It was a sunny winter morning in December 2001. I was in my sophomore year of college and living with my parents (which I am grateful I was at my parents when this happened) and preparing to move into my apartment in Norman in January.
That morning, my parents had left the house to finish up some Christmas shopping and I was left warm in my bed with my 15 year old brother in the next room. Upon waking, I went into the kitchen to snag a doughnut for breakfast and on my way back to my room to shower, a sudden, stabbing pain seemed to pierce the right side of my body. In response to the pain, my body immediately crumpled and I walked like a hunchback back to my bed. The pain, then, seemed to spread throughout the front and back side of my abdomen. Not knowing what to do, I screamed for my brother, who entered my room startled by my screaming.
"Something is wrong. I need to go the hospital!" I told him. He just stood there with wide eyes. "I can't drive yet. What should I do? Call an ambulance?"
"No, call Nana and Papa. She has a cellphone and we can get a hold of them even if they aren't home." I seemed to wimper and moan through out my speaking and the pain remained - pushing, throbbing. It didn't let up and I thought that I may die right here in front of my little brother.
He left the room to call our grandparents. I figured I should at least put on a bra and some suitable clothes to visit the ER. So, I learned very quickly trying to dress while hunched over in pain can prove to be quite difficult.
While Kyle called our grandparents, (our parents were unreachable when away from home because back in 2001, cellphones weren't as prevalent and my parents were those people that would rather give their college-going daughter and son (my other brother) a cellphone before they got their own) I got dressed and crawled back into my bed, trying not to be too hysterical because I didn't want to scare my brother any more than he already was.
When my Nana and Papa finally arrived, they helped me to their car and we were off to the ER. On the way, we came to a traffic stop - there was a parade! Of all days, really, a parade?! That didn't stop my Nana from getting out of the car, approaching the policeman that was holding back the traffic, and explaining to him that we had to get to the ER before her granddaughter's abdomen exploded! She returned to the car, out of breath, and said, "He's letting us through!"
"Oh Geez!" I thought to myself. They are going to halt the parade just so we can drive through it on our way to the ER. Had I not been in pain, I would have been mortified that the parade had to stop because of me and my assertive grandmother that ran from our car and back to speak with a policeman. I mean, everyone could see me in the backseat wincing and clenching my right side. Just to be safe, I slipped further down in my seat as my Papa weaved and squeaked his tires around and through the crowd that was just moments before watching the parade. And, yes, he actually drove through the parade!! How embarrassing!
We finally arrived at the hospital and waited for about twenty minutes before they called my name. Somehow my Nana was able to locate my parents and they arrived as I entered the triage room with a nurse that had a kind face. My mom joined me apologizing and near tears because she wasn't with me until now. "It's okay, Mom," I told her. My mom does not handle injury or pain well - especially when her children are the ones in pain or injured. She would usually refer us to Daddy if he were home, because she had a tendency to faint.
"So, what is wrong? What hurts?" the nurse asked me and held up a chart that had the numbers listed 1 through 10 with a drawing of a face with each number that was supposed to depict the pain one was feeling. "Please tell me the degree of your pain on this scale from 1 to 10."
I looked at the chart and said, well, I can't really remember what number I gave her because this was almost ten years ago and my memory isn't what it used to be. But, I'm pretty sure it was in the neighborhood of 8 or 9. At this point, my mom had a couple tears running down her face. "I didn't know it was that bad!" she said.
The nurse asked me a lot more questions about my menstrual cycle. I answered the questions as best I could, but my cycles were so irregular and almost non-existent, plus the pain in my side was tearing through my body. Annoyed, I informed her that the information about my cycle didn't matter because it was my appendix that was causing the pain. I was going to go into shock if they didn't get my appendix out - and fast! She didn't comment on my appendix.
The next thing I remember is lying in a hospital bed and a nurse putting an IV in my right arm, realizing there was air in the needle, pulling it out and nervously laughing, "I just realized there was air in the needle, so I will have to start again. I could have stopped your heart." (Okay, this is the point at which I most likely acquired my horrific, anxiety-laden phobia of needles. I will post about this phobia in an upcoming post as needles play a very important role in most fertility treatments. Boo!)
"What?!!" I thought to myself and looked over at my parents who were watching wide-eyed. "Please don't kill me!"
