My AMH levels came back at 0.17.
According to the lab who tested my blood, these are standard levels for specific age ranges:
0-16 years: 0.00 – 7.10 ng/mL
17-29 years: 0.85 – 14.24 ng/mL
30-39 years: 0.51 – 7.27 ng/mL
40-49 years: 0.00 – 6.21 ng/mL
50 and older: 0.00 – 0.82 ng/mL
So, basically, my ovaries are ten years older than I am. I’m practically at menopause.
Waiting for a call from Dr. A, but it looks like I am staring at infertility squarely in the face. Dr. H (Dr. A’s fellow) called me back to say that Dr. A would be calling me soon. He began by saying “I understand why you’re so upset.” I know I haven’t misunderstood.
Everything DH and I are reading says that even IVF isn’t an option. It looks like my best chance of getting pregnant and carrying a child to term will be through the use of donor egg/s. I don’t want IVF with fucking donor eggs! I want MY baby, MY way.
I am an emotional wreck. I have bruised knuckles from pounding the floor and minor carpet burns for kicking the carpet. I can barely talk my voice is so hoarse from screaming.
I’m writing this in the middle of a respite, but it will only be a short while before it all starts again.
Seven months ago today I found out I was pregnant. Six months ago today I found out my Bean had died.
I have clawed my way back from hell, and now I’ve been told that there’s no way out. All that healing was a fucking joke.
It feels like my life from here on in will only ever be a misery, a painful reminder of the only thing that I had hoped for, a baby, will never happen. There will always be pregnant women. There will always be P-SIL and her children. And now there will always be the steady stream of pregnancy announcement and photos of babies. (Only this morning, before this news, was I on Facebook and saw that the 26-year-old cousin of a young friend of mine just had a baby. I remember this woman when she was 10 years old. Talk about a slap around the face.)
Pregnant women, P-SIL, my little niece, other babies, other friends’ and family’s pregnancy announcements, they will only ever be a source of deep grief and misery for me.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, DH and I will be the only ones without a cluster of children around us.
I have failed as a woman. I have failed as a wife. I want to die. Part of me is already dead now. I’ve been thinking about worse news. Even a cancer diagnosis feels like it might be better — at least then I might have a fucking chance of beating it. But this? There’s nothing I can do. I’m fucked. There is no coming back from this. There is no recovery. There is nothing we can do. We are fucking fucked.