The white splodge…

I was so much more emotional about the embryo transfer than I expected to be. I guess it’s because it’s a whole year since the last one and when I think what I’ve been through in that year, and how hopeful and optimistic and excited I was this time last year, it’s hard not to feel that even getting to this point is a culmination of so many things, and yet that there is so much further to go.

I didn’t know the consultant or the nurse, but they were both so lovely, as I lay on a bed with my legs in stirrups and tears pouring down my face.

And just like last time, they showed me on the screen, the flash of light as the embryo was shot through the catheter into my uterus. But unlike last time, they didn’t ask if I wanted the print out, they just gave it to me. And it would have seemed churlish to say that I didn’t want it. But just like last time, I kind of didn’t; I want a print out of a baby, not a splodge of white.

“Pray over that picture,” the big black nurse told me, putting her arm around me, as I cried a bit more, for good measure.

Which was sort of awkward, because I don’t pray — I kind of hope for things and say them in my head. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve thought that life would be so much easier if I had that sort of faith where you believe that there’s an external being or beings who are orchestrating things, and that they can be beseeched to show benevolence just by asking them something. But I don’t have that sort of faith. But equally once someone has said something like that to you, in the brain-addling maelstrom of emotions that is IVF, you don’t feel you can just dismiss it.

So at the same time as not wanting to get attached to that splodge of white, that bundle of cells, until I know it’s more than that, I don’t feel like I can completely ignore it. So it’s taped in a journal, and every night before I go to bed, I look at it, and will it into being, even though the rational part of me thinks that’s not going to make any difference at all. But then I still salute solo magpies and for some reason that I can’t really recall, don’t walk over three drain covers in a row, or under ladders. So, as the Americans might say, go figure.

2 thoughts on “The white splodge…

  1. Pingback: All the lives I could have led… | Egged On

  2. Pingback: The final transfer… | Egged On

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