My Fight to Mom

By Michele Sylva

I had long contemplated writing this memoir, and with infertility on the rise even more now than when I was in my childbearing years, I felt compelled to share my story in the hopes of inspiring others to consider all their options when looking to start a family of their own.

Although every woman's story differs, my own family and friends couldn't fully digest what it meant for me to be infertile. Families who have never struggled to have children can give their sympathies for those of us who can't get pregnant, but unless you or someone close to you has experienced the emotional roller coaster of infertility, their well-placed intentions are often limited in scope and depth. It is my sincere hope that not only will infertile readers feel like they aren't alone in their challenge to become parents, but that their families and friends may benefit from my story to put perspective on the infertile experience. I also hope that those with unplanned pregnancies will give serious consideration to the precious gift of adopting their baby to a family who would cherish them beyond measure.

While I have changed the names of everyone in this book to protect them from any embarrassment or shame they may feel hearing my story, I have also changed my own name to protect my daughter's privacy. My intention isn't to hurt anyone's feelings, but the heart of the matter would be lost if I couldn't be as open and honest as possible with my audience.

Many a tear was shed as I compiled this book, both from remembered sorrows and the heights of triumph. As difficult as reliving this personal journey has been, I am reminded every day by looking at the beautiful one who calls me Mom--that she was meant to be my daughter and she's absolutely worth it.

I encourage every woman to own her personal power, unbury her hidden strength, and fight for the family you always wanted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887634463

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Whiskey and Pepper

Gut Instincts

Menos Ella

Ill Effects

Test-Driving

Three Weddings and a Lawsuit

Shuffling the Deck

Loaded Questions

End of Endo

Elephants

The Less-Traveled Road

Hope Seeds

Expecting, and the Unexpected

The Hostile Patient

Welcome to the World

Open Arms

A New Life

Upside Down

Full Circle

cover.jpg

My Fight to Mom

Michele Sylva

Copyright © 2023 Michele Sylva

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88763-445-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-446-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To Grandma and to my daughter,

I love you to God and back.

Whiskey and Pepper

Growing up in the northern suburbs of Detroit, nothing was better than summertime at my grandparents' house. Their house, built in the 1950s after Grandpa returned from the war, was in the Downriver area south of Detroit. The neighborhood had smaller houses built closer together compared to my parents' home, but an opportunity was never lost to stay at Grandma's for a weekend or longer. Any chance to soak up the unconditional love she gave the family, especially her grandchildren, was snatched up in a heartbeat. When homelife wasn't fun with two working parents, Grandma was always there with acceptance, advice, and a notorious extra helping of her amazing cooking.

Grandpa had suffered a stroke when I was a toddler, and it paralyzed his left side. Doctors had told him he had six months to live, but Grandma's attitude was we'll see about that. She nursed him, forced him to do physical therapy, and made him relearn to walk using a cane. Until that point, Grandma was always the dutiful wife, mother, cook, and meticulous homemaker, but now needed to learn how to drive so she could take Grandpa to appointments and run errands. Together, they beat the doctors' odds by more than a decade with their sheer determination. Grandma also took care of my dad's older brother Robert, who was born blind from detached retinas. Uncle Robert still lived there since he never married or had children, and he helped her with household chores as much as he could. Grandma's love for her family was the world's strongest glue.

In the summer of 1985, I enjoyed all the best things an eleven-year-old girl could do at Grandma's house. My sister Valerie, older than me by two years, was always there to hang out with. If we were lucky, our cousins Vanessa and Joey were staying overnight too. Days were spent swimming in the pool, playing games, and at least once a week, Grandma would walk with us to the local ice cream shop for a treat after dinner. At night the four of us grandchildren would cram into the small spare bedroom, with two on the foldout sofa and two on a pile of blankets on the floor. Our late-night talking and giggling would make Uncle Robert so mad that he'd thump on the wall between our rooms and tell us to shut up. Grandma would tell him to calm down, and then she'd come smiling into our room and ask us to quiet down. She enjoyed hearing children in her house and, having had three sons herself, got a kick out of having three girls around.

Being the early riser of the four of us grandchildren, I got extra alone time with Grandma before everyone else woke up. She would drink her coffee while we talked about everything from family history to the weather report. One morning I told Grandma that I didn't feel quite right. I didn't have an appetite for breakfast, and I felt like I had a stomachache but didn't need to use the bathroom. She studied my face for a long minute and suggested that maybe I shouldn't go swimming that afternoon. I was disappointed, especially because two of my older cousins, Lara and Leeza, were coming to swim with us that day, but obeyed Grandma's advice. She knew when I agreed not to go in the pool that I definitely wasn't feeling good.

