“Are you certain you’re done?” my physician inquired. “You’re still quite young.”
As I nervously fiddled with my hands, transitioning from rubbing between my fingers to clenching my fists, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. I had traveled over two hours to consult this gynecological expert, and our initial discussion veered into my romantic life. Mentioning my ongoing divorce shifted the focus from my chronic back and pelvic discomfort, irregular periods, and family history of reproductive cancers to concerns about my future ability to have children.
Yes, I was completely confident in my decision. My journey with fertility was riddled with complications, and my pregnancy experience was anything but easy. At 31, my then-husband and I decided to try for a baby, a decade after my first pregnancy, which had happened effortlessly. After over a year of trying to conceive, I sought assistance from my gynecologist. Following a series of tests, ultrasounds, and a laparoscopic procedure, I was diagnosed with endometriosis—a condition where the uterine lining grows outside the uterus. This condition was not only a common cause of secondary infertility, but it was also the source of the debilitating pelvic pain that had been dismissed by previous doctors for years.
The pain was excruciating, akin to a shark bite, and was not confined to my menstrual cycle. It was accompanied by fatigue and bloating, often confining me to bed for days. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t normal, but years of being reassured by doctors led me to believe it was something I just had to endure. It was part of a long-standing struggle with pain; as a strong Black woman, I felt compelled to push through without complaint.
Years earlier, at 25, I had left a prestigious hospital in Chicago with debilitating head and back pain, unable to hold my head upright. I received no treatment or medication—only instructions to take ibuprofen. Eventually, I found myself in a different hospital, where it was determined that my spinal fluid was leaking and needed urgent attention. I could have lost my life, but the lessons learned from countless dismissals by physicians taught me that voicing my struggles was often futile.
Now, after two surgeries to remove endometriosis, I was finally seated before a specialist. The severe pain on my left side was clearly due to my left ovary being stuck to my pelvic wall. Following my first surgery, I had awoken to find that ovary still in place, still adhered. My OB-GYN had wanted to preserve it to enhance my chances of pregnancy, but I learned that many women successfully conceive with just one ovary. This time, however, I was adamant about wanting relief from my pain, rather than holding on to anything that might hinder my recovery. I desired a life free from the agony that accompanied each menstrual cycle—a life where I could play with my four-year-old without fear of doubling over in pain.
“I’m sure,” I asserted. “Remove the fallopian tube, uterus, ovary, and any additional damage you discover.” On the wall behind us was my ultrasound, revealing my fallopian tube filled with an unknown mass. “Normally, a fallopian tube shouldn’t be visible on an ultrasound,” the doctor had mentioned minutes earlier, right before our conversation shifted to my fertility. It was clear that I could feel my fallopian tube, even though technically I shouldn’t have been able to. The doctor spoke rapidly about conservative treatment options involving medications that could lead to nightly sweats and hot flashes.
Driving home, I felt disoriented and frustrated. I refused to let another doctor apply a Band-Aid to my suffering. I called back, demanding a closer examination of my symptoms, conveying my pain through the tears that welled up in my eyes. A nurse returned my call to schedule a CT scan, which revealed a concerning “thickening” in the lining of my uterine wall and additional fluid in my pelvic cavity, expanding the list of issues the ultrasound had uncovered. Now we could move forward with the surgery to remove my uterus, tubes, and ovary.
In the eyes of many doctors, women’s fertility often takes precedence over the pain we endure. At least I found solace in knowing that my life outweighed the question of whether I might change my mind about having more children.
For more on navigating fertility and reproductive health, check out this insightful post as well as the resources from Kindbody and Make a Mom.
In summary, my experiences with chronic pain and fertility challenges highlighted a significant gap in how women’s health issues are addressed. I learned the importance of prioritizing my well-being over societal expectations regarding motherhood.