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Sometimes It Works
a blog by Genna Banafato, July 2, 2013
Sometimes it works.
After all of the stress, all of the anxiety, all of the cameras in places not suitable for polite conversation, all of the blood work and needles, all of the stirrups, all of the shots, all of the waiting…. the phone rings and I would know that number anywhere. I grab a pen in case there's something I should write down that I won't remember once I hang up. Except instead of writing down my increased dosage or my appointment time, I'm writing down a number.
126. Pregnant. What? Really? I wrote "I'm pregnant" next to the 126. Twice. Run up the stairs and pretty much pee on everything in the bathroom. Two internet cheapies, a FRER and a digital test. I'm not an "early pee-er" and I've been stockpiling these things for years. If the phone call wasn't enough to convince me, looking at three sets of lines and "pregnant" on a digital screen were pushing me in that direction.
Somehow the moment is SO surreal. After all of the angst of not getting pregnant and the heartache of failed IVF, it's not easy to believe that there's LIFE inside. And I suddenly knew there were two and I would die for them. They could fit on a pinhead. But they were MINE.
I called my husband to tell him. He says he's ready for this. I tell him, "I'm glad, because you're not backing out now." I text my mother a picture of the digital. She calls me to ask me what it says. In case I was in the habit of sending her pictures of negative pregnancy tests.
The next two week wait is even harder than the first. It's not just about embryos in a picture anymore, it's about THEM. I know I'm pregnant, but in two weeks when I get there, will I still be? Every time I have the slightest bit of concern, I'm running to the bathroom to make sure I'm not bleeding. Every cramp, analyzed. So scared that I'd get there and find out I'm empty.
Begging for an early ultrasound falls on deaf ears. They know my particular brand of crazy. They deal in it often. They tell me to hang in there and call if I have any concerns.
But I'm pretty sure I don't breathe for two weeks.
Until we get there and once again with the impolite cameras. Except this time it's showing me a heartbeat. We'll mourn her twin and decide to tell her some day. But our focus is on that heartbeat.
Sometimes it works.