Friday, July 17, 2015

A little life in me yet

A few weeks ago I went to see the illustrious Dr. B., to get some final stuff out of the way before BFU transfer in August. Of course, the SIS and mock embryo transfer went as expected.

Dr. B.: Okay, so everything looks good…….except…….we have a polyp now.
Me: WHAT? What the…..where the hell did that….that…FUCKHEAD come from??
Dr. B.: Unfortunately they sometimes just pop up.
Me: Shit! I can’t believe this!
That meant I needed to get Fuckhead taken care of via ANOTHER hysteroscopy before leaving town for RAGBRAI, because otherwise the timing of everything would just not work. I’d have to have the hysteroscopy in August, then wait a month, then that would put me in October and my beloved Dr. B. would be on maternity leave. Nay! So I put the full court press on Dr. A. in Silverton, along with the Sad Cancer Face, and lo and behold she squeezed me in to get this taken care of.

Of course, that surgery went without a hitch, with all the usual accoutrements. The perplexment (yes this is a freaking word!) at my rejection of Versed, my insistence on referring to the polyp as Fuckhead (yes, I’m done with the cutesie names, going right for the jugular now), the ensuing witty banter, me bouncing out the door post-surgery into the 102-degree heat to be picked up by Most Excellent Friend and Neighbor Laura so that I could go home and take Kone to the rezzy. Again, the usual.

So now it’s all over but the waiting. Well, waiting for the Frozen Embryo Transfer, or FET. I waver between thinking this has to work, and that it doesn’t have a chance in hell. I’d obsess over statistics, but quite frankly, there aren’t any. Nada. Zip. There are no numbers to pore over of women my age and their success or lack thereof with FETs. There isn’t even an ORM precedent, because I’m the only woman my age who’s wound up with an actual normal PGS-tested embie on ice.

By all accounts this should work – most miscarriages are caused by a chromosomally abnormal embryo, and BFU is definitely not that.

But what if it doesn’t? This is my only shot. My only chance to give Kone a sibling. It crushed me when on my third IVF cycle, my slacker embies only made it to the early blast stage and not full blast, and I wound up with nothing. That was beyond devastating, and it’s fortunate that Most Excellent Friend Sarah came over and dragged me out for Tiki Tuesday at the Creekside and tropical drinks.

I don’t think there are enough Tiki Fucking Tuesdays in the world, if this doesn’t work.

My BFU is already a little person in my mind.

He has a name, one other than Badass Fucking Unicorn.

I already picture him outfitted in old-timey clothing, toting a scythe or helping me and Kone pick berries or being held up to reach the highest apples on the apple tree (even babies have their uses).

Me yelling at him when he’s a surly teenager and telling him “And to think YOU were the lone embryo that made it!”

I do way too much thinking as it is, and I fear that if this doesn’t work, my brain will never shut off.

I will have sold my house and moved for nothing.

I will have spent $70K on nothing.
I’ll be witness to my hopes and dreams crashing down around me into incomprehensible rubble, never to be put back together again.

I’ll rethink and regret every single decision I’ve ever made in my life that brought me to this place.

I don’t know if or how my fragile soul will come through this, as a culmination of all the other shittastic things that have happened in my life.

I might just pack up The Kone and the bike and head off for parts unknown.

I do some of my best crying on the bike.

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