“Oh no!” I’m bawling, “I sat by the fire for five minutes. I just didn’t think.”
“You did what? I don’t understand. Calm down and tell me what happened.”
“Bwaaaaaaaa, I sat bwa bwa bwa by the fire.”
He’s looking at me puzzled. I’m now at a fully blown crying fit.
You see, seven days ago, I had my embryo transferred and tonight I sat by the fire for five minutes to dry my hair and now I’m convinced I ruined everything.
“They tell you not to take a hot bath. What if it’s, like, the same!??!? I just didn’t think. Just for a minute.” I blubber.
Next day there’s another panic, because I touched the dog, trying to console him – he got all stressed when we had a noisy delivery outside, you see – but he had his anti-flea drops put on earlier on that morning. I didn’t touch his back, only his sides, and now I’m panicking – again – that I ruined everything.
“Bwwwwaa”, I sob hysterically. Again.
It’s just so much is riding on it.
The husband looks puzzled. Again. That’s his normal these days. Concerned but mostly puzzled.
I burst into tears at least twice a day. I cry in the evening because we watch the new David Attenborough programme and the baby snow leopard will never see its mummy again. It breaks my heart. I cry at breakfast because I remember again that I had sat by the fire for five minutes and may have ruined everything. I’m a nervous wreck.
No wonder; it’s been a journey. I have my third laparoscopy at the beginning of October to have my tethered, endometriosis-stuck, cysts-laden ovaries freed. Then we move straight into the long IVF cycle in November. My ovaries manage to produce 15 eggs and are all swelled up from the effort. Poor hard working ovaries.
Then comes the anxious wait to find out how many eggs had fertilised, and another heart-stopping morning of waiting for the phone from the clinic to let me know if any had made it to the three-day stage. And then on the morning of embryo transfer, the wait for the call (that never came) that none had blastocysted. At least one does and we proceed with the transfer.
The embryologist coos over my ‘textbook’ embryo. I feel so proud of it. Well done little one!
I get a picture printed and I look at the tiny blob of light space with awe.
Next stage is me on tenterhooks trying to ‘not be too busy’, and to ‘be happy and positive’, and ‘not stress out about it too much’.
It’s just how do you not stress about the waiting for this stage and that stage, and now the 12-day pregnancy test wait.
“How will I endure it?” I ask myself.
On Friday, I’m being naughty and test early. There’s a faint line.
THERE’S A FAINT LINE.
I nearly faint myself.
Oh my dear god.
But there’s no respite. I can’t just hibernate until such time that the news is finally good and the wait is over. More waiting. Two more days. JUST TWO MORE DAYS!
The most horrific cold of my life doesn’t help. I’m coughing my lungs out. My nose is dripping. I’m also bleeding slightly by now. But overall, I’m progesterone-happy and calm.
At night, I can’t sleep. The hormonal anxiety kicks in. I watch Grey’s Anatomy at three in the morning. Is this normal? Is this what other women have been through? How did they cope?
In the event, I get my period on Saturday night and the due-day test comes out negative. I’m numb.
Too many hurdles; too much pain; too much unfulfilled hope. We stop the drugs. We wait some more: to find out what happens next, to have another chance, to understand where to go from here.
Endometriosis and IVF means a long cycle, more waiting, more complexity, more stuff to try to wrap your exhausted confused dispirited brain around.
I can wait, but please please please Santa, can it be good news for Christmas???