Retrieval Day
Today was retrieval day. All I had to do was let them knock me out and extract the eggs. A relatively passive role if you aren’t freaked out by operating rooms and anesthesia and blood. There was none of the latter, and the former were worth it when I found out we had seven eggs! Not a huge amount, but more than anticipated.
Now we wait to see how many fertilize. Now I can truly relax because there is absolutely nothing I can do for the next three days. I like this phase (even thought the bloat is epic, the cramps steady and sharp, the brain foggy). For three days I do not bear responsibility of nurturing our eggs. That is being handled by the embryologists (possibly our first of many babysitters) who will fertilize them, watch them and report back on their progress.
It’s a rare feeling, this optimism coarsing through my blood. Or maybe it is the residual haziness of narcotics. Maybe the bonus three eggs are a sign of something going right. My body is no longer responsible. Somehow, they feel safer in an artificial environment where they aren’t subject to my borderline nurturing womb. If they grow and get good report cards, I return on Thursday for the transfer. Good thoughts, everyone. I’ll let myself be positive and believe that this thing can actually happen.
Past retrievals
Tomorrow is retrieval day. Let me rejoice the end to 7:30am bloodwork, to prodding ultrasounds, to twice daily hormone cocktails. I have the arms of a junkie and the belly of buddha. But today I don’t take any medication! I feel like a champ. But this is a temporary reprieve. Tomorrow a new round of medications start (oral) and soon, if I’m lucky enough to get to transfer, daily progesterone shots ensue. But one thing at a time.
Retrieval is a happy day. It means you’ve made enough eggs to extract, stick in a petri dish with some sperm, and cross your fingers that you’ll make embryos good enough to survive three days on their own. But first the retrieval. It’s surgery, however minor, which involves local anesthesia. My first experience was relatively painless: I woke up in recovery feeling fine, listening to other women moan and ask for pain killers behind their green curtains. I didn’t even need a Tylenol, just some water to wet my lips. The second time I woke feeling okay — for about two seconds. Then throbbing abdominal pain set in and increased each minute. After rejecting my first dose of Tylenol, I called out to the nurse that I’d changed my mind. I sounded kind of weak and feeble. What was up? After resting half an hour, the nurse sent me to change my clothes and come back for instructions. I could barely walk and once in the dressing room had trouble lifting my leg into my pants. It felt as if someone had punched me, no, make that kicked me, in the abdomin about tweve times. With steel tipped boots.
I hobbled to a chair outside the dressing room. As the nurse recited post-retrieval instructions to me, I promptly passed out. I came to, they slapped me on a gurney and hooked me up to an IVF. My blood pressure was very low and I was most likely dehydrated. The anesthesiologists came to my side and stared at me. They argued over what to do. The “real” doctors (sorry, anesthesiologists of the world) were busy retrieving in the operating rooms. Anesth. 1 lifted my legs in the air. Anesth. 2 said, what are you doing? in a patronizing way. Anesth. 1 said, this is my special trick. The other rolled his eyes. I wanted to kick them both in the head, but my well being was in their questionable hands. Soon my blood pressure was back up and my little scare was over. Still, I was in so much pain when I left that I had to stop every ten steps to lean on a wall. Leaving the building, I nearly fainted about four times. In the lobby, I sat on some marble steps while R. bought me juice an a bialy. That helped get my blood sugar up and we tossed me a cab and rode home.
Long story short, I had an awful recovery. The pain came and went for weeks. My doctor was puzzled and suggested my high estrogen levels and some internal bleeding caused the pain. To top it off, the embryos from that round didn’t make it to our transfer date. The entire cycle proved to be a bad, bad experience.
When I tell these things to my sister (mother of two), she empathizes and gives me brownies and a hug and tells me she’s there for me. This makes me feel better, and more like the little sister I am. When I complain of the daily proddings she rolls her eyes and says, yeah, well, get used to it, meaning, just wait until you are pregnant and give birth. She tells me her demoralizing childbirth stories. How they had her on all fours, how they rolled her back and forth on table, cathetar dangling. How she swore every hospital employee, including the janitor, was in the room. We snort we are laughing so hard. And I say, I can only hope.
So tomorrow is retrieval day and all day I’ve been preparing as if for a marathon of sorts. My new doctor suggested I eat and drink a lot of liquids late in the day to prevent further fainting. When she says this, I can’t help but detect slight derision in her voice. I have consumed at least six liters of water so far today, two cups of tea and a quart of Gatorade. R. coaches me on dinner (he has opted to go to his brother’s for a home cooked meal; I remain sequestered in my zen palace, imbibing liquids and staying calm). R. acts as if I’m in training for a marathon, and the 64 oz. jugs of Gatorade in the kitchen support this guise. He says, make sure you eat carbs, carbs are the key. Rice, pasta, bread. It seems silly to fuel up for what basically ends up being one missed meal. It goes against my better judgment to carbo load when I can barely zip up my pants. But I take things in small steps these days. It helps me focus and not think too much about what happens next. Because that, my friend, is out of my hands.
