Waiting…
They say that the embryos float around for 24 to 48 hours after the transfer. Theoretically, they continue to grow – those little cells multiplying and mushing together. At acupuncture on Friday, Dr. A. placed the needles higher on my stomach. She said that after transfer she treats her patients as if they are pregnant. Now we want them to anchor, she says. When she came in the room, my gown was still wrapped around my belly. Usually I open the gown a little so she can get to it. I said, I must be protecting it. She said, that’s good. That’s what I’m doing too (by putting the needles higher).
Dr. B. (transfer doc) said the latching or anchoring really happens on the 5th or 6th day, which would be Monday or Tuesday. I’m confused. Instructions say to go home and relax after transfer, and to resume normal activity the following day. No jumping around. No high impact. No problem. I’m a slug. On Friday I am unusually sluggish and even more so on Saturday. I want to post something, but think I’ll sound whiny and depressed. Yesterday I woke up early with lower abdominal pain – very similar to menstrual pain – and it freaked me out all day. I felt this same discomfort about a week after my first transfer. Dr. A said it could be anything, but I can’t help but imagine the same thing is happening. How can I not be freaked out when I feel like I’m getting my period? This I know about my body: it doesn’t lie. But maybe I’m misunderstanding the signs.
The mantra for the weekend: Try not to think about. Try to be positive.
Yesterday I wrote: Right now I think I could not possibly do this again. Are my negative thoughts affecting my body? We manipulated my uterus and ovaries with precision up to this point. Now I’m on my own. Now freakin’ nature has to take over. Why can’t they come up with some new technology to make this part foolproof?
Let the floating begin
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.
Fert Report
Well, that’s what the nurse called the fertilization report. Of the seven eggs, ICSI was performed on five (I guess that means it didn’t work on two) and we now have four embryos. ICSI is an acronym for intracytoplasmic sperm injection – which basically means they inject the sperm into the middle of the egg. Because of our male fert issues we need to do this. Those little buggers can’t get there on their own, hence our initial foray into IVF. I believe they generally perform ICSI on women over forty so we doubly qualify.
The transfer is scheduled for Thursday afternoon. I’m debating whether or not to take the supposed Valium they offer patients before the procedure. It’s offered not for the pain but for the nerves, which I have plenty. I guess they don’t want you to move too much while they insert the catheter and eek it up the cervical canal and then the uterine cavity. The patient is conscious and while they perform it in the OR, it isn’t a surgical procedure. Once the catheter is in the uterus the embryos are deposited. Plunk. Then they are left to hang out, float around, and hopefully latch on. When I think about the procedure, I don’t get nervous. But my body has a tendency to react on its own under stressful circumstances. Profuse sweating, shaking, teeth chattering. It’s really pretty. Hence the lure of the Valium with the accompanying glassy eyed trip home and evening hangover. But, oh, the upside!
