I’m reproductively challenged.

I wasn’t aware of this fact until I made the fateful decision to start trying to conceive in 2007. I was 24, married for 2 years, it seemed the logical next step.

I was pregnant after a few months of trying. I lost my first baby on 12 October 2007. Wham. Kick to the uterus by the universe. I don’t know how normal people deal with these things, but there was a lot of agonizing, and Googling, and agonizing, and wringing of hands, and agonizing. I wrote a blog post about it a few years later, because it’s (un)funny how much unbelievably stupid crap people say to you after an early miscarriage.


In January 2008 I found out I was pregnant again. “That surely can’t happen twice”, I thought. Wham! Miscarriage number two on 31 January 2008. By this stage I was sure I would never have kids (I know, what a drama queen). It was a tough time.

This is probably where I should insert that I’ve always had a dodgy ute. No doctor could diagnose the exact problem properly, I’ve surmised probably because men don’t suffer from dysmenorrhea. It’s an ugly word for an even worse problem, so you get your packet of birth control pills, and you continue with your life. Sort of.

Fast forward this miserable tale, and by a stroke of fortune and grace I had two healthy kids spaced 22 months apart. I was also divorced a few years later.

My woes were exacerbated by turning 30, and this is sort of the point of this little tale: Don’t ignore things. You will struggle to find a doctor that listens to you, because they generally don’t. I was eventually put on the depo to try and halt the constant bleeding, which didn’t work.

After 2 years of this, I called halt. I found a new doctor, and was instantly diagnosed with fibroids, and booked for surgery. Unfortunately my lap wasn’t a success, so I will probably have to have a hysterectomy in the near future. I can probably draw parallels between my miscarriages and fibroids, I choose not to. Sing “Let it go” with me.

As a young woman, it’s difficult to wrap my mind around never carrying children again, probably due to a fair amount of societal pressure. I mean it’s sort of the seat of my femininity that’s going to be yanked out, isn’t it? I am sad on one hand, but on the other I would love to have my quality of life back.

So I’ve decided to be candid about it, in the hope that my tale makes just one woman think enough, that she may drive her own behind to a doctor, and get help. You don’t have to live with crazy symptoms, you don’t have to suffer in silence, and life sans reproductive capability is looking pretty darn good at this stage!

Farewell to thee, uterus. I don’t think we ever liked each other much, but we had a 50% success rate for your intended purpose. I’ll take that pass mark, thanks.

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