I could be pregnant right now, as I sit here typing these words.
But I won’t know for sure until 13 more days have passed.
We went to Brisbane yesterday for a frozen embryo transfer (FET). It happened just before 12.30pm.
They thawed three embryos.
Earlier, we happened to randomly choose locker three to secure our stuff while we changed into hospital theatre garb, and we were in hospital theatre three.
Later that night when we went out for dinner, our table number was 133 and our son is 3. He often notices it on street signs or on TV and will proclaim it is “his” number.
Just sayin’.
And you know the other completely freaky thing? The transfer that resulted in our son happened on June 2 also. The very same date. We had no idea until T looked in her phone calendar last night.
One of the embryos didn’t survive the thaw, the other two did.
One performed ok, but the clear “leading embryo” had divided into eight cells and was a Grade 4, which the scientist told us was above average.
Five minutes later when he came in with the long white syringey thing containing the embryo, he said it had divided into another cell just that morning...so it is very strong.
As for the remaining embryo, I will ring on Monday to see if it will survive another freeze, as they like to wait until about day five before making that call.
The mood was quite jovial in the theatre, with many a joke about the speculum, Noosa, car parks and idiot former patients our doctor had had.
And if you can’t laugh about a speculum, what can you laugh at?
In a few minutes it was done, and the scientist’s voice through the theatre intercom signalled the end of the procedure: “Catheter is clear”.
Well I suppose you wouldn’t want to hop down and leave without some check that the minuscule embryo had in fact been ejected from the syringe to its womby home.
My head is certainly spinning to be back in this position again, shouldering the burden of losing our baby last year.
I wish I had a camera inside me so I could monitor it and see what it’s doing. That is reality TV I would gladly watch! 24 hours. A day.
But I am excited. I noticed yesterday that I often absent-mindedly started speeding while on the highway to our appointment.
I am taking progesterone pessaries, one at night, and will most likely go straight for a blood test in a fortnight, as the progesterone can confuse the home pregnancy test kits and I really don’t want to have my hopes unfairly raised!
In the meantime, it’s no coffee, alcohol, sushi, soft cheese, barbecued chicken and all that other good stuff.
It’s suddenly remembering the whole baby phase that toddler-hood evaporates from memory...the nappies, sterilising bottles, smashed food, lack of sleep, injections, crawling and tiny humans that cannot talk to you. Holy shit!
While we wait.
God I hope this one sticks.
Showing posts with label FET. Show all posts
Showing posts with label FET. Show all posts
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Roll up, roll up
Good evening ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the GFAM Theatre. Tonight, the part of the Greek chorus will be played by Italics, fresh from her barnstorming run in the off-Broadway, Boy George hit Comma Chameleon. Now, please turn off your mobile phones and enjoy the show.
CURTAIN
Hi everyone, my name is Bec.
Hi Bec.
It’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Yes?
(Pause)
Galileo.
Galileo.
Galileo, Figaro.
Magnificent. I just wanted to try that, given I have a whole conversation going on with my very own chorus...my conscience, if you like.
This is like having a chat with my inner psyche.
Weird.
I know!
Anyway, as I was saying, it’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Why is that?
I was getting to that, if you’d just give me a minute.
The reason for that quite marked delay between much-dreamt-about drinks is because this blog forces me to focus on a very specific part of my life at a very specific moment in time that is happening right now.
The dreaded two-week wait, so fearful it has earnt its own acronym.
This FET I have tried to shield myself from thinking about it too much – and already I think I am doing better at that, this second time around. Thoughts and imaginings of what in god’s name is going on inside my womb right now do consume my every waking and sleeping moment...but they are much less frenetic and lurch less toward extremes than last time.
And?
And I guess I didn’t want to have to focus so harshly on how I was doing at the moment, by writing about it as honestly as I can, in this format. I wanted to let as much of it go as I can. Blogging kind of does not allow that to happen (although it has other advantages).
How are you doing?
It honestly depends on the hour. I can be either desperately searching for symptoms, longing to feel sore breasts (please, punch me if you like), a twinge in my lower abdomen (fancy a kick?), nausea (got any tripe?) or overwhelming tiredness (um, I already have that - have had since 1987). Or I can be preparing myself for another negative test next Tuesday morning. I go through those motions, alright not as often as I think about the thrill that will ripple through my body when the test is positive, but I imagine myself searching for those two lines.
