Knock Me Up

Transfer day goes pretty well, not that there is much to do besides trying not to fret. This morning at Dr. M’s, she calls the lab to see how the embryos are doing. Three are in great shape — high grade (like eggs!) but one is lapsing. No worries. We are both happy with three. Dr. M. seems genuinely happy and optimistic and this cheers me up. We decide to transfer all three because my chances of having triplets are 1%. I can’t help but ask about the chance of even one sticking. I should learn not to think about those things, but there we are in her office with all this data. She flips through some charts and decides on 19%, but neither of us pay much attention to the information.

For as big as a deal as the transfer is, it requires as much effort as say, getting your nails done. Maybe even less. I arrive around 2pm and change into a gown, keeping half my street clothes on. No anesthesia, and not even a Valium. I think to ask for one (um, where’s my Val?), but realize I don’t need it. The nurses and doctors at NYU are cheerful and optimistic. Two doctors meet with me to review the fert report and confirm my identify. I’m always happy when they do this, but a bit unsettled at the thought of all those microscopic embryos back there and the hundreds of patients cycling through at any given time. Dr. B. raves about my embryos. “These are beauts!” I try not to puff my chest. I follow them to the OR and confirm who I am again. Then they project the embryos onto a monitor and it is pretty crazy. There they are, three round petaled specimens. You can count the cells. It’s odd to look at this text book drawing and know it came from you (with some help). Dr. B. points out their plumpness, how little space there is between the cells and the wall. One looks even blotchier and he says that that is good, that that one is growing faster and that the cells are merging. It’s weird, but cool. I wish R. was there not because I feel alone but because he’d appreciate the science. The show is over and the embryologist places the embryos in the catheter and delivers them to the doctor. We all watch the ultrasound as Dr. N snakes the catheter up the uterine canal — a ghostly white sliver. Then she’s out and they are in my uterus, floating around. The catheter is given back to the embryologist and we wait, la di da, until she confirms none were left behind (“they’re all gone!”). I slid onto a gurney, my legs are elevated, and I’m rolled away as the team shouts “Good Luck!” The nurse parks me in recovery and tells me I can get up and go in 30 minutes. I listen to the nurses say goodbye to each other and then there is silence. When it is time to get up, I look around the recovery area. One other woman is deserted in the far corner, legs elevated. No nurses in sight. I change, grab my things and leave, feeling like there should be more fanfare with my departure. But there isn’t. This stuff happens all the time. It’s amazing that it happens without all this extra help. I’m amazed that we need so much help. But I’ll take it. For now, we stay positive and stop worrying and relax. We’ve done all we can do.