A trip to the hen-house (written 29th January 2015)

It’s been a day of ups and downs. Egg collection occurred this morning and I’ve had butterflies from the moment we dropped the ‘other half of the equation’ at the clinic at 10am. We’ve been trying once again to distract ourselves – wandering through the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego, and having lunch at the magnificent Stone Brewery. Still, the wait to find out our egg numbers is hard. I’m constantly checking my emails, doubly disheartening because not only is there no email from the clinic, it’s also my work email address so I’m reminded of all the shit waiting for me back home when we return. Argh.

The email comes just before we sit down to lunch. My heart is hammering in my chest as I skim the email to get to the juicy stuff. It’s good news. They’ve retrieved 27 eggs from our beautiful donor. Better still, 26 are mature and there’s a hope that the 27th one will mature in the next couple of hours before insemination. Wow. That’s an awesome number. Twenty-seven! That’s 4 more eggs than our previous three cycles combined, and if you’re talking mature eggs, a whopping 18 more! Amazing. I spend most of lunch messaging various people to tell them the good news, a little rude but we’re both just so excited.

A couple of hours later and the dread starts to sink in. Like a drug, the high doesn’t last, and we start panicking about the fertilisation report. It’s that point in most of our other cycles that the major bad news has arrived. The butterflies are back but this time they’re worse than ever. I feel ill, my body can’t decide if it wants to cry, yet I try to convince myself that it’s all going to be ok. Hubs is slightly more positive, as always, but secretly I think he’s pretty nervous too. Unable to concentrate on much we opt for a quiet afternoon back at the house.

6pm and I’m absolutely shitting myself. Two days ago I was on cloud 9, browsing the baby sections of the local shops, now I’m completely and irrationally paranoid that this won’t work and that tomorrow we’ll get similar news to what we’ve received in other cycles, “few have fertilised normally”. I know it’s stupid, we’re trying something new now, but there’s part of me that just feels as though I’m cursed, that we’re destined never to have children. It’s a dark tugging hole deep down in my stomach, a black pit that sucks out all the rational thoughts and feelings, leaving only a hollow emptiness. I hope more than anything that it’s just me being crazy, because I struggle to imagine my future without kids.

A tense evening ensues but on the plus side I’m so exhausted from worrying I manage to fight back a little at the insomnia that’s plagued me for the last three nights. I by no means sleep normally but do manage about 5-6 broken hours so to me that’s a win. If only my dreams were of little Bumbles and a successful DEIVF instead of boats and sharks and drowning and nightmares.

 

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3 responses to “A trip to the hen-house (written 29th January 2015)

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