And then I imagine myself not seeing them – even after shaking the stick, blowing on it, squinting my eyes really tight and praying to every higher power I can think of. I feel sick when I think about that moment...
I imagine myself getting into the shower that will surely follow whatever test result appears and crying tears hotter than the hot water spewing at me from above. If it is negative.
Hence the reason you don’t allow yourself to go there as often.
Right. I was just going to say that. I was even going to use the word 'hence', which is not so common in common parlance. Neither is the word 'parlance', if you think about it. I mean, it sounds French, why should it pop up in English? Exactly. Does that make the term 'common parlance' an oxymoron then? But 'hence', I was totally going to use that word too. Wow, are you psychic?
Think of a number between 1 and 10. I will think of one too. Now, what is that number?
Seven.
My god, that’s right! How did you do that?
Do you really need me to answer that?
Alright no. Look! A shiny kitten.
You know what thought I cling to each time my flights of fancy take particularly doom-worthy turns? That most women in the world do not realise they are pregnant until they miss a period. Or they miss two.
Most? What does most mean?
It is a non-specific term to denote a shitload, ok? Certainly most women I speak to, most of the stuff I’ve read and most of the anecdotal accounts I have heard point towards a general unknowingness in the first two weeks of a pregnancy. Plus when the nurse coordinator from the clinic rang to check on me this afternoon, I asked her if I should be feeling anything. She said there were no definitive signs - which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Thanks Margy, I think I love you.
We are in the mixed blessing boat – the one filled with people who know the exact moment of “conception”, with that term actually defined in this case as the transfer of an embryo into the uterus. Not the implantation, but the transfer.
How do you ensure that embryo goes from transfer to implantation?
Honey, if I knew that, I would be sainted, knighted, BRW Rich Listed and Nobel Peace Prized out the window.
(Thanks for reading my 50th blog post. Woo hoo. Wait, does that mean menopause? Nooooooooo!)
CURTAIN
Hi everyone, my name is Bec.
Hi Bec.
It’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Yes?
(Pause)
Galileo.
Galileo.
Galileo, Figaro.
Magnificent. I just wanted to try that, given I have a whole conversation going on with my very own chorus...my conscience, if you like.
This is like having a chat with my inner psyche.
Weird.
I know!
Anyway, as I was saying, it’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Why is that?
I was getting to that, if you’d just give me a minute.
The reason for that quite marked delay between much-dreamt-about drinks is because this blog forces me to focus on a very specific part of my life at a very specific moment in time that is happening right now.
The dreaded two-week wait, so fearful it has earnt its own acronym.
This FET I have tried to shield myself from thinking about it too much – and already I think I am doing better at that, this second time around. Thoughts and imaginings of what in god’s name is going on inside my womb right now do consume my every waking and sleeping moment...but they are much less frenetic and lurch less toward extremes than last time.
And?
And I guess I didn’t want to have to focus so harshly on how I was doing at the moment, by writing about it as honestly as I can, in this format. I wanted to let as much of it go as I can. Blogging kind of does not allow that to happen (although it has other advantages).
How are you doing?
It honestly depends on the hour. I can be either desperately searching for symptoms, longing to feel sore breasts (please, punch me if you like), a twinge in my lower abdomen (fancy a kick?), nausea (got any tripe?) or overwhelming tiredness (um, I already have that - have had since 1987). Or I can be preparing myself for another negative test next Tuesday morning. I go through those motions, alright not as often as I think about the thrill that will ripple through my body when the test is positive, but I imagine myself searching for those two lines.
And then I imagine myself not seeing them – even after shaking the stick, blowing on it, squinting my eyes really tight and praying to every higher power I can think of. I feel sick when I think about that moment...
I imagine myself getting into the shower that will surely follow whatever test result appears and crying tears hotter than the hot water spewing at me from above. If it is negative.
Hence the reason you don’t allow yourself to go there as often.
Right. I was just going to say that. I was even going to use the word 'hence', which is not so common in common parlance. Neither is the word 'parlance', if you think about it. I mean, it sounds French, why should it pop up in English? Exactly. Does that make the term 'common parlance' an oxymoron then? But 'hence', I was totally going to use that word too. Wow, are you psychic?
Think of a number between 1 and 10. I will think of one too. Now, what is that number?
Seven.
My god, that’s right! How did you do that?
