Chapter 2 Samantha #2
And then they’d be broken for me, and that would break me, too. So I didn’t call them. I didn’t tell them what happened. I told my mom, and my sister, and then I called Brent.
He didn’t pick up.
Which meant I couldn’t tell him what happened until he got home from work. I didn’t even have to tell him, because he could see it on my puffy, red face when he walked through the door.
He didn’t say he was mad we got married for this thing that was no longer happening.
He didn’t say anything at all. He just hugged me.
It was the best thing he could have done, and for the first time, I thought I might actually love my husband.
He might have been plain, and he might have been a little awkward, but he was also the only person who understood what I had lost.
He had lost the same thing.
Eight months later, I got another positive pregnancy test. This time, I resolved to tell my friends so they could celebrate with me. We had a girls’ trip in just two months, and I wanted to tell them in person. Only, three weeks before that trip, I had another miscarriage.
This time, after two in a row, the doctor said something new. She was just as flat-toned, and she was just as dry, but she said, “Today, I’d like to get another ultrasound.”
“But—you said there wasn’t a heartbeat.”
This time, Brent had gone with me. He had rushed out of work without any notice or even a single word to his boss. He was holding my hands through it all. “Yeah, why do you need another ultrasound? Could you be wrong? Is there something we could do?”
The doctor shook her head. “No, there’s nothing that can be done this early in the pregnancy, but I’m worried after two in a row. . .” She coughed. “I’d just like to check a few things.”
“When?” I asked. I wanted her to say today.
“I’ll set one up for next week,” she said. “Let’s let all this clear up, and then we’ll have you back in.”
I spent a week in agony, watching the remains of my baby wash down the plumbing of our home, and I spent the week before I left on my girls’ trip doing ultrasounds and blood tests. Finally, my doctor sat me down to talk to me about the results.
“It’s not the best news,” she said, in the same flat tone. “But it is news, and we’re always better off armed with knowledge.” She nodded, and I guessed that was about as close to a pep talk as Dr. Bellington was going to get.
“What is the news?” Brent was frowning.
“The ultrasound showed cysts on your ovaries, which isn’t necessarily always conclusive, and you’re quite thin, so at first we didn’t suspect this, but in a controlled study about thirty-five women out of a hundred and fifty who have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome are considered lean.”
“Who have what?” I asked.
She explained then that I suffered from something that usually made women gain weight, have acne, and lose their hair.
It sounded like a total nightmare. “But there are several different phenotypes of the syndrome, and to be clear, it’s not a disease.
It’s not something you contracted or something we can cure with treatment. ”
I blinked, and I tried to listen, and I worked my very hardest not to cry. The hardest words I ever uttered came next. “So will I ever be able to have a baby?”
The doctor frowned. “We aren’t entirely sure. It’s much harder to become pregnant with this, but you have gotten pregnant twice already. Unfortunately, as you’ve already discovered, once you do become pregnant, you’re more than three times more likely to miscarry.”
She’s talking to me like she’s telling me that I need blood pressure medicine, or like she’s informing me of the side effects of birth control, not telling me that, more than likely, I will never be a mom.
“I don’t understand.”
Her face hardened. She was annoyed, frustrated that I had more questions, and that I desperately wanted her to tell me some kind of good news.
“But she isn’t heavy, and she doesn’t have acne, and her hair isn’t thin.” Brent’s brow was furrowed. “Are you sure she has this thing that you said she has?”
“The lack of the usual symptoms makes it more impressive that we were able to diagnose it,” Dr. Bellington said. “Most doctors wouldn’t have caught it at all, and she’ll want to change her diet and exercise regimen to address the other complications with having this syndrome.”
My whole life changed that day, and she wasn’t even talking to me about it.
“I want to go.” I stood. “I’ll do my own research. Thanks for catching it.”
Brent’s eyes widened, but he stood up.
“But we have a whole packet of information—”
“We’re good. Let’s go.” I took Brent’s hand, and I marched out the door.
I became obsessed after that with learning about my syndrome. I studied, I researched, and I tried things. I was sure, absolutely sure, that I would be able to work out, eat, and take supplements that would allow me to overcome this.
I had been told my horse would never jump, but after a suspensory repair and a very long, very consistent recovery period, he did.
I was told my lower leg was too busy to ever get it under control.
With an hour a day of having my stirrups tied to the girth, ignoring people who said that was dangerous, I fixed it.
I wasn’t someone who gave in because things were hard.
In fact, over the next fourteen years, in the pursuit of some answers, I went to school and became a nurse practitioner. I studied, and worked, and I applied everything I learned.
And I also miscarried seven more times.
By the end, Brent was very, very sick of trying. Some days, he seemed to be pretty sick of me as well. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked, after we lost our ninth baby. “Why are you doing it to me?”
I blinked back the tears I knew I couldn’t stop. “Do you really not want a baby?”
He threw his hands up into the air. “Of course I do. You know I do, but you’re broken, and it’s no one’s fault, but this is just torture.” He started pacing. “You’re just torturing yourself. I can’t watch it anymore.” He pointed at me. “I won’t.”
And that was the first time I hated him a little bit.
“Then we can adopt.”
He shook his head. “You know how I feel about that. We’ve talked about it—how many times, now?
” He tightened his hands into fists, still pacing.
“I can’t. I’m not sure I can love a child that isn’t really mine.
And you know adopted kids will have problems, and every time, I’ll feel like a monster for being mad about it. ”
“I think you’d be fine.” I stood.
“Would you risk a child’s happiness on it?” He lifted both eyebrows. “Would you?”
I collapsed back into my chair and started to weep. This time, instead of holding me like he had eight times before, he stormed out of the house, got in his car, and drove off somewhere. I had no idea where, and I didn’t care.
My uterus wasn’t the only thing that felt broken.
It had broken us, which was ironic, because my uterus got us together in the first place.
So, yeah.
My friends have been growing and improving and basically shining since high school, but me? I’ve really only fallen apart, broken down, and generally disappointed everyone in my life, including myself.