Someone else’s ostrich

The nurses have called. Egg collection 10am Friday. Another agonising two day wait but then that’s what 90% of this infertility process is isn’t it, waiting, not knowing.

Friday rolls round and we’re trying to keep busy. Both hubs and I are working from home for the day so we can be close to the clinic. 9:45 we head in there. Hubs drops his part off to the lab, we head into a consultation room to sign our final consents, and we’re done. Easy as that. We leave some drinks for our donor and her family to enjoy while on holiday – one good part of an early collection date is that our donor doesn’t miss the family holiday she had planned, phew – and head back home.

Although the clinic had told us they’d call with results we don’t hear anything. Luckily, knowing our donor, she texts us and tells us “5 eggs” and that hopefully we should get two or three embryo’s out of those. We relax a little, but only a little, there’s still the fertilisation report to wait for….

It comes the next day. I (stupidly) take my phone to my acupuncture appointment so miss the call. The voicemail says the clinic need to get hold of me today – that can’t be good can it? They’re on skeleton staff so all I can do is phone back, leave a message, and wait.

It finally comes. There’s one. Two eggs were mature but only one fertilised normally. One little embryo, hopefully our little miracle fighter, and embryo transfer is scheduled for midday the next day. I’m not sure whether to be happy or cry. I mean, we have one, which is great, but then there’s only a 40-something percent chance of that little embie becoming our Bumble so this is it, no more chances. I’m nervous and excited and terrified.

It’s Sunday. My father-in-law’s birthday and our embryo transfer day…hopefully a day where dreams are made. As instructed I empty my bladder at 11am and start consuming my 800mls of water, jeez it’s a lot! By 11:45 we’re at the clinic and are shown into a room to wait. I need to pee. There seems to be a lot of commotion, people hustling and bustling everywhere, popping their head into our room and out again…they’ve lost my notes. I need to pee. Some apologies, a quick chat from my nurse on what’s to come and what to do afterwards. Notes are still missing. I NEED to pee! Eventually they find them, stuck to the back of my donor’s notes and the ball is rolling again.

The embryologist pops in and explains that although the egg result was not what we’d hoped for, the embryo we do have looks good. When she checked in the morning it was a healthy two-cell and she’d expect that by time of transfer or not long after it should be a 4-cell. This is good. Hold tight she says and the doctor will be in shortly. Um, guys? I need to pee, can we move this along? Eventually the doc comes in and we’re away. 30 minutes late. I’m busting!

Into the theatre we go and up on the bed. It takes a while to get everything sorted, bed adjusted, all the blankets and covers in the right place. Finally the nurse starts the ultrasound – warm gel this time which is nice. She’s moving it around, pushing HARD, argh full bladder! Turns out she’s in training, or so it seems. The doctor has to keep telling her what to do, showing her where to direct the ultrasound, and telling her not to press so hard. Not at all reassuring. First you lose my notes, now the nurse doesn’t know what she’s doing, they’re not instilling me with confidence about this procedure. What a shambles! I mean, I’m all for training people but maybe just not with the desperation couples who have been through this a million times before and are on to their last chance with only one little embryo?!? We can’t afford for anything to go wrong!

I remember thinking the doctor’s bedside manner needed a bit of work too. Our last transfer was done by our own doctor (who was unfortunately away in New York this time) and he chatted us through the process, what he was doing, pointing out the catheter etc. on the little screen. This one was too busy instructing the nurse and ram, pop, there you’re done, “you can’t see anything, that’s just fluid”, uh gee thanks.

After finally being untangled from the bed linen I race to the loo. Closing the door I put my hand on my tum and silently welcome Bumble home. I hope like hell Bumble chooses to stay. Turns out I can’t have closed the door properly as I’m nearly walked in on, whoops!

Back in our little room I change back into my clothes and we breathe a sigh of relief, it’s done. Now we hope. I’m not at all religious but right now I’m praying to everyone and everything I can think of that this works and we have our Bumble. We’re on the dreaded two week wait.

Embie - September 2014

Our little embie.


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