The following is an excerpt from Astrid founder Lisa’s chapter in the “Australian Guide to Living Well with Endo” by Maree Davenport.
Last year, my husband and I embarked on our fertility journey. I was diagnosed with PCOS and infertility, but the cause of my infertility was unknown. I know it sounds horrible, but I always knew that I’d eventually have fertility issues – I just knew. Just like how I knew my early childhood period onset was due to my sexual abuse. It is ironic now, after years of helping female patients with chronic pain and female health – that I am on my own female health journey.
We went to multiple fertility doctors, changing fertility specialists not once, not twice but three times in a span of 12 months. Each time, we were told different things. Each time, we were expected to do another round of IVF. Each IVF round was more injections, more hormones, more pessaries, more blood tests, more tablets. It was exhausting, and there were so many times where I didn’t know if I could keep doing another round.
My body started to change. The hormones made me gain weight. The doctors thought I was immunocompromised because I have eczema and said I had “increased natural killer cells” so they made me take prednisolone for weeks on end – to the point where my face turned into the shape of the moon (moon face being one of the major side effects of steroid medication).
My skin got itchy and dry from the constant up and down changes in hormones. I started losing hair, and I’d cry in the shower every time I saw more hair go down the drain.
I had miscarriage after miscarriage. And each time, the doctors couldn’t give me answers. One of the last phone calls with the nurses – from a clinic that I won’t name – lasted for 3 minutes. She called to let me know that it was another miscarriage and sounded so impersonal and I could feel her ingenuity through the phone – it was like she was reading from a script to fake empathy. I felt numb on the inside by our last failed IVF cycle and last miscarriage – I felt nothing.
And yet, all the while, I was still running a full on medicinal cannabis business where I wanted to show up for my people, my patients and my community. Thankfully, my colleagues and my team are the most beautiful and supportive people – who gave me space, time and support when I needed it.
A few weeks after my last miscarriage, I was at my cousin’s 18th birthday family BBQ. It was a cold winter Melbourne evening, and in true Vietnamese style, we had every single Vietnamese dish you could think of out in the backyard, buffet style. It was so nice having the family together and it’s certainly one of my favourite things about being Australian-Vietnamese.
However, what Vietnamese people aren’t very good at is tact. I remember a very core moment that almost broke me – and I believe will stay with me for the rest of my life. I was eating my cousin’s birthday cake, and my uncle came up to me and said: “you shouldn’t eat that, you’re so fat now”. I remember freezing and felt waves of anger, sadness and just defeat overtake me. I brushed it off, because of course, in Vietnamese culture, we’re taught to respect our elders and not talk back. But he kept going: “you should eat less, you’ve gained so much weight”. At this point, my CEO brain switched into gear and I replied calmly and respectfully “I’m just letting you know that I’ve just experienced multiple miscarriages, I’ve just had another IVF failed cycle a few weeks ago and I’ve been on hormonal medication that has caused weight gain”, thinking he’ll back off after I’ve given him a logical response. But he kept going and he didn’t stop. I heard his daughter, my cousin, to my left say “Dad, you’re being so mean”.
In that moment, I froze. I kept repeating “it’s from the medications”. As the words slipped out of my lips over and over again, I felt so much anger. Anger that I had to even defend myself. Anger that women are expected to bounce back after they’ve lost an embryo, let alone multiple embryos. Angry that there is an expectation for women to look a certain way without regard for what stage of life they’re going through.
And he kept berating me, and at some point, the strong, respectful, resilient defence I had put on started to crumble, and crumbled quickly. And his hurtful words started to penetrate through my head, morphing with my thoughts of shame, disappointment and sadness. And I spiralled out of control.
I felt myself breakdown. In my moment of vulnerability, I turned around to grab my husband and I broke down in uncontrollable sobs in his arms. It was the first time I’ve ever cried in front of my big Vietnamese family. After all, for 35 years I’ve been the eldest, driven, strong female niece, cousin, sister and daughter. Everyone was in shock. I didn’t have the strength, in that moment, to confront my uncle or defend myself. I completely froze and crumbled into a heap of helplessness. And it was my beautiful, loving husband that held me in arms in that moment of vulnerability – and defended me in front of my entire family in a moment where I had no fight left in me.
I think in Vietnamese culture, our elders forget just how much words can hurt, harm and shape a person – especially men speaking to women. In hindsight now, I know my uncle didn’t mean it in a harmful way. He was “just trying to look out for me”. But words and language are so powerful – and it can make or break a human being. When I reflect on this, I think about all the other women in the world who must have been in this same situation. Who come from cultures where you’re taught to be obedient and demonstrate respect and not speak up. We are silenced to the point of trauma.
Furthermore, at what point is it considered okay to stand up for yourself? To defend your own dignity? Is it after you’ve been sexually abused at nine years old? Is it after rounds of IVF, multiple miscarriages and infertility? Is it in a boardroom full of men in suits when you’re pitching your business to potential investors and they call you a “little girl with great ideas”. But that’s a whole different story for another day.
Last week, I underwent hysteroscopy and laparoscopy surgery. I found myself a new fertility doctor who is kind, patient and empathetic. And one of the first things she told me when she saw me for the first time was – I can almost guarantee that you’ve got endometriosis, and this is probably the cause of your infertility.
The surgery went really well and very smoothly – and sure enough, post surgery, my fertility doctor tells me that I’ve had two very blocked fallopian tubes and she’s found some signs of endometriosis. She tells me that my infertility has been environmental i.e. blocked tubes and endometriosis, alongside PCOS – and said now we can try naturally. I felt so happy and so relieved in that moment, I almost cried. Not just because we could try naturally, but simply because we finally have answers.
And with infertility, half the pain and frustration is just not knowing or no one being able to give you answers and feeling like an experiment. In that moment, speaking to my fertility specialist, and seeing the genuine light and care in her eyes – I felt human again.
To continue reading about Lisa’s journey, or to read other contributors’, such as Kayla Itsines and Emma Watkins, deeply personal experiences with endo, you can purchase The Australian Guide to Living Well with Endometriosis online or in-store wherever you buy your books.
