Thank You for Your Patience

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This afternoon, I counted the total number of shots that I had taken earlier in the month, over an eight-day period. Twenty-four. Twenty-two of those were given to me by my partner, the remaining two I administered on my own. One evening around 6 p.m., I sat on the edge of our bed and tried to give myself the shots in my thigh without looking, which, goes without saying, isn’t the safest, most traditional, or streamlined option. I’m the person who looks away from the T.V. when it shows people getting medical treatment. I am the one who looks out the 5th floor window and tries to sing a song when the nurse takes my blood. I am the one who always feels like throwing up when I get the vials ready, when I mix the solution and pull it up into the syringe. I am the queasy one.

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My grandma was a nurse during WWII. When I was younger, I remember her giving my great-aunt vitamin b12 shots in the rump. I remember thinking it looked odd to see someone getting a shot in her own home. My grandma eventually had to leave the profession due to a severe allergy to penicillin.

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July 7 was the day of our egg retrieval. After being pumped with hormones, it was time to see how many extra eggs my follicles were able to release. Younger women, some, can produce two dozen eggs at a time. At forty-two, I was able to produce eight eggs. It felt like a solid number. The following day, we found out that five eggs had become fertilized. “This is really good,” the nurse stated. We thought it was too.

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 We had to wait seven days to find out if any of the fertilized eggs had made it to the blastocyst phase. A week of not knowing what our embryos were doing all day. To help cope, I imagined them having parties, reading books, taking naps, and singing show tunes.

My phone rang around 10 a.m. on the morning of July 14. I was scared to answer, my partner next to me with his hand on my knee. “Two of the five eggs made it to the blastocyst phase,” the nurse announced. “We are sending off the samples to be tested for abnormalities tomorrow. You will get the results in two weeks.” Two more weeks. “Please remember, two is better than none,” the nurse politely remarked.

The blastocyst phase refers to the point an embryo must reach in order to hatch. I am now thinking of our embryos as chickens.

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Yesterday, we received our first bill for the fertility loan that we took out. Sometimes, we’re able to forget that this procedure, this attempt to trick my body into becoming pregnant, is more than an emotional agreement between me, my partner, and our doctor. It is also a financial one. It is a business and whether or not it works, the bank has a timeline of repayment to stick to. The realization that we may pay this loan back, and still have an empty lap, hit me hard. 

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I never learned how to be angry. I just assumed that everyone took their negative emotions, told them to go away, and then repressed them for years, like I do. It turns out, that’s not really the best approach.

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I find myself avoiding the egg section at Trader Joe’s. It’s hard to see so many eggs, on one shelf. It just hurts.

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We have eleven more days until we receive the results about our two remaining embryos. I know I am supposed to be hopeful, in many ways I am, but I’m also worried. This is our one chance. Early on, after looking over our budget and savings, we concluded that we could only do one round of IVF. During that one round, we may have two chances to do an egg transfer, we just have to wait and see.

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My great-aunt married late in life; she was in her forties. She and my great-uncle never had children. Instead, they traveled, bought new cars, attended lunches and dinners with their friends, almost daily. Somehow, she never seemed happy. I am afraid of becoming my great-aunt.

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I am so tired of waiting.