I have a secret. Something that I’m ashamed of. Something that’s a knife to the heart any time I think about it.
Fourteen years, ago we did our first round of IVF. Of course, being me, my body had a crazy response crazy to the meds. My ovaries were over stimulated and everything was a mess. I got super sick with hyperemesis gravidarum (HG), and by four weeks, I was living in the hospital with a central line, TPN feeding tubes, and all sorts of medications. But the roller coaster of damage had already been started, and my liver was failing.
We had four specialists’ opinions because surely that couldn’t be right. Each one said the same: We need to get those babies out now or you will die waiting for a liver transplant. And we can’t guarantee you’ll live long enough to reach a point of viability for the twins.
We had to make a decision based on medical necessity. The worst decision ever. Either the babies died or my son grew up without a mother. I chose to be a mother to older son which I think was the best decision.
When I was in the hospital for the termination, I had a doctor and nurse call me a murderer and refuse to take care of me. That hurt. I am a Christian. I didn’t like the place I was in, and it still haunts me now.
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