The final transfer…

Well that’s what it felt like at least. I’d done the three cycles I’d signed up for, this is the last — well the only — frozen embryo in storage. I’d already mentally decided that if this one didn’t work, it was time for a rethink. That although I didn’t feel done, I had to look at other options beyond my clinic. Seek second and third opinions, work out where I went from here. So in a way, whether or not it worked this time, it slightly felt like the end of an era.

So the results of the blood tests came and I jumped through the hoops, and took slightly less levothyroxine and started taking aspirin daily. Why? I dunno. Because they told me to. And I’ve rather become a surrendered patient who will do anything they tell me if it’s going to improve my chances. And I went, and I had the transfer — and this time I didn’t cry, although when the embryologist said “we don’t have any more embryos in storage so let’s just hope this one works” I had to swallow and blink quite a lot.

I looked again at the note from the embryologist and the fact that it was a 4Cc embryo and I thought again how unlikely it all seemed that this was going to work. And then I thought about how I couldn’t think like that, and I had to keep positive and take things one day at a time.

And so when I got down about the fact that I had some spotting on day three, like I’d had in the past, when it hadn’t worked out, and I became convinced it was all futile, I spoke to my lovely, supportive boyfriend who repeated back to me, what I’d said to him before, about taking things a day at a time, and told me, like he’s told me before, that “whatever happens next, we’ve got this, together.” And of course, I was grateful, and cheered, and happy that he’s there, and that he thinks “we” have got this.

But still there was a quiet voice in the back of my mind that was grumbling “I appreciate the sentiment, but this isn’t about you; this isn’t you staring down the barrel of not being able to have your own biological children; this isn’t you who’s spent about five years of their life and (I’m guessing, I can’t actually bear to work it out right now) the best part of £50k on trying to make this work; this isn’t you worrying about what this means for your relationship; this isn’t you wondering whether you’ve got the emotional and financial resources to do all this any more; this isn’t you — despite yourself and the promises that you made — madly googling “3dp5dt spotting”  (yes, again) and finding yourself swimming in forums of faint hope and despair, knowing that you’re mental for putting yourself through this; this is me.”

And when, six days after the embryo transfer I found myself sitting on the loo very definitely bleeding, not spotting, it became kind of hard to keep positive, and take things a day at a time, and to block out that quiet voice.

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One thought on “The final transfer…

  1. Pingback: Today was a bad day… | Egged On

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