Or, as anyone who’s ever had to wait to find out if they’re pregnant will know: the best way to basically stop time. Two weeks? TWO WEEKS? It’s bloody interminable. And they say the best thing to do is distract yourself. So I did. I went skiing.
I know, I know, but chill the fuck out. I didn’t do anything hardcore, but this was a trip that had been in the diary for months. It was a group trip for a friend’s birthday that was going to include a load of kids and non-skiers and so I knew I could pootle around. I looked into all the advice — eat as you would if you were pregnant, avoid saunas, hot tubs, lifting heavy stuff, and anything that’s going to count as hardcore exercise.
Now I’m good at skiing, skiing for me is not hardcore exercise. Unless I’m racking up miles every day, skiing moguls, or loads of off piste, it’s about as much exertion as a brisk walk, which everyone seems to positively encourage.
Basically I figured there was fuck all I could do physically that would improve the chances of this working, so my best option seemed to be to focus on my mental health. And nothing improves that like a long weekend skiing and hanging out with my friends. So that’s what I did.
The lifting heavy stuff was a potential stumbling block, so the day before the embryo transfer (even though at that point I didn’t even know if the embryo transfer was definitely happening) I packed and took all my stuff round to a friend who was also coming. A few other people on the trip knew and pitched in, lugging my stuff about for me and honestly, it was the best thing I could have done.
No regrets. Zero. None at all. Whatever the outcome of this.