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a blog by Brenda
So these last weeks have not exactly been great in our world. The parts I remember clearly went something like this: travel to expensive, out-of-state clinic, inject mega doses of hormotional fertility medications, transfer three more embryos to the ol’ embryo graveyard (a.k.a. Brenda's uterus), and receive one last “I’m so sorry, sweetie” phone call to end any hope we had of achieving pregnancy. Yup, our final IVF cycle was a flaming flop and we are officially jumping off the hamster wheel of infertility treatment madness.
Just like the first couple failures, the days following that dreaded BFN call were a blur of tears, hugs, shock, more tears, comfort food, and lots of naps. When I finally awoke from my redwine-cheetos—fudgebrownie coma, I felt nothing but anger and depression. When I wasn’t sleeping or crying, I was spouting my mouth off about hatred for nearly everything and wishing myself transported to another planet.
Control is not my forte and my husband may be up for sainthood when all is said and done. My dark humor about scrambled eggs and pelvic growing crud has sent me from laughter to tears and back again and he is always there - listening, comforting, encouraging, and waiting.
No failure is ever fun and it's a toss up as to which one of ours truly sucked the most.
The first one was so new and such a shock because surely a little IVF was all we needed: “We can try again.”
The conversation following our second IVF cycle was the one with the donor egg speech that we elevated FSHers dread to hear: “Your eggs just look funny. Your embryos are too fragmented.”
“We can try another clinic.”
With the third one we knew it was finally all over. Lather. Rinse. Repeat: “Your eggs just don’t look quite right . . . ” Both REs have been so kind and caring and wonderful in delivering the news, but all the compassion in the world can’t change the sting. All I hear is, “You are defective, broken, not quite right.”
I haven’t wanted to talk about it or think about where we go from here in the last weeks. Then, this weekend, it happened so gently that an outside observer might think we had a plan in place all along.
It’s how we sometimes talk without really talking, when one of us just isn’t ready. It’s how we start:
Me: “I think I have all this tax write off vs. health care spending account stuff figured out for this year.” Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. Insert a bunch of boring talk here with way too many OCD details.
Hubby: “Okay, that makes sense.” Pause . . . “So how does the tax stuff work for adoption then?”
Me: “I don’t know. Maybe we can start looking into it.”