Do you really need me to answer that?
Alright no. Look! A shiny kitten.
You know what thought I cling to each time my flights of fancy take particularly doom-worthy turns? That most women in the world do not realise they are pregnant until they miss a period. Or they miss two.
Most? What does most mean?
It is a non-specific term to denote a shitload, ok? Certainly most women I speak to, most of the stuff I’ve read and most of the anecdotal accounts I have heard point towards a general unknowingness in the first two weeks of a pregnancy. Plus when the nurse coordinator from the clinic rang to check on me this afternoon, I asked her if I should be feeling anything. She said there were no definitive signs - which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Thanks Margy, I think I love you.
We are in the mixed blessing boat – the one filled with people who know the exact moment of “conception”, with that term actually defined in this case as the transfer of an embryo into the uterus. Not the implantation, but the transfer.
How do you ensure that embryo goes from transfer to implantation?
Honey, if I knew that, I would be sainted, knighted, BRW Rich Listed and Nobel Peace Prized out the window.
(Thanks for reading my 50th blog post. Woo hoo. Wait, does that mean menopause? Nooooooooo!)
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Is that the question?
A post over at my bloggy friend's place got me thinking about the online venting space that is the blogosphere.
Something happened with my boobs last night and I made a mental note to remember to blog about it next time I got the chance. And yep, that was about the most exciting thing that happened last night, so strap yourselves in people - this is going to be GREAT!
And just now, even though I am shamefully without tea, I had the chance to blog before Jay wakes up. So I signed right on in to my humble little Blogger space and was going to write this semi-angsty diatribe chronicling how my two-week wait was going.
Only I am a journalist, have I mentioned that before?, and I wanted to check one fact before I started writing. (It's an occupational hazard and a compunction.) I was going to go and grab my phone and bring up the calendar to see how far into the two-week wait I was...how far away I was from the day when I was going to do a pregnancy test. This week has been a blur and I know the FET was only a few days back there, but some weeks the days blend into one. Even this week.
But then I thought about my bloggy friend's post and suddenly didn't care to check at all. I didn't feel diatribe-curious or even diatribic, if that is indeed a word. I thought I'd not only take her lead a tiny bit, but practice some of that calm I've been preaching these past few weeks.
I understand her point that allocating space in the globe's biggest publishing free-for-all to describe experiences of the torture, trauma and a gruelling sort of stress that only this situation can create will somehow "cement how bad it is" in her head. That writing it down somehow makes it worse, gives it a new, perhaps nastier life.
We agree there is catharsis in that.
But I also feel an almost-physical release after that catharsis. Yes, all the anxiety and all my craziness and all the bad day blues do gain more credence all of a sudden when they are allowed to channel through words to form the shapes of the letters you are reading now.
But this kind of spirit is possessing my mind, my typing fingers and my emotions for only a temporary moment. Like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost when she conducts those seances and goes into trances after being "possessed" by dead people. Sure they come in, but they also go out. And unlike some people who can/or claim to be able to do that sort of stuff, I am not exhausted or drained afterwards as is often the consequence, I believe...or at least Whoopi seemed awful bushed after that scene, so I feel I have some knowledge of these things. Personally after I blog about this stuff, I feel lighter.
I told my fellow blogger and TTCer that I think of some of these words as the stuff of a Viking funeral. Strange, I know, but I think of the more fraught posts as sitting atop a raft before being lit on fire and set off to be claimed by the oceanic elements. Gone.
Alright, not entirely gone, but weakened in its potential to do me harm. And that's a good thing. For me.
Ok, Jay is up, but I wanted to tell you about my boobs. Haha. Anyway, I was watching the footy on teev last night and had cause to rub my chest. Not in a Samantha Fox way (please) but I had a scratch or something.
Anyway I noticed a particular nip-ular area of one boob to be quite tender. Not crazy tender, but sensitive. Instantly I thought "I am pregnant, I must be." So I felt a little more, rubbed a little harder just to make sure, and before I knew it I couldn't tell if I was actually experiencing tender pregnancy-related breasticles, or if they were sore from all the rubbing!
Goodness.
Something happened with my boobs last night and I made a mental note to remember to blog about it next time I got the chance. And yep, that was about the most exciting thing that happened last night, so strap yourselves in people - this is going to be GREAT!
