More on Asherman's Syndrome

This post is a response to http://www.ashermans.org and its online support group. This post is abnormally private, but I see a need for addressing the emotional side of Asherman's Syndrome, and I only can contribute my own experience. I hope that some people find this helpful - especially since I have found my website has been read almost 4000 times in 3 months. (Please refer to my previous post on Asherman's at http://beyondbedrest.blogspot.com/2011/01/ashermans-syndrome.html). The issue of fertility and pregnancy has been fraught with emotion, thoughts of morality, and the need to wisely, gently and tactfully deal with outsiders' perspectives that sometimes cut to the quick.

After ten years of marriage, I believe the boundaries between two people really do become blurred. I don't understand it, but my experience has taught me a healthy marriage is magical. Where John and I used to stand alone, we now are part of something bigger than ourselves. At the risk of being cliché, I believe marriage really does cause two to become one. And in such a state, I lived blissfully until I developed Asherman's Syndrome.

After I developed Asherman's, I conceived and lost a little girl during the second trimester. My perspective of a magical marriage became tainted - not because of anything that John or I had done - but because our physical relationship was now jaded with death. The joy, freedom and innocence of being intimate was ripped away by fear, a feeling of guilt, and incredible loss for both of us. It wasn't just our hearts that were broken. I had an incredible sense that my body was irreparably broken.

I began to ponder the morality of my sexual relationship with my husband. There is a loss, so great, that it sometimes seems insurmountable. Perhaps the strongest question I was asked was "would John leave you over your inability to have more children?" At the time I was deeply offended, but then I realized that person saw the depth of how great our loss was, not just because our child died, but because our intimacy took such devastation. The loss of that pregnancy was great. While there may not be a dread of not conceiving every month that some woman experience with infertility, there is now the dread of touch and what physical and emotional pain that touch may create. My body had become a carrier for death. Where touch used to be beautiful, it became a creator of something hideous. The wound that pregnancy loss created in my relationship with my husband was worth mourning. It is also dreadfully difficult to recover from.

I believe mankind (male and female) was created in the image of God. Some beliefs are so innate that they can't be shaken from our psyche, and this is one of mine. With that belief comes moral obligation to take care of, uphold and honor one's body. After Asherman's, I began to wonder, is it wrong for me to get pregnant when I know my body may not be able to sustain it? Does knowing you have Asherman's make it wrong to concieve, just as it is wrong to do drugs, or a myriad of other harmful bodily activities? On the other hand, is it okay, since there is scientific data proving that pregnancy heals the uterus in ways that modern medicine cannot?

Do I have a moral responsibility as a parent? Can I willing and (more importantly) innocently conceive knowing I may be putting my child's life at risk? Do I have a moral obligation to not get pregnant? At the risk of being harsh, if I get pregnant and my child does not survive, am I now guilty of unintentional man slaughter? It may sound silly, or out there, but these are really questions John and I had to ask ourselves. When you are in the situation, the answer is not so clear, as evidenced by real comments I received like: "don't you know how babies are made?" or "I am sure you aren't going to be that sad [about losing Josie], since you knew you couldn't do it," or "the world does not revolve around your uterus", or point blank "you can't do that [get pregnant] again", or "your other children need you."

And so with these two questions (am I morally obligated to protect my body/future children?) comes a loss of my integrity in the eyes of some. And because my pregnancy with Josie went so far, the opinions of the public cannot be kept at bay, nor can they be ignored. Further, some times people with Asherman's lose integrity in the eyes of other's because of naivety and lack of education on woman's health. I was once told "It must be so hard to deal with an STD." (FYI, Asherman's is not an STD.) While I'd like to shrug off the opinions, perceptions, ignorance and callousness of others, I don't know anyone who can withstand this bombardment and loss of respect unscathed. Some people toss you a sense of your actions being irresponsible. This loss of integrity is also worth mourning, even if it is unjustified.

It is true that I have no problems getting pregnant. After all, this is my fifth pregnancy in five years. But don't underestimate the depth of pain, hurt or frustration that can accompany issues of fertility even in people who are able to conceive. It is not simply a done deal. It is not simply a matter of saying "yeah, but in the end, you have a child - or at least other children." While there may not be that monthly frustration of a negative pregnancy test, or the feeling of "getting down to business," I have a genuine dread of a pink plus on a white stick. For me there is genuine fear of what that will cost. It is not just a personal cost. It is a cost for my husband, children and friends who faithfully have stood by me.

Just like all woman with fertility issues, my real sadness is over the loss of a dream. I have answered many of the questions above for myself. Though I don't believe this is true for everyone with Asherman's, I do believe I should not get pregnant again. Just as some one who desperately wants children and is not able to conceive, I mourn the loss of fertility. I mourn the loss of my dream for a big family. I mourn the loss of two pregnancies. I mourn the loss of my own confidence in my body. I mourn the loss of unguarded intimacy. I experience fear of dealing with chronic pain. I experience angst over my own health. I have to make decisions that may mean life or death.

Here I am today, just shy of 38 wks pregnant with Darren. Most people think my battle is almost over. On the contrary, I believe my battle is mostly mental, and is just beginning. I am not upset to have Darren. On the contrary, I am overjoyed. He is a miracle I did not expect. But the joy is shaded by the anticipation of my recovery. I am guessing my physical recovery with be taxing, especially since I have never escaped surgery following any of my other pregnancies. I am afraid of my having another full blown case of Asherman's syndrome.

Ultimately, I am glad I have a belief in a god - a good god - who mourns with me. I am glad I do not have an eastern religious perspective that Asherman's and it's fall out is karma, fate, the stars, or the like. I am glad I do not rely on religious relics, charms, or even feng shui to help me through. Though some people cling to these ideas and gain comfort, for me they are too happenstance, too random. I am grateful for a faith in a god who loves me personally - a god who walks with me and in me. I think that helps me to get through. And I am glad for the Easter season, when I can remember that I have a god who also has experienced the loss of a dream. His dream was tainted by the actions of others. He also experienced the loss of children. He suffered more greatly than I can imagine. And he suffered out of love. I don't know why I can't shake this belief. When I have been at my lowest, I have tried to toss my faith. But ultimately, I am glad I cannot do it.