Now there’s a weird sentence to type.
We got 1. 1 out of 12 retrieved eggs made it to day 5. It’s beautiful, according to both the RE and the embryologist – they both said it was a textbook perfect blastocyst.
Had the transfer this morning, obviously. After the circus that was the egg retrieval, this was just downright simple and pleasant. My husband actually got to be in the room with me when they transferred the embryo, so that was actually nice that he got to experience something with me (although they let HIM pee beforehand…asshole).
We got there around 11, me with a bladder that was starting to get uncomfortably full. I got naked from the waist down (hey, I got to keep my shirt on…little victories!!) and my husband got into a weird jumpsuit thing that covered all his clothes. We were in the room waiting for the nurse to come get us and he kept complaining how awkward his suit was.
I just glared at him. “Do you REALLY want to talk about awkward situations in this lab after the last week of my life?” He shut up really quick.
They got me settled in the room where it was all going down and I got on the table. My doctor inserted the speculum and got the catheter prepped and ready for the two embryologists in the next room that were prepping everything. They brought in the embryo, we confirmed it was, in fact, our name carved into the little petri dish. There was a moment when my doctor told everyone to hold still and not breathe (then she corrected herself and said I could keep breathing, thanks lady) and then poof. Little nugget was in. And that was it. They let me up and released me to the bathroom. BEST PEE EVER.
Everyone was just so fucking optimistic. They kept saying “Aren’t you excited?!” and things like that. No. No I’m not. This is literally our only chance. We have nothing left. So I’m sorry if I can’t muster up a happy face for my one little blastocyst. Yes, we only need one, as my husband keeps annoyingly reminding me. My lining was perfect and everything should be good for the little nugget to make itself a nice little home. I will allow myself a tiny bit of hope, because if I don’t, I might kill someone or something in the next 10 days. Joy oh joy, the couple that my husband knows that has gone through IVF (successfully and with 10 fucking frozen embryos to play with) are going to dinner with us on Saturday. I flat out KNOW that is all she’s going to want to talk about but fuck, I don’t want to. I want to pretend this isn’t happening. I want to go full blown ostrich, head in the sand, with this whole thing and attempt to gain a tiny semblance of normalcy back in our lives.
Now we wait. There is literally nothing else I can do. By June 8, I will either be pregnant or not pregnant. The latest SART report for my clinic is for 2014 and that year for women under 35, they had a 65% positive pregnancy test, and 55% live birth rate. Hopefully they’ve improved a bit in the last 2 years. And hopefully I can be a part of that fantastic live birth statistic 9 months from now. See? Optimism, bitches!
Keep our sole survivor in your thoughts. There’s a lot of pressure on it right now.