And just now, even though I am shamefully without tea, I had the chance to blog before Jay wakes up. So I signed right on in to my humble little Blogger space and was going to write this semi-angsty diatribe chronicling how my two-week wait was going.
Only I am a journalist, have I mentioned that before?, and I wanted to check one fact before I started writing. (It's an occupational hazard and a compunction.) I was going to go and grab my phone and bring up the calendar to see how far into the two-week wait I was...how far away I was from the day when I was going to do a pregnancy test. This week has been a blur and I know the FET was only a few days back there, but some weeks the days blend into one. Even this week.
But then I thought about my bloggy friend's post and suddenly didn't care to check at all. I didn't feel diatribe-curious or even diatribic, if that is indeed a word. I thought I'd not only take her lead a tiny bit, but practice some of that calm I've been preaching these past few weeks.
I understand her point that allocating space in the globe's biggest publishing free-for-all to describe experiences of the torture, trauma and a gruelling sort of stress that only this situation can create will somehow "cement how bad it is" in her head. That writing it down somehow makes it worse, gives it a new, perhaps nastier life.
We agree there is catharsis in that.
But I also feel an almost-physical release after that catharsis. Yes, all the anxiety and all my craziness and all the bad day blues do gain more credence all of a sudden when they are allowed to channel through words to form the shapes of the letters you are reading now.
But this kind of spirit is possessing my mind, my typing fingers and my emotions for only a temporary moment. Like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost when she conducts those seances and goes into trances after being "possessed" by dead people. Sure they come in, but they also go out. And unlike some people who can/or claim to be able to do that sort of stuff, I am not exhausted or drained afterwards as is often the consequence, I believe...or at least Whoopi seemed awful bushed after that scene, so I feel I have some knowledge of these things. Personally after I blog about this stuff, I feel lighter.
I told my fellow blogger and TTCer that I think of some of these words as the stuff of a Viking funeral. Strange, I know, but I think of the more fraught posts as sitting atop a raft before being lit on fire and set off to be claimed by the oceanic elements. Gone.
Alright, not entirely gone, but weakened in its potential to do me harm. And that's a good thing. For me.
Ok, Jay is up, but I wanted to tell you about my boobs. Haha. Anyway, I was watching the footy on teev last night and had cause to rub my chest. Not in a Samantha Fox way (please) but I had a scratch or something.
Anyway I noticed a particular nip-ular area of one boob to be quite tender. Not crazy tender, but sensitive. Instantly I thought "I am pregnant, I must be." So I felt a little more, rubbed a little harder just to make sure, and before I knew it I couldn't tell if I was actually experiencing tender pregnancy-related breasticles, or if they were sore from all the rubbing!
Goodness.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
A bullet-shaped pessary. Delightful.
I suppose I better get used to random things in my vagina. That's a big statement for a gay woman, even one who dabbled on the other team for a while there...
I'm not saying nothing goes ever in there for non-medical reasons, but sometimes...ok, I'll stop talking now. Read on.
Obstetrician's hands, lights, speculums (speculi?), nurse's fingers, bendy syringes, squeegee hormone sticks and even my own fingers as I face the fact that perineal massage could be a distressing reality waiting for me just around the corner.
So, what's a bullet-shaped pessary between friends?
Isn't that hilarious? A bullet-shaped pessary.
So, it's progesterone and I have to, ahem, insert one twice a day for the next 14 days.
According to the fact sheet, it is designed to "enhance the receptivity of the uterine lining".
For you details people out there, apparently progesterone is the hormone released in the second half (luteal phase) of the menstrual cycle by the corpus luteum (which develops in the ruptured follicle). It secretes progesterone when an egg is fertilised...and that, fine people, is exactly what has happened in this case.
Only my body, and especially my corpus luteum don't know it. So we have to make like a magician and trick it, by introducing a 14-day, 28-dose sleight of hand.
Progesterone? Pfft, of course there's progesterone. Rabbit out of a hat? Of course...!
So, yeah, twice a day I pop these strange little hard "bullets" out of their plastic casing and, ahem, insert them. They look like Cusson's Imperial Leather soap, only whiter. Oh! And not that big! Are you on crack? Jesus Christ, I am not shoving something the size of a bar of soap, or a pack of cards, in there. Bullets. I said bullets. So if you look at your little finger and measure from the tip of the nail to the middle knuckle. Like that. Small. Like bullets.
