Hills

Everything I’ve read about infertility refers to it as a “roller coaster.”  Up until now, my experience has been like one of those newfangled roller coasters where the excitement is all about the acceleration.  I haven’t been slowly advancing up the hill, hearing the click-click-click of cycles passing me by; I shot out of the entrance gate so fast that I can feel the g-force.

But of course, that’s not what anyone means by the infertility roller coaster; what they’re really talking about are the hills. I thought, so far, that my roller coaster was mercifully free of them. Turns out I was just moving too fast to see one coming.

A few days ago my doctor surprised me by being noncommittal on the surgery* I thought for sure I was going to need.  I wasn’t prepared for that, and my appointment turned into a weird conversation where I was arguing in favor of something I was actually dreading. We decided that he would reach out to the other doctors in his practice to get an idea of what they would recommend.  Since then, I came to love the idea of trying one IVF round (of the three my insurance covers) without surgery: it was less invasive, I might have a baby sooner, and it preserved the chances of a later “miracle” baby.  Whee, top of the hill!

But since what goes up must come down, the other doctors are in favor of surgery.  Of the 13 doctors he polled, 10 think I should go ahead and get it.  Woo, bottom of the hill!

(There is a caveat: he told the other doctors that I wanted the absolute best chance of success.  It’s therefore safe to assume that some of their responses are based on the fact that I *might* need the surgery, so for the *best* chance I should go ahead and do it.  It doesn’t mean that a single one of them thinks I definitely need it.)

My election hangover and the fact that I worked a 12-hour day yesterday did not put me in the correct frame of mind to absorb this new development.  I was tired, cranky, and emotional and made the same mistake I always make when tired, cranky, and emotional and facing a big decision: I called my mom.

I love my mom and she’s incredibly supportive, and I know that whatever decision I make she’ll get behind.  However, my mom is also very opinionated (though she claims she's not), terrible at hiding her opinions, and slow to accept reality when it conflicts with her underlying optimism. Deep down I don’t think she believes I’m infertile, but she’s humoring me.  Since mother/daughter interactions are always rational, my response to my mom’s not-entirely-reality-based opinions is invariably to take the opposite side and try to force her to accept my dire view of the situation.  You can see where this is going: she is against surgery, and therefore I immediately wanted the surgery.  OF COURSE I should get the surgery, it’s the only responsible choice!

Henry, meanwhile, being a solution-oriented male, responded to the news from the doctor by saying “Ok, then let’s get the surgery.”** I responded with an impassioned argument against the surgery.  OF COURSE I should try once without the surgery, it’s the only responsible choice!

And then I proved myself a genius by telling each of them about the other's opinion.

I went to bed no closer to a decision but having accomplished the task of turning a complicated medical decision with no right answer into a referendum on whose opinion I value more, my mom's or my husband's.  Fan-fucking-tastic.

Ultimately, the only two opinions that matter are mine and my doctor’s, and they’re the hardest to divine.  My doctor isn’t talking; he sees his job as laying everything out clearly and leaving it up to me.  As for me? I have absolutely no clue what my opinion is.  Actually, that’s a lie; my opinion is that I WISH I DIDN’T HAVE TO MAKE THIS IMPOSSIBLE DECISION.

*Surgery would be to get a closer look at and probably close off/remove my tube containing a hydrosalpinx.  This is generally recommended practice when you have a hydro.  However, all of the studies that led to this recommendation are based on the assumption that the tube with the hydro is closed, and therefore the only place for the hydro to drain is into your uterus, preventing implantation.  My hydro tube is open, something that there’s just not any evidence on.  Also important to note is the fact that having the surgery would close off any hope, however slim, of a future “natural” pregnancy.

**I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Henry has changed his mind nearly as much as I have; this was just his first reaction.