The pain I felt when first being diagnosed with MRKH was nothing short of heart-wrenching. My only dream in life, for as long as I can remember, had been to have a family of my own. To carry a child within me, and become what every woman is meant to become: a mother. When my then-gynecologist informed me of my diagnosis, I broke down immediately. I didn’t want to talk to or see anyone. With my head reeling from the news, I was dropped off at my grandmothers, where I was coddled and hugged and I wanted more than anything to just be left alone. I ran upstairs and texted my closest friend at the time, informing him of what the doctors had just told me. He pushed me to stay strong, that I was still the same girl as I was before I found out, strong and fiery and independent, and reassured me that everything would be okay. I had a hard time getting through the year, and poured myself into my schoolwork, my job, and working on my then-new relationship. It took me two weeks to confess to my boyfriend exactly what was wrong with me and that I couldn’t have kids. He laughed at the time, telling me not to worry about it right now and to get on with my daily high school life. Over time, I slowly came out and told my friends about the things going on with my body, and always fought off the questions, concerns, and jokes coming from those that considered me to have a “lucky break” in life, not having to deal with the “worst curses” of being female. Little did they know that I would give anything in order to be able to have that curse, just once or twice, just to feel that little bit of what everyone called being a “normal” woman. The words my first gynecologist told me were forever present in my mind, the fact that I am “abnormal”.
To this day, almost three years later, I still break down from time to time. I still have a hard time getting through the days and weeks without loathing who I am at least once or twice. My fiancé always lets me cry on his shoulder when things start getting to be too much to handle. He is the same man that I was with at the time of my diagnosis, and is still as supportive as ever. And whenever someone asks me how my situation is possible, I just shrug and say, “I don’t know, I guess they just lost a few pieces and put my puzzle together wrong!”
I like to think that having MRKH makes me a more tolerant person. I understand what it is lie to wage a war inside myself, every day, and nobody can tell from looking at me on the street that I am any different. It is frustrating and strange and exciting. Every time I visit a new specialist, I have a medical file the size of half the encyclopedia to bring along. It is a crazy journey, but I am surrounded by those that love and support me for who I am, and I am quick to turn away those that are too full of negativity. I am one in 5000, and I am proud of who I am!
Thank you for reading!
To this day, almost three years later, I still break down from time to time. I still have a hard time getting through the days and weeks without loathing who I am at least once or twice. My fiancé always lets me cry on his shoulder when things start getting to be too much to handle. He is the same man that I was with at the time of my diagnosis, and is still as supportive as ever. And whenever someone asks me how my situation is possible, I just shrug and say, “I don’t know, I guess they just lost a few pieces and put my puzzle together wrong!”
I like to think that having MRKH makes me a more tolerant person. I understand what it is lie to wage a war inside myself, every day, and nobody can tell from looking at me on the street that I am any different. It is frustrating and strange and exciting. Every time I visit a new specialist, I have a medical file the size of half the encyclopedia to bring along. It is a crazy journey, but I am surrounded by those that love and support me for who I am, and I am quick to turn away those that are too full of negativity. I am one in 5000, and I am proud of who I am!
Thank you for reading!