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Just like that, in a fleeting moment, everything shifted. I found myself in my doctor’s office, staring at two sheets of paper. What does this mean? How can this be? I’ve always been in great health, rarely even catching a cold. I have two young boys who depend on me. This can’t be happening.
Two weeks prior, I returned from a fun-filled trip to Orlando with my boys, ages four and two. We always shared our adventures together. The morning after we got back, I woke up to a foggy vision in my right eye. I rubbed it, hoping it would clear up. “It’s probably nothing,” I reassured myself as we started our day.
Three days later, the haze persisted. I finally confided in my husband that something felt off. He insisted I see a doctor immediately. “No, it’ll be fine,” I replied. The next day, he asked if there was any improvement, and I had to admit there wasn’t. Reluctantly, I made an appointment with an optometrist.
After running numerous tests, the optometrist told me my vision was 20/20, but I was missing sight in the lower half of my right eye. She mentioned potential causes like a tumor or stroke, but couldn’t find evidence of either. Thus, I was referred to an ophthalmologist.
The ophthalmologist dilated my eyes and performed more tests but also couldn’t identify the issue, apart from confirming the vision loss. She ordered an MRI. My heart sank. An MRI? My claustrophobia kicked in. There’s no way I could handle it.
Friends and family urged me to seek immediate care. The next day, I went to the emergency room for a CT scan. While waiting for results, I asked the doctor if he had encountered a similar case. He recounted a story of a young woman with the same symptoms who had a tumor. I fought back tears.
As I sat in silence with my husband and cousin, a flood of worries consumed me. My children were my priority; they were so young. Suddenly, the doctor burst in, beaming, “You’re free to go, no tumor!” Relief washed over me, but the uncertainty remained. I still had to undergo the MRI.
I scheduled the MRI, my nerves palpable during the drive. Upon arrival, I was instructed to change into scrubs and remove my jewelry. As they laid me on the machine, my heart raced, and tears streamed down my face. They handed me a panic button for emergencies. As they slid me into the machine, I panicked and they pulled me back out. I was terrified.
They provided a helmet for the brain MRI, and as soon as it was on, I broke down. I felt like I was suffocating. There was no way I could endure this for two 45-minute sessions. My doctor prescribed anti-anxiety medication, which helped me manage the next MRI.
Then came the agonizing wait for results. My doctor reassured me it was likely nothing serious and promised to update me as soon as she had news. Later, in her office, my hazy vision still lingering, she handed me two sheets of paper. In bold letters at the top: MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS.
What did that even mean? How could this be? Surely there was a mistake. “Could you please ask my father to come in?” I requested, needing his support.
When he entered and saw my tears, he asked what was wrong. The doctor explained my diagnosis. I couldn’t stop crying. None of us knew much about MS. “Will I regain my eyesight?” I asked. “Probably not,” my doctor replied.
She arranged for me to see one of the top neurologists later that day at Cedars-Sinai. On the drive home, my thoughts were consumed by my children. I wanted to be present for them, watch them grow. I was unfamiliar with Multiple Sclerosis, and it felt like a devastating prognosis.
Upon meeting the neurologist, I couldn’t hold back my tears. “I have two small children who need me,” I told her. “You will be just fine,” she assured me in a soothing tone. She explained what MS was, the available treatments, and what steps lay ahead. “Will I get my eyesight back?” I implored. “Yes, you will,” she affirmed.
When I returned home, my family was there, offering love and support. I needed a moment to process everything that had happened. In the following days, I isolated myself, focusing on my thoughts and my children.
The in-home steroids gradually restored my vision. Additional MRIs and consultations confirmed my diagnosis. I began a monthly infusion called Tysabri, an immunosuppressive drug. The initial treatment was daunting; a side effect could lead to a rare brain infection if I tested positive for the John Cunningham virus.
It was overwhelming. I stopped searching for information about MS; it only heightened my anxiety. As months passed, I adapted to my new reality. I resumed traveling with my boys, learning that while I may not control everything, I can control my response.
Almost two years later, I welcomed a healthy baby girl. Life is unpredictable, and the future with MS remains uncertain. But for now, gazing at my children’s radiant smiles, life feels good again.
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Summary:
The author recounts a life-altering experience that began with blurry vision, leading to a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. Through the challenges of medical testing and emotional turmoil, the focus remains on her young children and the desire to be present in their lives. After navigating treatment and adapting to her new reality, she finds hope and joy in motherhood once again.