It’s a cool day in San Diego, thanks to the overcast skies. I’ve been longing for this weather for months, so my front door, near my desk where I type this, is open. I am glad for the cool relief.
I’ve spent most of the past 24 hours lying on a sofa or in my bed. I don’t know if it was a migraine from caffeine withdrawal (perhaps? but seems so unlikely, because I weaned myself off coffee, then tea) or mild food poisoning from post-transfer lunch, but I got a splitting headache around 5pm yesterday. I dozed on the sofa from 8-11pm, took my oral and pessary progesterone, and headed to bed.
I woke up at 1.30am and vomited violently. Teeth brushed again and back in bed, DH rubbed my neck and shoulders until I relaxed under a cool washcloth. I asked him to call the clinic first thing in the morning, worrying that my body wouldn’t have absorbed the oral progesterone if I vomited less than two hours after taking it.
My RE’s assistant called me back quickly. As soon as I hung up, I fled to the bathroom and vomited a second time. This is so unlike me. Afterwards, I started to feel better. My headache began to wane, so I nudged it away with a cup of weak black tea. The British antidote to most troubles!
And now I can turn to the real update: I have been PUPO for almost 36 hours.
The original plan was to do the FET on November 1st, but last week’s appointment showed my lining at 8mm, so I thought moving it up a week would be helpful. My SIL was due with her first baby on November 4th, and in anticipation of my MIL flying to the other side of the country to meet her first grandson, I picked Wednesday October 26th as our new date.
What’s that saying about the best laid plans going to waste?
My nephew arrived early. He was born last Friday, so my fabulous MIL wouldn’t be around to watch V during and post transfer. My other SIL, who lives here in San Diego, was able to watch V during transfer, but we’d have to muddle along at home ourselves.
My SIL doesn’t live too far from the clinic, and DH was slammed with a work deadline, so we agreed that we would take separate cars to the clinic and I would drop off V with her aunt. It’s funny how much more relaxed I am the second time around.
A call came through on my phone just as I got off the freeway.
“Hello, Lauren? This is Sarah from the lab at [the clinic]. I’m calling you with a thaw update. Unfortunately the first embryo we thawed had too much cell fragmentation, so, per your consent, we went ahead and thawed a second embryo. I’m happy to say that embryo looks beautiful, so we are all set for noon!”
I thanked Sarah for her update, but asked, “Sorry, can I ask which embryos numbers they are?”
Sarah replied that Embryo 7 was the one that didn’t make it, but the one that did is Embryo 2.
“I knew it!” I laughed. “The reason I asked is because to my layman’s eye, I thought 2 looked like the one that would be the one transferred!”
Driving along a winding road in a lush valley, I offered my silent thanks. Thank you, brave little pilgrim 7. I wish you well. You will not be forgotten.
Later, at the clinic, it struck me that Embryo 2 on the 26th was auspicious indeed:
2/26/2013: the first time I saw Bean (How it All Began)
2/26/2014: fresh embryo transfer that resulted in V (Embryos 3 and 4)
2/26/2015: making the leap from grief to peace (Feb. 26th Confessional)
10/26/2016: Embryo 2 transferred
The number 26 has followed me on my infertility journey (the day I received my devastating AMH result; the day I received my genetic diagnosis), but the number 226 is the one that links all my babies.
For some inexplicable reason, this gives me hope. I guess because when your body has been through the wringer like mine has today and yesterday, hope can vanish quickly.
I keep reminding myself, too, that just as every baby is different, so is every pregnancy. Just because I didn’t wake up with a vibrating uterus this morning doesn’t mean the FET has failed. (Not to mention, technically V was a twin. Two embryos implanting might make a uterus flutter like a phone was buzzing inside it, but probably not one.)
But there is that familiar stretching sensation of the tickle-scratch, kind of like when you press your belly button hard. I’ve only ever had that uterine feeling in pregnancy.
The ole symptom spotting has started. I’d be more confident if I hadn’t spent 19 hours lying in the dark, wracked with nausea and a splitting headache.
Did you ever play Snakes (Chutes) & Ladders as a kid? I realised that whenever I got all snakes in the beginning, I’d win; but when I got all ladders at the beginning, I’d lose. It’s kind of become a theme in my life. When the beginning of something is hard, it always seems like the end result means I come out on top.
Like, miscarriage and infertility. Some of the (if not the) hardest shit I’ve ever been through. But look who I got at the end of it! A kid who is so perfectly MY kid. The joy she brings offsets the pain. She is the salve that soothes the wound that occasionally flares up.
I’m hoping that my bout of food poisoning / migraine with vomiting / whatever the hell it was is auspicious.
There’s a part of me that thinks getting off to a rocky start means not only am I pregnant, but that I’ll end up keeping my uterus too.
There. I said it.
If I’m wrong… Well, that’ll suck. But I’ve been wrong about plenty of things and lived to tell the tale.
But if I’m right… Well, maybe I’ll look back on this post and smile.
Here are some fun pix. Wanna know the sex of the embryo? Find out in the last pic ;)