During the afternoon when my sister and cousins were in the pool, I was in the bathroom when I discovered I'd started my first period. I called for Grandma's help, and I could see it was a moment—although awkward for me at the time—that she was cherishing to be witness to.

Apparently, neither of us were prepared for my menstruation because Grandma hadn't needed feminine hygiene products in years and had none in the house. My sister didn't have any supplies with her, so Grandma called Leeza in from the pool, asking her to run to the store for me. I was so embarrassed, feeling like the news of my first period was going to be broadcast to the entire family, but my emotions were running high at the time. Grandma was happy that Leeza would get the supplies I needed because she didn't realize sanitary pads didn't need a belt to keep them in place anymore, and Leeza knew exactly what to choose.

I was doubling over with cramps while Leeza drove to the store, so Grandma went behind the bar in the basement and returned with the tiniest glass I'd ever seen to that point, filled with a golden liquid. She set it down on the kitchen counter and proceeded to shake enough black pepper on it to cover the top. Here. Drink this, but drink it fast. It won't taste very good, but it'll help with your cramps, Grandma said.

"What is that?" I asked.

It's something my mother used to give us girls growing up. We didn't have medicine during the Depression like we do now, Grandma explained.

I hesitated, but trusted Grandma completely, and I obediently drank her concoction. It was horrible, like liquid fire burning down my throat and making me cough. My cheeks suddenly blazed red hot. I curled up on the couch, waiting for Leeza to return so I could trade the washcloth in my underwear for a proper sanitary pad, and Grandma kissed my forehead.

My initiation into womanhood had begun.

Gut Instincts

Is it like this for everyone? It didn't seem like it to me, and I realize now that at age thirteen my body was trying to tell me something.

My sister Valerie and cousin Vanessa didn't seem to think their monthly cycles were a big deal, other than the gross inconvenience it caused. They would have mild cramps for a day or two, their breasts would get tender, and maybe a little moody too. But that was it for them. They weren't doubled over with cramps that made walking upright a challenge for a whole week like me. They didn't have heavy flows that could soak through their clothes within an hour of refreshing their feminine hygiene like me. They didn't wear long baggy clothes during their periods to not only hide potential leaks, but to also hide the two bulky sanitary pads that felt like wearing a diaper between my legs. One pad would be placed from the middle to the backside of my underwear, and the second would be layered from the middle to the front so any sudden gush could hopefully be captured.

At school, whenever I stood up, I would have a friend give me a discreet sign after they checked me for a mess leaking through my clothes, and I was grateful they helped me avoid as much embarrassment as possible. My friends felt sorry for me that my periods were so rough, and they were relieved that their periods weren't anything like mine.

My friends suggested I try tampons instead of pads. They used them and found them more comfortable, especially when wearing sports uniforms. Sweat combined with the extra heat of giant pads made a stench so terrible that I couldn't stand the smell of myself before a game was over. I decided to give tampons a shot. Luckily, Valerie had some at home already and gave me quick instructions on how to use one. In the privacy of the bathroom, I hesitated nervously. I wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of inserting a tampon into my body where clearly everything wants to get out, but my desire for freedom from the monthly double-padding hardened my resolve to try.

Knowing that on my heaviest flow days I could soak through a double pad in an hour or so, I waited that much time and went back into the bathroom to see how well the tampon was working. Spotting on the pantyliner I'd worn for extra protection told me the stopper in the dam wasn't enough. As I pulled the string to remove the tampon, the only thing that came out was the string. The string had broken off the tampon now stuck in my body! I was mortified, momentarily paralyzed with fear as to what just happened. I slowly realized what I had to do to get it out, and was repulsed that I had to intimately introduce two fingers to my monthly mess to do it. Never wanting the experience to repeat itself, I was resigned to my original noninvasive monthly garb.

As time went on, my monthly cycle raged on and grew increasingly worse. My period would last a full week, with the first four days being the worst. Painful cramps made me nauseous, and there were times I was absent from school because it was so bad. My mom had never had cramps like me and couldn't always relate to how bad mine were. I was sixteen when I gathered my courage and asked my mom if I could talk to a doctor about it, and she made an appointment for me with my family doctor. For a long time, I had been avoiding my fear of having a doctor examine me down there, but I couldn't go on pretending anymore that everything was fine when it really wasn't.

I explained to the doctor what I had been experiencing since shortly after my periods started. She listened and nodded as she conducted the exam. My anxiety was slightly lessened by having a female doctor perform my first pelvic exam because at least she had the same parts as me and more personal knowledge that a male doctor doesn't. Upon completion, the doctor sat down to talk with me and my mom about her findings. She's perfectly normal as far as I can see,