I have a high threshold of pain. I do. Really, I do. But three attempts at a saline sonohysterogram? (Which, in case you've never had one, involves a clamp and a catheter - and that should be all I need to say for you to understand why, upon attempt three, I thought I was going to die).
But I could have endured that quite handily. Even the emergency run they made to get a tech who they thought might be able to get a better picture of my uterus. Even the repeated injections of saline. Even the failed attempts being blamed on my tipped uterus (and not the OB's incompetence). I could have dealt with it all had they been able to give us good news. Or at least conclusive news.
One OB, two techs, 49 million gallons of saline and that fucking clamp on and off three times.
And at the end? Something. What, they don't know. But something. Probably scar tissue. Maybe scar tissue?
They don't know.
I sat there in a puddle of saline, gel and blood while they told me they just weren't sure what it was they saw, but that there appears to be a blockage of some sort in my uterus.
The OB who did the test (and God help both of us if I ever lay eyes on her again) recommended surgery to determine what exactly it was that they couldn't see. That's what she put in her notes to my OB.
My OB, who I can't see for another three weeks. And only that soon because I lost my shit on the phone with the clinic when they tried to tell me it would be August before I could get in front of him to discuss the fact that there's something lurking in my uterus that's likely the cause of last 12 months of failure.
A spot magically opened up on July 14th when I went into meltdown mode.
So, all in all, it's been a shitty week.
No one has told us we need to stop - or should stop. But this broke me in a way nothing has before. I barely made it out to the car before I burst into tears, scaring the shit out of My Beloved who had no idea what exactly I was crying about.
It was just too much.
I'm not a pussy - I sailed through my HSG, the IUIs and my C-section recovery, even after hemorrhaging and getting a blood infection. I'm strong and stubborn. But this? Somehow it was just too much. It hurt like hell (I'm not sure, but I think she was digging for gold), I'm still spotting five days later, and we have no clear answers. Only the specter of another surgery lurking in the darkness before us.
But I don't know if I can do it. I don't know if I have anything left. Like I said, I thought I would walk to the ends of the earth to have another child. But maybe this is what the end looks like. Me, completely out of courage and mental stamina. And hope.
"That's it. We're done. No more." Was My Beloved's conclusion upon finally calming me down enough to allow me to tell him what had gone on in the little exam room.
My Mother agrees. So does his. So do I. Mostly...
But part of me is down on my knees begging someone to tell me how you stop when you have nothing to show for your five years of effort except for an ever increasing stack of therapy receipts, a basement full of unused baby things, and a tiny grave marker.