I had my egg retrieval yesterday. Of 11 eggs that they retrieved, only 6 were mature and 5 of those six fertilized with ICSI and were frozen. The embryologist who called us today morning also informed us that 3 additional eggs matured overnight in the lab and that they would try to fertilize them today. I frankly do not have any hopes of those 3 even if they were to fertilize having scoured the web’s rather dismal statistics which predict very poor odds of these Day 2 ICSI’s making it to blast even, let alone turn out to be normal.

I don’t quite know how to describe what I am feeling right now. It’s almost as if there is a deluge of emotions knocking on my heart’s door but I have slammed the door shut on their collective faces. I feel like I am sinking, sinking deep down below into an abyss no one will ever be able to rescue me from. This cycle gave us so many heartaches, false alarms and yet despite all the catching up that my body did (with 14 follicles at last count) and despite the 11 eggs retrieved I am back to where I was with my first IVF with only 5 fertilized embryos. Which gives me a pretty darn good indication of what my chances of getting a chromosomally normal embryo would be like.

Yesterday, right after retrieval, when the embryologist came over to let us know our count, he also insisted we tell him right there and then whether or not we planned to go in for egg banking. K and I had spoken extensively about this and we were more or less decided that whatever the numbers we would bank just to give us the best odds possible. For, if these two cycles at CCRM do not give me a take home baby I have low hopes it will ever happen with my own eggs. Still, we were told we would have to take that call when we got the fertilization report from the embryologist the day after retrieval. Not like 20 minutes after coming out of anesthesia. That’s what we had been led to believe and the plan was that we would take Thursday evening to flesh out the issue and have a definite answer for when the call came on Friday. This pissed me off. What pissed me off further is when the embryologist (a really nice man) told me that with 11 eggs Dr Schoolcraft recommends egg banking. Which I found a ridiculous notion. If 11 implies egg banking then at what stage should one just proceed with the one cycle?? When you make like 20 eggs? 30? Isn’t that typically a PCOS thing and does not that typically imply poor egg quality? Where the heck were these numbers coming from? Dr S (Surrey) had told us that anything below 5 and he would strongly recommend banking. But of course he was talking about fertilized embryos. How were we to know that even with 11 bloody eggs we would only make 5 embryos!!! What. the. f—k.

As soon as K hung up with the embryologist, I felt the familiar mist of panic envelop me, pulling me down faster than I could escape it. I was choking, sobbing, heaving all at the same time. He tried to reassure me telling me that there were three more that could potentially fertilize by tomorrow but to my mind those were probably not good quality considering they did not come out mature from my body.

So, after 40+ injections, 7 blood tests, 9 ultrasounds, 1 egg retrieval, many sleepless nights and countless hours spent stressing what do we have to show for our big gamble on CCRM? The same results we got from our local clinic. And way more heartache.

I’m sitting at the airport right now, waiting to check in for our late night flight. We got here way early because we had to drop the car off. K is as crushed as I am and he is coping the only way he knows to –dissolving himself in his work. As for me, I look around the hordes of people here with little babies, toddlers, strollers and the odd pregnant belly and I want to set the world on fire. I am so angry. So furious.

I spoke with my mom earlier today. She was sad to hear what happened but tried her best to assure me things will work out. I am afraid I could not believe her words today. I was despondent, angry and immensely frustrated. I feel God keeps abandoning me in my time of need. I call out to him day upon day, beg him to give me this one thing, keep accepting all the trials that mark this journey with as much stoicism as I can muster. But does he listen? Does he give me any reprieve? No.

I don’t know where to go from here. I know I have to do this again and I also know that next time around this could go either way. My body keeps tricking me into believing that it will do great yet falters in the end each time. I know I will somehow have to brush off the dust and get myself up and going again. But right now that seems to painful to even envision, let alone execute. I know there are others like me, some in positions worse than mine who do not let this heartless disease sap them of their spirits. I admire them wholeheartedly. But I admit I am not so strong. Or perhaps I do not want to be anymore.

This is just so difficult.



Of recent, everyday feels like waking up as a different person. Almost like someone is directing you, giving you a new part to play each day with a different script. Of course no one but you is privy to the joke! Least of all, your poor husband who wonders what kind of wife he will come home to each day; smiley-chirpy-high-on-life-wife or morbid-glum-spirit-sapping-wife or rabid-bitchy-bite-your-head-off-wife… the poor guy, by this time, has probably given up altogether on regular-normal-supportive-life-partner-wife!!

Largely, though, I have been doing quite well with stray incidents of gloom and despair. Just that when the sucky bouts happen, they still end up feeling very sucky. Every time something brings me down I try and count at least 10 things that I have in my life which I had always wanted and try and calm my angrily pulsating heart. Never works. I know how this makes me sound. Thankless and unappreciative. I believe I am neither of those two things. For every day, through the day, I retain a very conscious awareness of all that I have to be thankful about. But it’s just that when the baby thoughts take over, nothing, simply NOTHING can quell that desperate yearning to feel a rapidly swelling belly, to hold a little part of yourself in your arms, to give birth to life, to watch your love grow each day, every day into someone you will be incredibly proud of.

On a randomly different note, the pottery classes are helping take away some of that prone-to-rapid-escalation negative energy. Something about working with your hands that takes away the stresses of a physical self always stalking the margins of stress.


P to the M to the S

Of late the PMS factor’s become pretty darn terrible. I pendulate between bitch mode and outright sap mode. This month is the latter. For I can’t come up with any other reason to explain why, when nothing has happened, am I so weepy and sobby and in a perpetual funk. Even the trusted cleaning fairy act did not save me today. I mean if after washing, drying and folding two loads of laundry, vacuuming and dusting the entire apartment, washing dishes, cleaning kitchen, unpacking, putting clothes away, making lunch and dinner I am still not feeling all zen-like then something must be the matter. And since nothing really is, I shall pin it on good ol’ PMS.

Baby-sat neighbor’s daughter again today. She is a little delight but was clearly not in her element away from her parents… and unlike the last few times when my parents were also there to give her company, this time it was only me, the Ipad and a few scattered items that I refer to as emergency playthings. I happily spent an hour or so taking care of her and then her dad came to get her. After she left, the house suddenly seemed a thousand times lonelier than it was before. That’s when the frenzied vacuuming began. To no avail though.

I don’t know what’s worse. Feeling like crap or feeling like crap because you are feeling like crap. Conundrum much? Let’s hope tomorrow’s a better day.