Only thing is the fact sheet reckons I need to lie down for 30 minutes after insertion. The bullet does break up, break down, break dance, hell I don't know, once it's inside...and well let's just say the resultant mass is not as solid as it started out. So yeah, I guess gravity is not going to help keep that gooey mess up and where it's meant to be.
That's no problem for the night time one, I do it right before I go to bed. But the morning? I set my phone alarm last night but the damn thing woke me up every 10 minutes as it suddenly dropped out of service and decided to beep, light up and announce to me like some paranoid Raymond Babbitt that "Hello! No service, check the signal in your area. Hello!! I'm a good driver, I AM!!" So, a plan B on the whole morning bullet shall have to be devised.
What's that? You'd like to see a photo of these dastardly pessaries? Hm, yeah, would be nice wouldn't it? I had that idea myself four pieces of chocolate, one cup of tea and 30 minutes ago. Now, well the enthusiasm has worn off.
Oh look, Google images wins again.
I'm not saying nothing goes ever in there for non-medical reasons, but sometimes...ok, I'll stop talking now. Read on.
Obstetrician's hands, lights, speculums (speculi?), nurse's fingers, bendy syringes, squeegee hormone sticks and even my own fingers as I face the fact that perineal massage could be a distressing reality waiting for me just around the corner.
So, what's a bullet-shaped pessary between friends?
Isn't that hilarious? A bullet-shaped pessary.
So, it's progesterone and I have to, ahem, insert one twice a day for the next 14 days.
According to the fact sheet, it is designed to "enhance the receptivity of the uterine lining".
For you details people out there, apparently progesterone is the hormone released in the second half (luteal phase) of the menstrual cycle by the corpus luteum (which develops in the ruptured follicle). It secretes progesterone when an egg is fertilised...and that, fine people, is exactly what has happened in this case.
Only my body, and especially my corpus luteum don't know it. So we have to make like a magician and trick it, by introducing a 14-day, 28-dose sleight of hand.
Progesterone? Pfft, of course there's progesterone. Rabbit out of a hat? Of course...!
So, yeah, twice a day I pop these strange little hard "bullets" out of their plastic casing and, ahem, insert them. They look like Cusson's Imperial Leather soap, only whiter. Oh! And not that big! Are you on crack? Jesus Christ, I am not shoving something the size of a bar of soap, or a pack of cards, in there. Bullets. I said bullets. So if you look at your little finger and measure from the tip of the nail to the middle knuckle. Like that. Small. Like bullets.
Only thing is the fact sheet reckons I need to lie down for 30 minutes after insertion. The bullet does break up, break down, break dance, hell I don't know, once it's inside...and well let's just say the resultant mass is not as solid as it started out. So yeah, I guess gravity is not going to help keep that gooey mess up and where it's meant to be.
That's no problem for the night time one, I do it right before I go to bed. But the morning? I set my phone alarm last night but the damn thing woke me up every 10 minutes as it suddenly dropped out of service and decided to beep, light up and announce to me like some paranoid Raymond Babbitt that "Hello! No service, check the signal in your area. Hello!! I'm a good driver, I AM!!" So, a plan B on the whole morning bullet shall have to be devised.
What's that? You'd like to see a photo of these dastardly pessaries? Hm, yeah, would be nice wouldn't it? I had that idea myself four pieces of chocolate, one cup of tea and 30 minutes ago. Now, well the enthusiasm has worn off.
Oh look, Google images wins again.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
FET Day one
Freaking excellent? Totally?
Far evermore than.
Filibuster extenuating trance.
Further exhilirating terror.
Frame enter terrific.
Fabulous entrapment tomorrow?
Frozen embryo transfer.
Which of these is not like the other?
No, you have not stumbled upon the lesson plan for an English As A Second Language course.
Frozen embryo transfer. FET.
Yep, there's another acronym.
Had my first one at 12.23pm today. Wow.
Wow.
Once again, at this moment (I think), I am pregnant.
My first little frozen embie...my chilly goog (thanks Jack, told you I would steal that term)...was implanted inside me today.
I took a sick day, whizzed down to Brisbane with T while Jay went about his normal day care business.
Before we knew it, we had parked the car, risen to the fourth floor in the lift and were told theatre was running early (when does that ever happen?) and we were both suddenly thrust into ridiculous hospital attire.
