Being diagnosed with infertility, whether male or female factor, is a devastating diagnosis. I heard those words not once but twice, 2004 with my husband’s male factor and once again with my diagnosis in 2007.
I knew more than I wanted to know about my husband’s sperm: count, motility and morphology…we commonly referred to it as the wicked trifecta. Certainly takes the romance out of conceiving a baby. Then in 2007, I was diagnosed with Elevated Follicle Stimulating Hormone (FSH). In normal “Joe Bag of Doughnuts Speak,” my diagnosis meant that I was running out of eggs and my egg quality was diminished due to my advanced age of 38. As a result of my old and decrepit eggs walking around with canes, my possibility of miscarriage skyrocketed.
Sitting in my reproductive endocrinologist’s (RE) office and hearing his words made my head spin. In my younger years, I could have majored in passing out and I also came from a long lineage of passer outers. Between my sister and I bets were placed at the beginning of every Mass. Continue reading