We are one week from our third embryo transfer.
And I’m in a really shitty mood.
Between work, my personal life, and infertility, it’s been a very stressful couple of weeks. And now with all the “family” holidays here, the obligations and socializing and holiday stress is mounting too. All I really want to do is go to bed and sleep until the new semester starts in January. And even then I might pull a groundhog move: peeking out from under my covers and determining I need six more weeks of sleep.
I’m sure part of it (probably most of it) is the hormones, and I’m not even on that many yet. Currently, I’m on a thyroid pill, 4 estrogen patches (changed every other day), lupron injections, baby aspirin, and prenatal vitamins. Thursday, I stop the lupron and add the vaginal progesterone (twice daily), medrol, and doxycycline. Friday, I become the human dartboard as my husband starts giving me the progesterone injections. Then November 20, we transfer.
And no part of me is excited .
Why would I be? I’m sure it’s going to fail again. We’ve been here, done this. Twice. And we’ve failed twice. And that’s after we failed trying to retrieve my eggs which came after we failed to get pregnant on our own. Why would this time be any different? Sure, we have ten high-quality blastocysts, nine of which tested normal. But plenty of people CCS test and still fail. And the latest stats I’m hearing say it takes three to four transfers using donor eggs to get pregnant. So why would this one work? And if it doesn’t, I’ll find out at the end of November, ruining both my birthday and Christmas again (our first transfer fail was confirmed on December 26 last year). Better yet, what new thing will go wrong? There’s always another infertility shoe. And if it does take, there’s no guarantee that it won’t be a chemical pregnancy or result in a miscarriage.
And there’s literally nothing I can do.
Okay, so that’s not quite true. But I’m not buying into the wives’ tales and infertility myths.
I’m not eating pineapple core (*gag*). And I’m not wearing custom-ordered “sticky embabie” socks (I’ve spent enough money on infertility already) or subscribing to a special infertility transfer package (but kuddos the woman who made that into a business). I’m not doing any acai plan (nope, not happenin’) or eating only vegan, vegetarian, keto, or some other diet (really? y’all know how much I hate cooking, right?). I won’t be taking the two week wait off of work to “take it easy” (hahaha). And I’m not eating McDonald’s french fries immediately after transfer (okay, I might actually do this one just because yum).
But I do have this guy. He lives on the end table, overseeing my meds.
Because when your GP, who began the conversation with “I know there’s nothing scientific about it all,” offers to bring you the Aztec fertility statue she brought home from Mexico, you take it. Unscientifically, she and her husband had an infant all but dropped in their laps within months of bringing home the statue, and her hairdresser got pregnant within two months of the statue coming to live at her house. I do, however, fully recognize the irony in my receiving a fertility statue that has, very obviously, been seriously broken and hot-glued back together.
With so much of infertility and conception out of my control, I’m doing the only things I can.
I’m following my calendar and doctor’s instructions. I’m mostly not thinking about the upcoming transfer and the following two week wait. I decorated for Christmas because I know if we get bad news at the end of the month, I will have no desire to decorate, and as much as having no real reason to do so (no excited children or holiday traditions or presents under the tree) makes me sad, the lights and ornaments and greenery are cheerful.
So here’s my view for the next several weeks, just because the “pretty” makes me happy and I need all the happy I can get.