The night before our embryo transfer was NOT fun. Every now and then, my stomach decides to clench up and spasm, to the point where I can’t eat anything and even the slightest movement is incredibly painful, and it lasts for days. Well, wouldn’tcha know, that’s precisely what happened on Sunday night. I didn’t get any sleep, I was paranoid it was OHSS rearing its ugly head, and I was afraid to take any meds in case they interacted with this Dostinex drug I was taking or screwed with my uterus. At 3 a.m., I said to myself, “I’m phoning the clinic as soon as they open and cancelling this transfer.” Seriously — I wasn’t even sure I could swallow a litre of water for the full-bladder ultrasound, let alone provide a calm, relaxed environment for a blastocyst.
Then, at 7:15 a.m., I decided I’d at least try to force down some water and go to the clinic, if only so they could tell me it was, indeed, OHSS, and reschedule a date for an FET. But when I arrived, everything just kind of ticked along merrily and the ultrasound showed my abdomen was fine and my bladder was full and, well, I couldn’t say no to that perfect little blastocyst waiting patiently in its test tube for me. On the down side, my clinic doesn’t give photos to take home and doesn’t really do that 4AA 5AB whatever grading system, so I have no idea what it looks like, but I trust that it’s just dandy and sticky (hubby asked our doctor how the embryologist chose which one to insert and he said, “Oh, we just pick the one with the happy face on it!” Har har). On the up side, we at least could watch the screen as it went into my uterus — a little spark, as my husband described it. Aww.
Then we got some news that made me thrilled enough to momentarily forget the searing pain in my stomach — we ended up with 15 blastocysts! With one inside me now, that’s 14 left as backup. My doc said this is “unheard of” and that, in all his years at a fertility clinic, he’s never seen anyone produce this many blastocysts, so the over-achiever in me was very satisfied that at least we did something right.
Now, I’m on bedrest for three days. Focusing on keeping my uterus very still while also finding a way to convince my bowels to continue moving, which just doesn’t seem to be happening of late. Why can’t my innards all work together toward a common goal?!
My mom actually dropped by yesterday to hang out in bed with me, which made the afternoon go faster. She’s a bit like a nonna in her compulsion to bring shitloads of food and flowers whenever she comes over, but because my mom’s also a doctor, she tends to walk in the door with arm-fulls of drug samples, too, if I’m even remotely ill. Needless to say, I was greeted at 11 a.m. by a torrent of random soft foods (including 24 eggs, multiple tubs of yogurt and a packet of sour keys — for you Americans, sour keys are this), a six-pack of yellow Gatorade, a bouquet of white roses, trashy magazines and fist-fulls of over-the-counter gas relief pills, many of which expired in 2001.
Hubby has also been very good about being my runner, bringing me tea and eating lunch with me in bed (we’re both self-employed). My doctor kept joking that I should refer to my husband as “slave” during this three-day period, but Imma be honest, that’s a little weird.
OK, I’m starting to ramble here. So let me sum up:
I’ve got a lot of support happening right now from both friends and family and loved ones, which is awesome and gives me the warm-fuzzies (or maybe that’s the sour keys and expired drugs talking). But on the other hand, I thought I’d be more excited right now. I don’t feel pregnant (or even PUPO), I don’t have high hopes, my stomach hurts, I have a headache, and trying to conduct actual work from bed really sucks. I’m incredibly grateful to be done, forever, with stimming myself and to have so many blastocysts on ice, but frankly, there really isn’t anything to get excited about until you see those two lines. Hmph.