I have read numerous pieces of literature based on Greek mythology. There is something that happens in many of the tragedies when a person dies. The women- wife, sister, daughter, and especially mother- will grieve in a very public and physical manner. They rip out their hair and dig their nails into their skin and tear wounds down their cheeks causing bloody streaks to mimic their tears. I always thought this to be a bit of an extreme reaction or perhaps cultural to that time. However, in light of recent events, I completely understand it now.
A few days ago, my world stopped turning. The life I had envisioned having since I was little was stolen from me. My dreams were thwarted. My doctor called to inform me that my only two embryos were both genetically abnormal. One had an extra chromosome and the other was missing one. They are unusable. Even worse, this data has some devistating implications. Some one my age (I turned 31 on the day I'm writing this) should have 85% of embryos be tested as "normal." My results would be expected of someone 10-15 years older than me. With that fact, along with the other eggs that didn't fertilize properly or stopped growing, two miscarriages, and over all infertility, the doctor suspects poor egg quality.
Poor egg quality is thought to be unfixable. It is also unknown why my egg quality may be poor. The most common reason is age, but that isn't the case for me. Endometriosis can be a factor due to scar tissue restricting blood flow, but mine is not severe enough for that, nor was it on my ovaries. It is yet another mystery.
Where does this leave us? The doctor said we can try another egg retrieval and "hope for the best." We can at least get more data- for better or for worse. If it ends up being "for worse," that means our only options to grow our family are through a donor egg or adoption. So I can decide between a child that is biologically part Michael and part stranger or 100% stranger. Now I know I will unconditionally love any child God blesses us with, yet this is not what I ever expected.
I always thought I'd have a baby that was MINE. We would stare at their face and have debates as to whether they looked more like me or my husband. Maybe they'd have my dad's smile or my grandma's red hair. We could put their baby photos next to mine and see how similar we were at different ages. Now, there is a big chance this will never happen for me.
So, what now? I grieve. I grieve for my two embryos that I already loved so much and had such hope for that had to be clinically "discarded." I grieve for the babies I will never conceive. I grieve for the dream life I will never live. Like the women in Greek literature, I want to scrape my nails into my flesh and rip myself apart so the outside looks and feels the same way the inside does. I want to wail from the mountain tops til my voice is gone, but instead, I scream internally. Implode. Disconegrate. Internal turmoil. Part of me died this week and I don't think I'll ever be the same.
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