In all of the IVF/fertility groups I belong to online, everyone talks about the Golden Egg. This is basically the belief that no matter where you are on the fertility path, no matter how old you are, if you’re still ovulating (ie producing eggs), getting pregnant is just a matter of finding that one perfect egg. That egg which is surely there somewhere. This is the hope that everyone clings to, through 1, 2, 7, or 17 IVF cycles. Yes, 17. Some people just keep trying – people who are either very rich or have an amazing insurance policy.
I’m in neither of those categories (rich or amazing insurance), so, to say the least, this shit is expensive. So far around $25K out of pocket, and I haven’t done half the stuff I need to yet, like the mock transfer, etc. So yeah, at those prices…..there’s a lot riding on BFU.
Having said that, I had no idea how long the chromosomal testing (PGS) would take, so imagine my surprise when I got a call from ORM on Sunday. Now, the only people who would be calling me on a Sunday would be the embryology lab, because that’s the only thing that’s going on right now: testing BFU. Omg! A call! NEWS ALREADY! What’s the verdict??
I had no fucking clue of course, because they called while I was in the shower. Yes, the shower. Fuck.
It’s kind of appropriate though that I have a history of this kind of thing. It oddly parallels CancerLandia, when I went out with friends the night I was supposed to get a call from my breast surgeon to let me know whether or not the lump was actually cancer. I wasn’t home for THAT call either…..and my answering machine (this was back in ye olden days) cut off RIGHT BEFORE he told me his number at which I should “call (him) back whenever I get in.”
Sometimes, the pattypan gods just like to mess with me.
I proceeded to completely lose my mind, as one would imagine. I left a message with ORM’s answering service. I paced. I watched the clock, thinking of the likelihood of them calling me back. I attempted to use backward induction and a decision tree to figure out if it had been good or bad news.
“If the news was bad, they wouldn’t call on a Sunday, because they’d want me to come in to hear it from the doctor. Unless they just don’t care and are used to crushing people’s hopes and dreams over the phone. But if it’s good news, they won’t call either, because, well, I don’t know. They didn't leave a message, so it must be bad news - unless it's just their policy to never leave messages on the phone. So it could be good or bad. Oh fuck.”
Right, along those lines. Then I pulled out the boozy cherries and started making cocktails, namely one I christened the Cherry Jubilee FTS (aka Fuck This Shit). It was fizzy and cherry and perfect, and helped me get to a state of Zen whereby all my worries floated awa…..oh, screw that, no it didn’t. It was perfect though, and helped me make it to 8PM, at which point I took a sleeping aid and went to bed, like a Dickensian urchin on Christmas Eve, wanting the next day to come as quickly as possible.
Finally, Monday. Unfortunately, I had a 5:30AM call, and it seemed unlikely ORM would be open at that hour. Fortunately, I had a shit-ton of work, so the morning zipped by. But then it was 8, and no call. 8:15. 8:30. Where the fuck are those slackers? Maybe they weren’t calling because no one wanted to be the one to crush my delicate soul?
I called. And of course, all of the embryologists were, well, busy in the lab. Imagine that. FUCK!
Thank god, a lovely woman with a British accent called me a short while later, and we had the following conversation:
Lovely British Embryologist: Hello, is Tasha there?
LBE: I’m calling about….
LBE: Well, I have good news for you, your embryo is norma….
Me: OH MY GOD EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
I think ORM’s Lovely British Embryologist is probably still deaf, but oh well, it happens. We then had a wonderful conversation, because I could tell she was genuinely delighted for me, where I tell her that I’m planning on more IVF cycles so I don’t have everything pinned on just this one embie, and during which I found out that my little BFU is……..a boy. Though as I told her, at this point BFU could have been a hermaphrodite and I’d say okay, I can work with that.
Omg. A boy. A normal baby. Omg.
In case anyone still doesn’t get the import of this, let’s put it in terms of me being the Queen of Bizarro Odds and Shitty Percentages. My chances of getting breast cancer at my age were .06%. My chances of having a normal embryo at my age?
Then the chances of finding that one good egg on my first IVF cycle?
Conclusion: I have one badass fucking unicorn on ice. Clearly.