Adventures in making and raising our test-tube babies

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Spring Harvest

This weekend they'll be going in, and they'll be going out.

That is, I'll be having the "surgery" to have the doctors go in and suck the eggs out of me. They call it surgery because it involves a largish needle going through the side of the uterus. As far as I'm concerned, though I'll be sedated and asleep, it's just like any other gynecological procedure. Except that I'll have earned a Big Mac to be gotten on the ride home and eaten before I finally go to sleep for the day back home.

Up until this point, I have had the luxury of thinking about little stuff: the shots, my waistband, the napping contagion I picked up. But sometime soon the bigger issues will get involved.

Like my chances for success. My seventeen follicles have weeded themselves out. As of this morning, I only have six follicles that are big enough to produce mature eggs. Last time I had eleven and even that wasn't enough to work! When they gather the eggs up (I hope not in the same basket) they will put them with the sperm and see how many fertilize. Then how many fertilized embryos last three days. And then how they look when it's time to put them back in. The smaller the number of players, the more pressure each microscopic little entity has to bear. Emotionally, I mean. The fewer baskets to put my metaphorical eggs in.

And the bigger basket case their mother. In the last week and a half, my estrogen level in my blood has gone from 50 units to 1038 units. It's almost doubled in the last two days. Is it any wonder that I've been reduced to tears and chronic sleepiness? I've had to resort to maternity wear to house my puffy, completely reshaped body. (Thanks, Mom, for your emergency trip to Target). It's serious business putting a wanna-be pregnant woman in pregnant women's clothing. It wrenches my emotions to step into these clothes that I've watched from outside the store window, coveting the big bellies of the shoppers that actually get to fondle them. It seems like cheating to get to wear pregnant clothes while I'm just... puffy.

But we're moving forward, which is the only way. Retrieval ho!


DAVs said...

OK so it's not seventeen, or eleven, but it's SIX. I'm not going to go into the whole quality over quantity, you know the drill. I'm thinking of you and yes, you will have earned that Big Mac!!! And a shake, for what it's worth. Go follies, go!

Wendy said...

I'm back from my conference so if you'd like to get together to do something girly or weepy, I could be game for that.