From 13 to 3.
Unless I hear otherwise, I’m going in tomorrow for a day 3 transfer. According to the nurse, I have 3 embryos that look like they are in good shape.
Wait… What? 3? I did all that for 3 little turds?! (Yes, I did just potentially call my future child a turd. But…. RAGE.)
I recognize that this sounds like extreme complaining, but as previous explored, I don’t always have the most realistic set of expectations.
I will now publicly admit that I had “a plan.” Anyone who has experienced infertility will recognize this as an exercise in futility. And yet… I couldn’t help myself.
After I abandoned the “plan” of having babies like a normal person, I fast-forwarded to IVF. For some reason, I just didn’t think other methods were going to work. So I underwent the Great Clomid Experiment with little faith in the outcomes. Yes, yes… I did try in earnest, but I didn’t see that as the solution. So getting to IVF seemed like I was finally in the Reproductive Technology Big Leagues– and right where I belonged.
Much like my irrational fixation on getting 30 follicles, I really wanted 5 embryos. 1 to implant, 4 to freeze. You know… a “rainy day” stash. This is who I am. I make responsible decisions! I plan out my meals for the entire week! I have savings and a 401K, goddamnit! How could I not have some freaking embryos left over, just in case?!
BAH! ALL THE EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!
Now that my righteous indignation has passed, I can see this for what it is. It’s the Four Horsemen of the IF Apocalypse. And will come as no surprise to any of you, I am sure.
- Disappointment. I had set my hopes on 5. 3 is not 5, no matter how you cut it.
- Sadness. I worked hard for those 13 damn oocytes. I’m a little sad to see them go.
- Fear. Shit. What if this cycle doesn’t work?
- Shame. And what meltdown would be complete without a dash of shame? My best efforts have not yielded my best results.
I just don’t want to do this again. The injections, the egg retrieval, the general shittiness I feel since I started on the hormones… I haven’t felt well enough to run in over a week, which makes me a miserable human. (And likely compounding all the aforementioned.)
I don’t want to be on this emotional fucking roller coaster anymore.
So please, can we just get a baby out of this one and call it a day?