I Lost My Eggs

Warning: Graphic images below. Sorry - couldn’t figure out how to put a warning filter over them. Still figuring this thing out.

Very high on pain meds the morning after surgery.

When someone mentions eggs what do you think of? Not the kind you get from the supermarket that you stand there debating if you’re a bad person if you don’t get the brown free range, open field, music played nightly- organic kind. The eggs from women’s ovaries. I never gave it much thought until recently what it really looked like. Yet, somehow in my brain I keep going back to the opening scene in Finding Nemo. I just picture perfect orange spheres just waiting for their turn. Not at all the case for humans but my brain won’t accept any other imagery. Science be damned! Is that weird? Like I know the answer is yes. But like how weird? Almost 5 years ago,  within a matter of  2 hours on a beautiful June day, I lost all my eggs. Gone. All of them. No real goodbye from me or them.

I’ve been putting this one off for a really long time. I knew this one was going to be hard. I’m skipping over the days leading up to the surgery and all the awkward conversations with friends & family and the gifts (so many blankets) but we can talk about those later. I’ve been talking about writing about my surgery for a while with my therapist but haven’t been able to find the right words or choose the parts I want to talk about. With my recent news of not being able to carry a baby due to the cancer & damaged tissue from radiation, I have been having an incredibly hard time accepting this. There has not been a day since early November that I haven’t cried over this loss. Never in any of my plans or back up to my back up plans did I think this would be my reality. Dr. McConnell suggested I write a letter or post to my eggs or about my experience to help with the grieving process. I already had a funeral for them (that is a story for another day) but it didn’t help bring me the closure I had wanted or needed. So, as colon cancer awareness month draws to a close, I want to share what it took from me.

June 26, 2019, my surgery date, feels like yesterday and an eternity at the same time. It is by far, the worst day of my life. I knew all my right eggs would not survive the surgery as my right ovary was 100% going. I had been in a state of shock since the 13th so my brain couldn’t reconcile the tremendous loss I was about to endure. They were confident that my left ovary was still clear and I was so positive that I still had options to fall back on. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I would still be able to freeze my left eggs 1 year later. Little Jens on ice would be waiting for me. It was a little comforting thought amid the chaotic and fearful ones floating through my head. As we all know, that would not be the case. I lost infinite lifetimes in a matter of minutes. Futures completely vanished. Babies I would never have. Unknown little versions of me who never got a chance. (To be clear, so we are all on the same page, I do not believe life starts at conception. Please understand what I’m trying to say here.) I had signed the form saying if they found cancer in my left ovary and it could not be saved, I gave my permission to remove it. I believed to my core, this was not going to happen. Life could not be that cruel.

Leading up to the surgery I don’t think I fully grasped the reality of what it meant to lose my ovary. I thanked it for its 21 years of service, especially the last couple. It really was a bad ass bitch, fully functioning while being completely taken over by Carl. I couldn't really mourn something that was still in my body. I had my (last) period right before this, June 5th-8th and said “job well done”. We’d pick this up next month or whenever it would be after surgery or treatment. I wasn’t really looking forward to having it while on chemo but being able to still have one was something I knew I wouldn’t take for granted anymore. The morning of my surgery as I got changed, I gave one final look in the mirror to get one more glance at a scar free stomach. Kind of wish I took a picture to remember it. I didn’t have words for my ovary or sigmoid colon. I mean what does one know what to say to those parts before surgery. No one really teaches you that or tells you how you are going to feel about having them removed. Especially when you’re under 40 and the first of your friends to be going through this.

I was pretty calm on the drive into the city. I made my post announcing my diagnosis on the helix leading into the Lincoln Tunnel. There was no going back now. Getting checked in and getting set up in pre-op was starting to feel like an out of body experience again. Before I knew it, it was time for my epidural so I could have immediate access to pain meds and to help relax me before surgery. It would also be attached to what I called the “Fun Button”. I could press this little joystick once every hour after surgery for a dose of pain meds. (What I wouldn’t give for a fun button right now.)  I remember the anesthesiologist putting the plastic on my back to get ready to give me the shot and that is the last thing I remember. I told my parents I never want to know what I said between then and waking up from surgery. I have a brief memory of being wheeled into the operating room and them asking what music I wanted to listen to. No one had prepared me for this and I was also so high I could barely talk. Somehow I said I wanted to have a dance party and then black.

My eyes fluttered open and Dr. Sonoda was beside me. I tried to feel around me but my arms were tucked under the blankets so I asked “colostomy?” He said “no” very calmly. I asked “uterus?” He said still there. I don’t fully remember how he said it or what words he used because I was still very high and very tired. But he told me my left ovary was not able to be saved and they had removed that too. I’m glad I can’t fully remember it, it would be too hard and I know it would play on a loop in my head every day. I told him, okay, and immediately fell back asleep. At some point later, my parents were next to me and I was starting to wake up. I think I cried. Not entirely sure. It wasn’t until the next day that my reality would hit me. I don’t feel like talking about my hospital stay right now. I will though. It will just draw this post out and take away from what I really want to say.

Carl (my right ovary) coming in at 4 1/2 lbs and 8 inches long. Egg carton count: unknown amount.

There were A LOT of tears and a shit ton of “It isn’t fair” said during my stay at Sloan the next few days and the following month during my recovery. (Also, at least once a week since then.) I just couldn’t fathom this was my reality. As time went on without my permission, I had my good days and bad days. Showers became my crying spot when I just needed to get it out of my system but had shit to do. Nights were just awful. My brain would go on a loop over my loss. All the things I would never get to experience became more and more real. The list would just grow and I would just cry harder. Every gynecologist appointment would bring more fears of other things that could go wrong with my one remaining reproductive organ. Each time I would hate myself a little more for not getting to say goodbye. I had donated my removed parts to Sloan for research. I wanted to sneak into the research labs and find my parts and say how sorry I was. I took every cramp, mood swing, break out, etc. for granted. I would do anything to have them back. I would bargain late at night to whoever was listening up in the sky to make me a miracle to have one ovary back and I would never complain about those things again.