T resplendent in purple and a white paper hat, me naked from the waist with a random brown checked nightie and rather cosy white waffle gown...and white paper hat and toe-curling blue booties.
Right. "Just down this corridor," the nurse guided us. A fellow in blue who could very well have been a Grey's Anatomy extra shook our hand and introduced himself as Tony.
That meant nothing to me, so I assumed he was standing in for our regular IVF doc boss man. No, turned out he was the scientist.
As I settled on the gurney, and took one frightened glance at the large black stirrups, he came over and showed me some paperwork pertaining to our little embie.
"We have a very healthy embryo," he said, while referring to some numbers that looked like fractions.
"It divided into four cells straight away, which is what we want to see and then went to six, and eight and 10 and then it got to 12...after that we stop counting, as the cells divide so quickly."
Wow, little one. So, so young and little and I am proud of your strength and vitality already?
Is it possible for an adult human to be so amazed by what is tantamount to just a bunch of cells?
Hell yes. I certainly was today. Amazed. Awed.
Alright most of that awe was reserved for the science and the brains behind that science and the personnel actually carrying out these scientific prinicples in this day and age...but a big chunk of that awe was certainly reserved in a very special place for our little embie.
And god it was so good to have T in there with me today...not out in the waiting room having to entertain Jay. She held my hand and looked into my eyes in the seconds after the FET happened. Thanks baby, love you.
It was great. We smiled and were once more united in a new round of hope.
Reassuring shoulder rubs, hand shakes and eye contact lingers from no less than five medical staff and we were ready to go home.
Just like that.
I certainly feel different this time. Perhaps more realistic, and yes, honestly, a bit more calm.
I find I am not flitting about in my mind saying silly things to myself and making sillier bargains with myself.
I found myself thinking a few days ago about the possibility that this one would not take. My first reaction was to shut down such silly talk. Instantly, within a split second.
"If you think it, it will happen, STOP THAT!" But a new reaction followed that first one. It shut down that hysterical superstitious voice and told me to calm the freak down. It could happen, it could also...not.
I could lose it, I could also...not. Yes, it's a horrible limbo that I have no control over - but I have been there before and I feel strengthened by that, even if it was just once before.
You know I love my words. I love them too much in fact. I smother my words with way too much love. I am a suffocating linguist. A linguistic suffocator. Do you get my point??
But today, the circumstances dictated the need for just five...and they were a missive to a very specific recipient.
We love you, please stay.
**A small post-script to this, um, post: you know the cost I was rabbiting on about last post? We got the definitive answer today.
$1800.
That's how much it costs for each FET.
$1800.
We think we will get about $600 of that back.
I spoke to a clinic rep and asked to be told what that actually paid for, given that we were under the impression that the thousands of dollars we paid a few months back covered us for these subsequent transfers. She was vague and said something about it paying the scientist and the equipment, or something.
I am still not convinced, but hell, I can't do anything about it!
But you know the funny thing? I asked T on the way home how much cash we had left in our IVF fund.
Her answer?
$1800.
Far evermore than.
Filibuster extenuating trance.
Further exhilirating terror.
Frame enter terrific.
Fabulous entrapment tomorrow?
Frozen embryo transfer.
Which of these is not like the other?
No, you have not stumbled upon the lesson plan for an English As A Second Language course.
Frozen embryo transfer. FET.
Yep, there's another acronym.
Had my first one at 12.23pm today. Wow.
Wow.
Once again, at this moment (I think), I am pregnant.
My first little frozen embie...my chilly goog (thanks Jack, told you I would steal that term)...was implanted inside me today.
I took a sick day, whizzed down to Brisbane with T while Jay went about his normal day care business.
Before we knew it, we had parked the car, risen to the fourth floor in the lift and were told theatre was running early (when does that ever happen?) and we were both suddenly thrust into ridiculous hospital attire.
T resplendent in purple and a white paper hat, me naked from the waist with a random brown checked nightie and rather cosy white waffle gown...and white paper hat and toe-curling blue booties.
Right. "Just down this corridor," the nurse guided us. A fellow in blue who could very well have been a Grey's Anatomy extra shook our hand and introduced himself as Tony.
That meant nothing to me, so I assumed he was standing in for our regular IVF doc boss man. No, turned out he was the scientist.
As I settled on the gurney, and took one frightened glance at the large black stirrups, he came over and showed me some paperwork pertaining to our little embie.
