After my surgery last fall Dr J told me I had one of the most complex and advanced cases he had ever seen. While reviewing the pictures from my lap he even got giddy once saying, “do you see that endometrioma? So crazy, it’s bigger than your uterus!” A few minutes and pictures later I finally had the courage to ask, “umm between that bloody thing or that bloody thing, which actually one belongs in my body?” Turns out none of them did and there was too much that was too deep to fully remove. He said “severe” but never gave me a number, although I knew from research the different classifications. And let’s be honest – without that hard number I could keep telling myself “oh you’re only a I or II, don’t freak out because there’s no way you’re a IV.”
Flash forward months later and our RE wrote it out at the top of all our paperwork – Stage IV – and this time I just started bawling. I knew what it meant at this stage in the game and having to acknowledge it just was too much in the moment. I don’t know what terrified me more, talking about IVF or envisioning myself in 5 years losing it all, the same age of mother when she had her hysterectomy.
Four, 4, IV, cuatro, quatre – who knew one number could be such a bitch.