I know my body isn’t going to give me the miracle of somehow growing back an ovary, nevertheless both of them. I still wish for it, every single day. Why am I the one to suffer? What did I do to deserve this when there are so many bad people out there who don’t even appreciate what they have!?!?! During my 2nd time with fucking Carl and that surgery, they discovered endometriosis in my abdominal cavity. Well cool. Glad to know what I thought were normal period symptoms were actually not. I was proud of myself for my tolerance of pain for the years I had my period. But it all felt like an even bigger “Fuck You” to me. I went through those awful cramps, throwing up from the pain, the migraines, the breakouts, the anger, all for nothing. I had nothing to show for it. No baby to hold up and say “you were worth all of it.” No fruit of my labor. No pre-teen girl I could share my secrets and tricks of the trade for dealing with it once a month. No young boy I could teach to understand what girls are going through so he could be a supportive friend to his girlfriends who are going through a hormone rager every month.

Whoever said 3rd times a charm is a real fucking asshole. My uterus had been hanging in there like the champion she was the last few years. Dr. Goldfrank promised me I would always have an option. I know she didn’t lie to me. My uterus had withstood so many procedures and had finally showed no cancerous cells last year. Until it didn’t. I didn’t want to believe the news I had. My body was a medical marvel, somehow fully functioning no matter how many times Carl tried to fuck with it. I don’t remember if I had the day off or if I went home early from work but one evening Dr. Goldfrank had called me back and we had the conversation I had been dreading for 4 ½ years. With each procedure and treatment, the tissue that allows the uterus to expand during a pregnancy becomes more and more compromised. This prevents most pregnancies unviable or able to grow to full-term.  While it isn’t unheard of, it is extremely rare. With my history of cancer and Carl continuously being attracted to my uterus (and ovaries), I would not be a candidate for IVF in the future. That is even if I get to keep my uterus after this latest treatment. We talked for almost an hour. I cried for all of it. 

I don’t know what my egg count was before Carl. I don’t know what kind of fertility struggles I may have possible had to overcome to get pregnant before cancer. I want to believe I was in in pretty good shape. I know I was in my mid 30’s and would be considered to have a geriatric pregnancy. Oh sorry, it’s now advanced maternal age pregnancy. Still a terrible name - someone should really work on that (preferably a woman). I was eating mostly healthy, I worked out, I didn’t smoke, I didn’t over drink. I go back and forth if knowing the case would be better or worse. Not knowing about my fertility health made me feel even more at a loss about my own body. Being single and not in a place where I could have a kid on my own made me feel like I missed out on knowing a part of me & my body.

I haven’t stopped crying. There has not been a day since that call that I haven’t cried. I’ll never get the chance to rest my hands on my growing belly. Eat a bowl of ice cream while it rests on my ever growing bump. No taking a pregnancy test and taking a few more just to be certain. No listening to the baby’s heartbeat. No feeling the kicks or the movement coming from inside me. I am so incredibly jealous of every woman who gets this experience. No matter what they had to do to get there, I would switch spots without even thinking about it. My friends are in different stages of being or becoming parents. My love for them far outweighs my jealousy but it doesn’t make it any less hard. I wanted to have this so badly. I know we all don’t get what we want but this seems completely unnecessary and insanely unfair. Every day, it feels like someone is ripping my heart out of my chest and leaving me on the floor to figure out how to function without it. Some days I can’t. I stay in bed and cry and sleep. No phone or tv. Just sitting in the dark letting the tears stream down my cheeks onto my pillows while I think of everything and nothing. Some days I’m good at pretending and can smile and laugh with everyone and go out in public like there is nothing wrong.

I harbor this giant resentment when they feature stories about women under 40 who have been diagnosed with colon cancer. Almost all of them feature women who already have kids. I truly can’t imagine going through treatment while being a mom and/or working. I could barely function and I had no one to take care of. It really makes you marvel how physically, mentally & emotionally strong these women are. But what about the rest of us? Most stories or articles don’t talk about having your fertility put on hold for at least a year before you can start any sort of process (again). And they certainly do not talk about what it’s like to lose all or some of your fertility options with nothing to fall back on.  At 18, no one was talking about freezing eggs and I wish I had that time machine for that Jennifer. I wish I could use it again to say a proper thank you and goodbye to my eggs. I asked for a picture of my right ovary which they did give me after surgery. I wish I asked if I could have taken a visit to the lab to see them outside my body. I just hope they know how much I wanted them and how many different lives and adventures we could have had together. I want my uterus to know that I’m still wishing for a miracle. 

Side view of my right ovary - just so you get a full understanding of Carl. (he looks like a potato or sausage from this angle in my opinion)

I know my uterus is on borrowed time. I still, however, refuse to keep my head fully in reality when it’s so much better up in the clouds. Thinking of having it removed feels like a death I will never come back from. I know not having a uterus doesn’t make me less of a woman. But not having mine feels like a sledgehammer to my heart and so many of my dreams. So much of my strength each day goes towards not thinking about this. And it is very fucking hard. And I am very fucking angry and hurt. There are times I don’t think there are words to describe how I’m feeling. I know I feel like I’m walking around like I have a cracked shell exterior and any sudden movement I’ll just shatter into a million little pieces.  I know I can’t go back and undo the cancer or what I’ve been through, I just want it to be gone and over so badly. I want to hold these little round, orange lives that were unlived, in my heart and treasure them. I’m ready to not be consumed by the grief that has taken over me the last 6+ months.