"We have a very healthy embryo," he said, while referring to some numbers that looked like fractions.
"It divided into four cells straight away, which is what we want to see and then went to six, and eight and 10 and then it got to 12...after that we stop counting, as the cells divide so quickly."
Wow, little one. So, so young and little and I am proud of your strength and vitality already?
Is it possible for an adult human to be so amazed by what is tantamount to just a bunch of cells?
Hell yes. I certainly was today. Amazed. Awed.
Alright most of that awe was reserved for the science and the brains behind that science and the personnel actually carrying out these scientific prinicples in this day and age...but a big chunk of that awe was certainly reserved in a very special place for our little embie.
And god it was so good to have T in there with me today...not out in the waiting room having to entertain Jay. She held my hand and looked into my eyes in the seconds after the FET happened. Thanks baby, love you.
It was great. We smiled and were once more united in a new round of hope.
Reassuring shoulder rubs, hand shakes and eye contact lingers from no less than five medical staff and we were ready to go home.
Just like that.
I certainly feel different this time. Perhaps more realistic, and yes, honestly, a bit more calm.
I find I am not flitting about in my mind saying silly things to myself and making sillier bargains with myself.
I found myself thinking a few days ago about the possibility that this one would not take. My first reaction was to shut down such silly talk. Instantly, within a split second.
"If you think it, it will happen, STOP THAT!" But a new reaction followed that first one. It shut down that hysterical superstitious voice and told me to calm the freak down. It could happen, it could also...not.
I could lose it, I could also...not. Yes, it's a horrible limbo that I have no control over - but I have been there before and I feel strengthened by that, even if it was just once before.
You know I love my words. I love them too much in fact. I smother my words with way too much love. I am a suffocating linguist. A linguistic suffocator. Do you get my point??
But today, the circumstances dictated the need for just five...and they were a missive to a very specific recipient.
We love you, please stay.
**A small post-script to this, um, post: you know the cost I was rabbiting on about last post? We got the definitive answer today.
$1800.
That's how much it costs for each FET.
$1800.
We think we will get about $600 of that back.
I spoke to a clinic rep and asked to be told what that actually paid for, given that we were under the impression that the thousands of dollars we paid a few months back covered us for these subsequent transfers. She was vague and said something about it paying the scientist and the equipment, or something.
I am still not convinced, but hell, I can't do anything about it!
But you know the funny thing? I asked T on the way home how much cash we had left in our IVF fund.
Her answer?
$1800.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Science speak
Ok, so I spoke to the IVF clinic scientist today who ran me through my freeze record.
What an inordinately bizarre sentence that was.
That's what my little list of chilly embryos is called apparently: a freeze record.
So, up until this afternoon when I had a 20-minute chat with the scientist, I had thought of those seven frozen embryos as fairly equal in vitality.
Now, I know a bit better.
Apparently the scientists grade them and the average is Grade Two (Three is the best, and rarely bestowed, the equivalent of a Nobel Peace Prize in embryo world).
They also then like to only freeze the ones that show a division of more than two cells, at least, by the time a few days have passed after fertilisation.
And mine are all Grade Twos...and among them are three two-cells, two three-cells, one four-cell and one five-cell.
They will thaw the five-cell first and then progress down the line, if need be.
See, the thing is, there is a 70-80% survival rate in the thawing process. That's a good stat, in my book.
Some do not continue to divide, some show some lacerations or irregular cell development...and it just doesn't work.
But the scientist did say the "vast majority" continue to divide. A good stat.
I asked her what the difference was between pregnancy success in fresh versus frozen embryo transfers.
Apparently for someone my age, there is a 40% chance of getting pregnant with a fresh embie, and a 30% chance if I go frozen.
But she did say that rate is always going to be less because the very best embies - the pick of the bunch - are put in first, and fresh. So, grain of salt.
Still, whether you're talking about 30 or 40%, it doesn't sound very high, does it? Bad, bad stat.
But despite the differences in success rates in fresh versus frozen, the fact is pregnancies do result from frozen transfers every year...all the time.
I finished off our informative conversation by telling her that perhaps it was an occupational hazard thing that demanded I be so questioning and over-informed (I'm a journalist).
And I do feel more reassured knowing more than I probably need to...perhaps.
Yes, I do.
The uncertainty was beginning to niggle.
Beginning to?
Who am I kidding.
It always has.
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