The Word "Treatable"

Dear Diary,

In the days leading up to the appointment with the specialist, two emotions lived side by side inside me: Guilt and absolute terror.

The guilt whispered quietly.

Did I cause this?

Did I miss something?

Should I have protected my body better?

But the terror was louder. Because until someone told me otherwise, I truly believed I might never be able to fall pregnant again. Just like that, I suddenly had a legit reason to really worry. Might I never be a mother of two… like I though I would be all my life? I never thought to have doubts, until now… 

When we walked into the specialist’s office, I felt like I was walking toward a verdict. My husband held my hand. He was calm. Steady. Almost unshakeable. At one point I asked him if he was scared too. He looked at me and said,“What good would it do, if I were scared as well?” And in that moment, I realised he had decided to be strong for both of us.

Strangely, instead of drifting apart under pressure, we felt closer. More united. As if this challenge had drawn a circle around us and said: You two. Together…

...for now…

The doctor reviewed my images carefully. Quietly and then he said it...

“Yes, there are significant adhesions.”

“Yes, the cervix is severely narrowed.”

“Yes, surgery will be necessary.”

I felt my stomach drop.

And then he added something that changed everything.

“This is treatable.”

Treatable.

I didn’t realise how tightly I had been holding my breath until that word entered the room. Hope rushed in, but it didn’t erase reality. He explained that my endometrium would likely never build up thick enough again to conceive naturally. The chances would be slim. And because time wasn’t exactly on my side — my biological clock ticking louder than ever — he advised us not to waste precious months trying blindly.

“If it is financially possible,” he said gently, “you should also consider creating embryos.”

I remember the weight of that sentence.

Surgergy.

Hormone stimulation.

IVF.

Time pressure.

Decisions that felt enormous.

It wasn’t just about removing scar tissue anymore. It was about strategy. About maximising chances. About accepting that my body might need help in ways I had never imagined. Four surgeries followed. Four times trusting someone to enter my body. Four times hoping the adhesions wouldn’t return.

Between each procedure, we prepared my body. Stimulating. Waiting. Monitoring. Hoping.

It was no longer just a fertility journey. It was a marathon of resilience. And yet, through it all, that first word stayed with me.

Treatable.

It became something I clung to on the harder days. On the days when hormones made me emotional. On the days when fear returned. On the days when I wondered if my body and I were still on the same team.

Dear Diary, this was the beginning of understanding that hope and fear can coexist.

Next week, I’ll share what four surgeries and the decision to create an embryo did to my body, my mind and how navigating IVF began to test not only my strength, but our relationship in ways we didn’t expect.

Until next time,

Your Woman on a Mission

🎙 And if you haven’t listened to the podcast episode about Asherman’s Syndrome yet, maybe now is the right moment. Sometimes understanding what is happening inside your body doesn’t remove the fear entirely, but it makes you feel less alone in it.