After that, I really don't remember a whole lot because I was on Demerol to soothe the pain, which it didn't really do. It just didn't allow me to care about the pain even though I could still feel it. I felt so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open for very long or speak more than a couple words at a time. I could, however, hear and understand every word that was uttered by anyone in the room. I lied there and listened to my parents talk about me in fear of the unknowing, cry because they couldn't help me. They talked about me as if I were dead and not being able to listen to it anymore, I rolled my head over to look at them, used all my strength to open my eyes and said, "I can hear everything you are saying. I am fine, just sleepy!" I remember how they startled and just stared at me - shocked that I was alive and speaking. If I weren't totally stoned, I would have laughed at them.
I remember the sting of the catheter they shoved up my urethra AND when they pulled it out. I remember the dull painful pressure from the ultrasound wand as they pushed it into and rolled it around on my abdomen. I remember the vials of blood they took from my arm and felt the eyes of lots of nurses, and a couple of doctors, as they looked at my private parts and felt around them and, yes, in them. And, I just lied there like a dead person, helpless and often trying to think about being somewhere else, trying desperately to ignore what was happening to me.
After several hours, a nurse entered the room and removed my IV. "It's time to wake up. The doctor is going to come in and talk to you and your parents."
I opened my eyes and nodded my head. Thank goodness! I was almost able to go home, I thought.
He walked in - a tall, black doctor with a wide, bright smile. "I'm Dr. Brown. Are you feeling better?"
Actually, I hadn't taken notice of my pain, but I was feeling better as the Demerol exited my system and the pain, too, had subsided. "Yes, I am feeling better. I don't have any pain."
"Good," he said. "Are you ready to talk about what happened?"
"Yes, I said, as I attempted to fix my eyes on him without them shutting - still a bit woozy from the Demerol.
My parents moved to the edge of their seats and Dr. Brown began. "The pain you were experiencing was due to the rupturing of two ovarian cysts that were on your right ovary. The fluid they released spread throughout the right side of your abdomen and caused discomfort. Some women have claimed this pain is worse than giving birth."
My only thought at this moment was - he was comparing it to child birth, yet called the pain "discomfort?" Obviously, he hadn't experienced either one - ovarian cysts rupturing or childbirth!
He continued, "Based on your irregular, often absent, menstrual cycle, I am going to recommend that you start taking this and continue the dosage until you are ready to have kids someday." He brought his hands out of his doctor's coat to reveal what looked like a red makeup compact. He handed it to me.
I opened it and inside, organized in a circle, were, 30 small round pills. "Birth control?" I asked. "But, I'm a virgin. I'm not sexually active."
"This will only help your body regulate the hormones necessary for a regular period each month."
"So, what's wrong with me and my hormones? My gynecologist told me I just didn't have enough body fat to have a regular period. (Yes, I was a 128 lb. string bean at this particular time in my life. Trust me, putting on a few pounds of body fat never helped me in having a regular period!)"
At this point, I can only remember him talking about PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) and even though I didn't have the usual symptoms of the syndrome, PCOS most accurately described what has happening in my body.
Immediately, my next question was, "Will I be able to have babies?" This concern was very close to my heart, even though I had no marriage prospect in sight nor any plans of becoming a mom in the near future. But, I had known from the time I was a child that I wanted to be a mom and the thought of not being able to have a baby of my own was terrifying!
"If everything remains the same, I expect you should be able to have children, but you may encounter difficulty getting pregnant since your cycles are so irregular. I can't even confirm that you are even ovulating with your cycles. It may be just break through bleeding."
The conversation ended soon after that and he scheduled an appointment to see me in a month so he could check out my ovaries again to make sure everything was looking alright.
I was released from the hospital and my parents drove me home after making a quick stop at Braum's for a burger and chocolate milkshake to-go. The day ended much more peacefully than it had begun, but I would have never imagined that almost ten years later I would be happily married and unable to conceive.
That day will forever remain in my mind because it was the day that my irregular cycles went from "not-a worry" to an actual diagnosis of a syndrome that has proven throughout the years to cause infertility in its victims. Within that last couple years, the consequences of that diagnosis have become a stark reality in my life, threatening my dreams of carrying Chad's and my baby - my dreams of becoming a mommy.
