I was hoping to never repeat.  They basically stick a curette (think small melon baller) through your cervix and scrape off some of your uterine lining.  Sounds pretty simple, but just the insertion of the curette was enough to make my ass come up off the table.  The scraping was excruciating.  They never told me to take any meds the first time I had it done.  This time they told me I could take Advil or they could prescribe something.  I hate drugs, and I would have needed a ride and not been able to go back to work, so I opted for Advil.  Big mistake.

Last night, the night before my follow up/biopsy appointment, I started spotting.  Great sign, I thought.  The drugs had finally worked.  But why, if my body is producing plenty of estrogen, did I need to take more of it to get my body to function correctly?

In the shower this morning, I wondered if the doctor would want to put me back on birth control.  Ugh.  I hate birth control.  It made me moody, and made me gain weight (like I fucking need that) and made my blood pressure go up (or that).  Plus there’s the whole, no possibility of getting pregnant thing.  Not that I have much of a chance, but there is still a chance, no matter how infinitesimally small, and even if I have mostly come to terms with likely never having kids.  But I thought maybe I could do it for now, and then, if I lost weight (which would hopefully help my hormones function properly), or we saved up enough for IVF in the future, I could stop taking it.

While sitting in the waiting room, a couple came in with their newborn.  The mom was bigger than me, and I thought, she had a baby, so can I.

When the nurse brought me into the exam room, she said the doctor might want to do a biopsy.  I thought, maybe because I had started spotting, they wouldn’t need to.  No such luck.  And while the biopsy was, once again, horrific – and I, once again, almost passed out – that was not the worst part of my appointment.  Before we even got to the biopsy, she read me the oncologist’s response to the email she has sent him, because she was worried about me.  She didn’t know why my body wasn’t working.  Usually, this type of thing happens when there is scar tissue from d&cs or other trauma, and it’s keeping the lining from building up and/or sloughing off.  But I had had no trauma, and the only d&c I had ever had had been the one she performed 6 months earlier.

Unfortunately, when your body doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, like, slough off the uterine lining, it’s more likely to develop precancerous, and then cancerous, cells.  And since mine wasn’t working, and the drugs couldn’t make it work, coupled with my PCOS and “type III obesity” (ie, really fat), the oncologist suggested the Mirena IUD (a hormonal birth control inserted into the uterus) or a hysterectomy.  The doctor said that the IUD would hopefully work, keeping any tissue from building up, and therefore, cancerous cells from forming.  And while the hysterectomy was a more permanent solution, I would never have to worry about it again.

The word hysterectomy hit me like a fucking baby grand piano.  It had never entered my mind.  Any semblance of having come to terms with not having children with which I had managed to delude myself was completely wiped away at that word.

I managed to keep it together, probably because I was so dumbstruck, until she left the room so I could get undressed for the biopsy.  While waiting for her to come back in, I had to fight back tears.  I did not want to lose it in front of her.  When she came back in, she told me she would get me more information on both options, so I could make a decision.  I couldn’t talk about it any more.  I just said okay, and laid back on the table so she wouldn’t be able to see me if I cried.

The biopsy obliterated all thinking for several minutes.  And even though all I wanted to do after it was run the fuck out of there before having a complete breakdown, I had to lie down for several minutes until the urge to pass out went away.  Sometimes, I hate my fucking body.  Okay, mostly, I hate my fucking body.  For, oh, so many reasons.

I managed to keep it together until I got half way home.  There was a bit of silent crying at a couple of red lights.  I saved the full blown breakdown for when I got home.

I’m angry at my body for, once again, letting me down, as it has so, so many time before.  But I’m also angry at myself for letting my body down.  I haven’t taken care of it the way I should, and so, I am, once again, blaming myself for not doing whatever I needed to do to prevent this from happening.  Nick pointed out that there are plenty of fat women who have perfectly functioning lady bits.  But I still feel at fault.  I will always wonder if making better decisions would have prevented me from being where I now find myself.

I’m sure you can tell which way I am leaning.  But I don’t know if I’m making a rational decision.  Am I avoiding a hysterectomy only so that I can stubbornly hold out hope for something that is very unlikely to ever happen?  Am I avoiding actually coming to terms with not having children?  Until today, I really thought I was okay with surrogacy or adoption.  Now, I don’t know if I’m really not, or if what I’m really struggling with is having the choice taken away from me.

We have some questions for the doctor (if I had known the seriousness of the appointment, I would have had Nick go with me.  He’s so much better at thinking of the right questions to ask while we’re there).  How much will the IUD reduce my risk of developing cancer?  Will losing weight also reduce my risk, and if so how much?

Nick said the final decision is up to me.  And that as long as the IUD and/or weight loss significantly reduce the cancer risk, he’s all for that.  But if they only slightly reduce the risk, that’s not good enough.  He said he can spend the rest of his life without ever having kids, but he cannot spend the rest of his life without me.  If I have ever done anything right in my life, it was surely marrying that man.

For now, I’m in limbo.  I have to wait until Monday to call the doctor with my questions.  And then wait again for answers.  In the meantime, I feel like I’m just…floating.