Desperation and Dr Google

I’ve just found out that my uterine lining is too thin to sustain a pregnancy. This is upsetting in itself, but what I’m really struggling with is…what do I do now? 

Prior to this, I’ve not had any specific issues I’ve known about – apart from the miscarriages of course – so this is new territory for me.

My immediate instinct, like a lot of people, is to turn to Dr Google. I’ve just checked my phone’s Google history and there are tens of searches in the vein of:

• How to thicken uterine lining
• Supplements to improve uterine lining
• How long for endometrial lining to get thicker with Vitamin E
• Causes of thin uterine lining

My mind is reacting to the news in a panic-stations way, questions and worries racing around, but going unanswered. 

I’m wondering if the last six months of trying (since my miscarriage surgery) have been a waste of time. Has the lining been like this the whole time? What has caused it – was my D&C done too ‘enthusiastically’? Does this mean there’s damage to my uterus? Or am I coming to the end of my fertile years and this is just a part of it?

I’ve wondered why I’m worrying about this so much and I think I’ve identified the problem: Dr Google is not a Dr at all. I am turning to technology because there is no doctor available to speak to. There are plenty of services where I’m on the books. But speaking to a qualified person who can answer my questions seems to be a test I am constantly failing at.

• Fail 1: The sonographer told me the measurement of my lining – 5.6mm – but only when I asked her. I didn’t speak to anyone before or after her, and she batted away my questions – which was fair enough – with ‘I’m not a gynaecologist, I don’t know the answers’.
• Fail 2: We don’t know when we will speak to a consultant about our blood, sperm and scan results. I asked the nurse who took my blood what we could expect and she gave a vague ‘the wait time changes all the time, you should get a letter in x to y number of weeks’.
• Fail 3: The recurrent miscarriage clinic couldn’t find any problems. And until I’m pregnant again, I won’t see them, because there’s nothing more they can do.

So no consultants. No doctors. Nobody qualified to tell me what is happening to my body or how I (or they) can improve our chances of conceiving.

And in the meantime, the clock keeps ticking. This accounts for a large proportion of the panic. I am 41 in March. Being surrounded by articles telling me how my fertility is falling off a cliff, the waiting around only becomes more frustrating – and disheartening.

I’m still at the point where every day I am mourning the loss of my three pregnancies. I watch friends with their children and feel a pain that cuts to my core, fearing that me and my husband will never experience the magic of a biological child. 

Sometimes this mourning and pain turns to anger. I want us to walk in to clinic and refuse to leave until somebody speaks to us. But I don’t do that, because we all have to wait our turn. I know we would be seen faster if it was possible. It’s a simple case of inadequate funding. So instead of expressing it, the anger gets turned inward and joins my ever-present friends, worry, stress and blame. 

In practical terms, I always need to have a plan of action. It gives me a sense of control. And as I get more desperate, I care little for the economic implications – or often, even the scientific evidence – as long as I have a plan. £5 for a bottle of pomegranate juice? Ok! £20 for some Ubiquinol? No problem! At least that way I can feel I’m doing something.

And then I ask people what they recommend. Some new ideas, some I’ve heard before. Hmm, Bromelain you say, that’s a new one. Let me just check that with Dr Google…