Stupid. Effing. Hope.
I let her get her claws into me. I believed Dr. C when he said we’d have “more eggs” this time around. I let Hubby’s infectious optimism and his unfounded musings (“Maybe we’ll get 20 eggs. No, 25!”) get to me. And in the end, I was disappointed.
I should have shut out those voices. I shouldn’t have let Hope possess me. I should have exorcised every one of those thoughts that said things would be better this time.
I know this cycle isn’t over yet. But I’m having a really hard time believing the outcome will be any different than last time. The only thing I have left to cling to is that maybe a 3-day transfer will make a difference. Because, chances are, we won’t have much–if anything–left to freeze.
Out of 11 eggs, 10 were mature. Seven fertilized. (Compared to 13, 12, and 10 last time.) We didn’t get any stats on day 3 last time, so I can’t even begin to guess how many we’ll have on Saturday. Hubby wants to transfer 3 to give us the best shot, which may mean we’ll have nothing left on day 5. In any case, we’re thinking of forgetting about genetic testing all together. If we have one or two embryos left, it makes more sense to just transfer them–whenever that time may come–than to spend 5 grand on having them tested first.
In therapy today, I tried to explain to Dr. N that I’m finding it really difficult–if not impossible–to stay positive. That I was doing so well until I heard the numbers. And with that, Hope abandoned me.
She asked how thinking negatively about this cycle benefits me. Of course, it doesn’t. I know that, but I can’t seem to stop reliving the events of the previous cycle, overlaying them with this one. Which means, in my mind, we’ve already failed.
And it’s not just a failure of Hubby’s sperm. As much as Dr. C keeps fretting over sperm quality, there’s obviously something wrong with me if all those follicles he saw on the ultrasound yielded nothing. I wonder if now he’ll finally admit it.
Remember this shit? Well, I was wrong. I am not strong. I’m a mess. A fragile little bird with a broken wing. Defenseless against the predator that is coming after me. Another failed cycle.
I can’t picture Saturday’s transfer working. I can’t picture myself pregnant. What I can visualize is the follow-up with Dr. C when this cycle fails. And it plays again and again in my mind. Asking him all these questions and demanding to know why double doses of meds, good blood work and flawless ultrasounds–compared to last time–didn’t get us better numbers.
Dr. N talked me through a visualization in her office. She had me go to a place of peace and contentment and then carry that with me to the transfer. Imagine it working. Imagine myself pregnant, giving birth, holding a newborn. Imagine Hubby there with me and the joy we would feel.
And I cried and cried, but I could do it, with her help. Then I told her I was so afraid I’d never get to experience any of that in real life.
She encouraged me to write it down. The whole process, over again. I’ll also attempt to visualize all 7 of our embryos growing and dividing and thriving. At this point, I’m willing to try anything. I know that I have to get myself into a better place before Saturday. I have to cheer up. I have to try.