2, not 3

It's been a rough day.

I didn't start it out thinking it would be.  I did wake up at 4:30am to walk Ansel back to his bed because he thought it was a totally reasonable hour to wake up and go play with his toys.  Then had some trouble falling back asleep.

But that's just a kind of mundane, minimal level of  "rough."  Like when someone says their day "sucked" because they had to park farther away from their work than they wanted to.  Or they ran out of milk.

I had an appointment at the endocrinologist.  It's been about a year since my last one.  Things were going fine.  I was consistent taking my medication and was able to stay on a relatively low dosage to get in a good zone on my bloodwork.  In and out in 15 minutes, max, I thought.

But today, we thought we should maybe do a follow-up ultrasound on my thyroid since it'd been almost 2 years since the last measurements.  Purely routine, of course.  Probably would show something good!

I remembered last time I did that.  I remember watching the screen as the physician would track little crosshairs to measure the size of one small and one, more worrying, large "toxic nodule".  This time, I lay there much longer and watched the crosshairs measure one, two, three, four, five, six, and a much, much larger seventh.  On both lobes this time.  I kept blinking quickly to try and stop my eyes from tearing up.

I sat in a chair as he wrote and wrote notes, finally looking up to talk to me about likelihoods of this or that worrying reason for such quick spread and growth, how it was unusual to see this in someone as young as me, a recommendation to biopsy, and then the repeated questions I've been asked at this office, but this time with a noticeably increased emphasis.

Do you have children?

Yes

How many?

2

Are you using hormonal contraception or an IUD?

No

Are you married?

Yes

Does your husband have a vasectomy?

No

Interlaced fingers and a pause.  Then hearing the thing I really did not want to hear about.  That yes, we had been doing well to control this over the last few years, but that with what we saw on the ultrasound, that it did not look hopeful that I would ever be in a place where I could stop taking that medication or ever be able to be pregnant, safely, for me or a fetus, ever ever again.  Never.  

I've tried, these last few years, to convince myself that we were done.  Mostly because I didn't want to have to go through today and feel any kind of loss.  To try and pre-emptively say "Well, whatever.  No biggie.  Wasn't the plan anyway."

But today I had to admit that it was the plan - it was what we wanted.  We had just been trying to convince ourselves that it wasn't.  And I'd been hoping and trying so hard these last few years to fix myself.  To take the medicine every day, at the same time every day like clockwork - the best patient of all - to will my body to just reverse course and fix itself.  And both of us thinking that maybe "something would just happen."  Not planned or on purpose.  No fault pregnancy.  And then we'd just deal with it and maybe the whole thyroid thing is getting better anyway.  It'd be fine...I'm sure...right?

I didn't want the reason we would always be a 2-kid family to be because a minor organ in my throat looks like a 75 year old's instead of the 36 year old's it should be.  That it would be my fault.  

My throat is really sore today.  The biopsy ended up consisting of having a needle go deep into my neck and stay there for too long, four times.  It was supposed to be five, but I had almost lost consciousness by the end of the procedure so they stopped.

Afterwards, I went to Arbys for an Andes mint ice cream shake - an "ice pack" for the inside of my throat while I kept another held to the outside.  And I sat in my garage in the car and cried.

I feel like I could have had another pregnancy in me.  I do.  I know I've been saying I was getting too old or that we just couldn't hack more all-nighters or that it would be too much money or that I needed to lose more weight first.  

It wouldn't have been as easy as when I was 30, but I could have done it.  We could have done it.  I'm very good at being pregnant.  I'm very good at breastfeeding.  After Ansel, I know I'm good at labor too.  It's something I've just...it's come naturally to me each time with no difficulties at all.  I've really loved pregnancy (I know I am the minority).  And I'm pretty good at being a good mom.  I could have done it.  We could have done it.  

Except I can't.  Now I really can't.

We'll have 2, not 3.  

I miss that third little one, more than I can bear.  I feel like part of my entire soul has been obliterated.