Grieving The Loss of Fertility *TRIGGER WARNING*

When I was 19 I found out at my very first GYN appointment that I had non-HPV cervical cancer. A handful of tests, procedures, and months later, I was told I was lucky. We caught it early enough that it looked like the surgical interventions were enough to treat it. Time and labs every 3 months for the following two years would tell, but it looked like I wouldn’t need radiation or chemotherapy. The down side, I was told? Most of my cervix had been removed, and it was very unlikely I’d ever be able to get through the first trimester of pregnancy, if I could even get pregnant through the scar tissue, much less carry a baby to term. I was told I’d never be able to have children outside of surrogacy. Fast-forward three years, and I had the next shock of my life to find out I was pregnant- which was followed by another miracle: she stayed there. My body kept her in and cooked her perfectly until it went into healthy labor all on its own and naturally delivered my 8 lb, 11 oz. girl just past 37 weeks.

My God is big and the doctors were wrong. I could indeed have children, and I’ve been blessed to give birth to seven of them. Things got a little crazy after the seventh was born last August, though. If you’ve seen my birth story then you know it already, but I’ll link it here in case you haven’t: Giovanna’s Birth Story. In short, we had a beautiful, easy, natural birth at a local birth center. Everything went perfectly, the baby and I were perfectly healthy and recovering well… until we were home. Something about that jostling on the car ride home, and just before we pulled in the driveway I began to hemorrhage. I was dizzy and weak, but my husband guided me inside to my bathroom where I felt like I was being spontaneously gutted like a fish. It stopped momentarily and he guided me to my bed, tucked me in with the baby, then called the midwife. She instructed me to take the, “God Forbid” safety measure of a pill of Methergine and stay in bed. I did. I stayed perfectly still, and terrified. Then that horrible sensation happened again, and I could feel myself getting soaked under the blankets. I started to shake uncontrollably. I said to my midwife, “Josh has to call 911, doesn’t he?” She instantly replied with a firm, “YES.” My husband rushed the kids from the room, had our oldest put on a movie to distract them, then called for help. The EMT’s were kind and attentive. They scooped up me and my soaked chux pads, and we were on our way to the hospital, leaving my newborn behind with my husband who was trying to hold it together, almost certain he had seen his wife alive for the last time.

The ride to the hospital was quick, I was sped straight past the ER to the waiting team in Labor and Delivery. As I came in the room, the stigma in the air was thick: It’s one of those irresponsible, “out of hospital” birthers. The nurses were abrupt and less than gentle with their tones as they moved me off the gurney and put down those awful plastic drapes to catch the mess I was making at the end of the bed with the periodic gushes while the on-call obstetrician gowned and gloved-up. There’s no nice way to put what she did next: she warned me it would be painful, several nurses held me down at the shoulders and waist, then she started digging. In all fairness, she had to. She was searching for the source of the problem. I tried not to scream. I was coherent enough to recognize that in this hospital I had supported so many mamas in during delivery as their doula, there were other women birthing. It took every ounce of care for them within me to not scream out in pain. They didn’t need to hear the horror side of things. At one point I could bear it not more and I looked at the charge nurse who had been leaning both her forearms down on my chest and said, “Please be nice to me.” She seemed surprised, even startled, but it was all I could get out. My way of saying, Yes, I know it looks to you like I did something foolish. Dangerous. Wasn’t responsible and careful. But I’m terrified and I’m in pain. Please remember that. She stood up slightly, looked down at me and said in a gentler voice, “Would you like some pain medicine?” Oh, that’s an option?! I was quickly given a bolus of something in my IV and I cannot say it took away the pain, I just cared about it less. I was foggy, in and out of what might have been unconsciousness or just drugged up haze, and I heard the doctor talking to the nurses. “Everything feels firm but the blood keeps coming…. I can’t believe it hasn’t stopped yet…. Emily, tell the OR to go be on standby… My G--, I can’t figure out where it’s coming from…”

I don’t remember how long it went on. My husband, who had arrived and was kept outside the room with our baby said it was more than an hour. He could hear it, but couldn’t see anything. Ultimately, in the wee hours of the morning I was stable, things were cleaned up, my husband and baby were allowed into the room, and the doctor had a serious talk with us. It was a tiny piece of placenta membrane, the size of a pinky nail, that had stuck to my uterine wall. It was so, so small that everything had seemed completely normal. My uterus clamped down just fine after delivery, and everything was normal. But whether it truly was the jostling of the car ride home or just my body suddenly realizing there was a tiny imposter lingering, my body decided, in great big waves, to open the flood gates and try flushing out that little speck. Then it would clamp down again. Then it would realize the imposter wasn’t gone, and repeat. Over, and over, and over. There was nothing my midwives or I could have done differently- in fact, we DID do everything right. Safe. Responsible. My body just had a very rare reaction to a very normal situation. As a result of all the doctor’s necessary intervention, I was left with serious internal trauma. She reiterated repeatedly that numerous times she was sure she was headed to the OR with me, and she couldn’t take a hysterectomy off the table even then when I seemed stable. It was just a waiting game to see how my body responded over time.

That was the day I lost my fertility. No more babies for me. When I’ve shared this with some, they’ve laughed. “Surely seven kids is enough.” Seven kids is incredible. I’m so blessed. I’m honored God has seen fit to entrust me with so many lives, and honestly, I can’t say I would have CHOSEN to have more, but please understand this: Regardless of age, number of biological children, health, or any other qualification you can see, when a woman’s ability to bear children is taken from her against her will, it is a loss. It is a trauma. It is something very precious being stripped away from her very center, literally and figuratively.

There’s a very popular YouTuber in the homesteading community who recently experienced such a loss, and in conversation with her we’ve both been able to relate to that crushing blow. Yes, we both have more than average children, and yes, we’re both SO grateful for that privilege, but there is a deep, deep grief we’re both working through- her more freshly than me- but it is real, profound, and the flippant pats of, “Oh, but you have SO MANY kids already,” and, “But at least you AND the babies are alive!” Hurt. Deeply. They stab a sharp knife into a gaping wound while simultaneously telling us to shut up and quit bleeding. If someone shares this deep grief with you, I don’t expect you to understand if you haven’t walked it yourself. Just say, “I’m sorry.” That’s all. No need to pat it off as anything else. We’re enduring physical trauma that will last the rest of our lives, and a deep emotional loss that needs to be processed. I know it’s hard to know what to say. You don’t need to say anything to comfort us. Just, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

If you are someone who has had her fertility taken away from her, I’m so very sorry. I see you. I know your pain. Your grief. Please know you can email me through my contact button any time. Don’t think of me as a stranger. Think of me as a sister far away who gets it.

Adonai is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. -Psalms 34:18