Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Embryo in. Sanity out.

It happened. On Monday. They wheeled me in, they put my legs in the stirrups made for giants. They put the gorgeous looking embryo in me.

On the way out the door to the clinic, I checked to make sure I had everything with me. Wallet, check. Bottle of water to chug until I'm uncomfortable, check. I asked my husband if anything was missing. Got your vagina? he asked. Check.

I took the valium on the way, washed it down with the big bottle of water. I just figured, no one had told me it would hurt -- it might only help -- and I can't drink wine, so why not?

When I got into the OR and realized the embryologist was in the corner, I suddenly felt this presence in the room. It was sort of like the time I saw President Clinton speak -- when he arrived in the building, you weren't sure how but you just knew he was there, as if the electrons in the room had somehow started combining differently. He's here. That's how I felt about my embryo. It's here. Alive. In this room with me.

On the way out, they handed me a photocopied picture of the embryo along with a curious little slip of paper with my name at the top and the number of embryos thawed (1), transferred (1), and how many remaining in cryostorage (4). I showed my husband. Oh, he said. Our receipt.

Husbands are not allowed into the procedure room for the transfer at this clinic. I was really blindsided by this news upon our arrival, but luckily at that point I was already operating under the influence of Valium, so I was pretty much incapable of being ruffled by anything. Still, it's odd to think that he was not even in the room at the moment when I got pregnant. He said something about telling people we're really talented, with a wink. He's a funny guy.

I wish I could tell you it's been all fun and games since the transfer. I came home, enjoyed a Valium-induced sleep on the couch, and then, as the medication wore off, panic and despair set in. The familiar mental racquetball match of it-definitely-worked, it-definitely-did-not-work has commenced. And will continue until the test, next Wednesday. Have not decided if I will POAS before then.

The problem with the time after transfer is that it's no longer abstract. So much depends on an implanting blastocyst, on two pink lines, on doubling betas. So much.



5 comments:

Turia said...

It sucks. It SUCKS so much. Having just been through two of these, I can offer sympathy but no assvice. I went crazy. I tried not to. It didn't work.

I really, really, really hope with all the power in my being that you get doubling betas.
xoxo
T.

Turia said...

Also- I cannot believe the clinic doesn't allow husbands/partners in the room at transfer. This process has already stripped away so much of what should be an intimate loving experience shared between two people- what on earth is their rationalization for such a stupid policy?

Caroline said...

Well this is a very good start in what I hope is a very good journey. Fingers crossed.

Roccie said...

I hereby declare all good wishes sent to me today for my birthday redirected to you.

I also offer the next 14 days of poopy diapers in your honor. My suffering for this small and delightful embryo.

Start watching Orange is the New Black.

Julia Spencer said...

Waiting sucks! Hoping the time passes quickly, and the news waiting for you at the end positive. :)

 
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