Baby Wombats? Not So Much…

So I should probably talk a bit about what has happened to me this year. It has not been a good year.

In November of last year, Mr Wombat and I, on considering the fact that we’d been married for 18 months, had a pretty stable relationship apart from the odd screaming argument (well, screaming on my part, sulking silence on his part), the fact that I had a slightly dodgy uterus and ovaries, and the fact that we should probably try in the near future because of this, decided to try and combine our respective DNA and create a brand-new human being.

So, obediently, I trotted off to the GP’s, and saw Scarily Direct GP. She told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t wait any longer, as infertility clinics like youngish women (what? Thanks, I’m sure) and promptly whipped out my coil before I could say, well anything at all actually. Including “Ouch, that hurt.” She then offered to show me said coil after she had removed it. Why, oh Scarily Direct GP? Why on earth do you think I want to look at a piece of, well whatever it’s made of, that’s been inside my uterus for the past 5 years? Do you actually get people who want to take it home with them as a memento? I managed to ignore her waving said object in front of my face by shutting my eyes, and promptly ran out of the room before she could offer to show me anything else, only falling over once in my closed-eye haste on the way out.

So Mr Wombat and I did what comes naturally and to my great surprise I didn’t get pregnant that month. I don’t know why it was such a surprise to me, as I had been told it wouldn’t be that easy. Years of being told to “always use protection, or you’ll get pregnant and your life will be ruined” at school, I guess. My period was also a surprise. After 5 years of not having them, I’d forgotten how messy, painful, unpleasant and well, generally bloody they are.

The next month, which happened to be over Christmas, we tried again, albeit half-heartedly amongst all the Christmas parties, mulled wine and general festivities. I did a pregnancy test on Christmas Day, wasn’t surprised when it was negative, and promptly drank a whole bottle of champagne. Mmm, I love champagne…

A few days later, my period still hadn’t arrived, so I peed on a stick again. This time it turned out to be positive and I instantly regretted all the wine I’d drunk, soft cheese and seafood I’d eaten over the festive season. Oh well. We told my parents and sister, as we were due to fly out to Sydney in the New Year, and they promptly got very excited and told everyone they knew. Parents, hey?

All was going well, until 6 ½ weeks, when I had some spotting. I found a GP, as we had only just arrived in Sydney. This time we shall call her Pregnancy-Obsessed Lady GP, for reasons which may become obvious later on in the story. Pregnancy-Obsessed Lady GP did a serum HCG, which was fine, and sent me off for a scan.

The scan was inconclusive, as either our dates were wrong, or that baby wombat had stopped developing. We waited for 10 days, to see if I started bleeding (oh what joy: cue anxious knicker-watch for the next 10 days.) We had a second scan, which confirmed that baby wombat had died, and went off for a D&C the next day.

The D&C appeared to go, well normally, and so feeling empty and drained, and like I’d left a part of me back in the hospital we trudged off home. Unfortunately, as horrible as this was, this was only to be the first part of The Year of Pants. Pants in a rubbish way, you understand, not in a boxers sort of way. That would be weird.

I waited with baited breath for my period after the D&C, but it didn’t make an appearance. The Uterus of Doom was sulking. She didn’t like being messed with, and had barricaded herself in a darkened room, occasionally shouting “I hate you!” and “Nobody understands me!”, listening to death-metal  and other such teenage things. I went to see Pregnancy-Obsessed Lady GP, who asked me if I was pregnant, refused to believe that I couldn’t be (woman, you have to have sex to get pregnant, don’tcha know?) and insisted on doing a pointless pregnancy test. The Uterus of Doom eventually deigned to stop sulking 8 long weeks later, when I was FED UP of all the cramps and bloating. Not for long though – 2 days worth of spotting and she stropped off again.

I thought I’d better be kind to her, she had been through rather a lot, but when she gave exactly the same performance a month later, I went off to the GP again. Pregnancy-Obsessed Lady GP again insisted that I was pregnant (see a pattern emerging here?) as pregnancy is a cause of light periods apparently. Hmmm, I thought it was a cause of no periods actually, but there we go. I satisfied her pregnancy obsession by providing yet more samples and demanded an ultrasound.

After a brief excitement (lasting one day) a month later when I had a positive pregnancy test, the Uterus of Doom stropped again and said “No way! It’s not fair!” and she promptly expelled said cause of said positive test, along with a minute amount of blood, supposed to resemble a period.

The scan demonstrated that while Uterus of Doom had been sitting in her room listening to death-metal and painting her nails black and dyeing her hair, she hadn’t actually been doing anything useful like building up an endometrium, and it was only 4mm thick.

I saw Pregnancy-Obsessed Lady GP again for the results; she told me to do another pregnancy test, as you guessed it – I might be pregnant still. I’m not sure where she got that from as surely it would have shown up on the scan? Oh well. She also told me that Asherman’s Syndrome “doesn’t happen”. Er, I hate to differ but…

I saw a gynaecologist next, who (sigh of relief) not only didn’t tell me that I was pregnant, but also listened to my concerns about Asherman’s Syndrome (I had consulted the Great Google several times) and booked me in for a hysteroscopy.

The hysteroscopy showed that the Uterus of Doom had been so traumatised by the D&C that while she was sulking in her room listening to death-metal she had done the uterine equivalent of self-harming, and had got herself in a bit of a mess and scarred up. Asherman’s Syndrome.

The adhesions were divided, but the endometrium was left thin and “fragmented”, along with our hopes of having a family. We can only hope that Uterus of Doom has finished self-harming and is receptive to company at some point in the future. To be fair though, she has cheered up a bit, through the wonder of magic brownies from my most amazing friend (who should so open a cake shop. Preferably in my house) and actually managed 5 days of being sociable before retreating back into her bedroom. The death-metal continues though.

So tomorrow I’m off to see if a gentle needling will tempt her to cheer up a bit and bring her out of her room. Yes, I’m going for acupuncture. I only hope they don’t put a needle in my perineum, like they have done to somebody else I know.

And Pregnancy-Obsessed Lady GP? I can only say that I haven’t quite had the nerve to go back to her and to be told that I might be pregnant again. I’m not, by the way.


2 responses to “Baby Wombats? Not So Much…

  1. Oh my dear. How brutal and relentless. I so wish this wasn’t what’s happening to you.



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