Issue 33: The big day

Saturday January 26 2019

It’s here! FET day! Which is infertility-land language for Frozen Embryo Transfer day! Guess how much sleep I got last night? Approximately none, that’s how much. The worry about Melissa’s gradual disengagement with us. The anxiety about the uterine fluid returning. The thought that after today we will be nervously and officially in the 2WW (sorry, I slipped into it again — the Two Week Wait) till we find out if “we are pregnant”. Such an Americanism, the “we”, but really, when has it ever applied more accurately to a whole collective of people involved in one baby making?

I wait till an acceptable hour to message Melissa, taking the time difference into account. She’ll have woken up in a hotel in Miami, with her husband, Chad, by her side. They’ll probably be having breakfast about now. “So much good luck to us all today! I hope you’re feeling OK?”

There is no response. This is killing me. I can’t help but obsess over what I might have done to upset her. This is such a big day for us all, but I feel I’m being shut out of it, and it’s killing me. I’m so far removed, physically, literally, geographically and it hits me, again, that I have zero involvement in this. I can only hope that she and Chad want to bring me in. Otherwise, I’m just someone who has paid for a medical procedure and that’s about it. How crazy and uncomfortable and true and upsetting is that? On today of all days.

After four hours of postulating and agonising I try again. “Are you doing OK, lovely? What time is your first appointment?” (She has one first to check the fluid hasn’t returned, then the embryo transfer after that.)

Melissa is typing . . . Oh, thank Christ. “It was 11 but they want me in earlier so I’m on my way.” Hooray! On their way to the clinic for our first (and hopefully only) embryo transfer. This is so surreal and so exciting.

We reassure her that everything will be great, and we’d love for her to let us know what the doctor says, and again, good luck! Then we sit and try to contain our nervous excitement and watch the phone for any news. Right now our little Embryo No 1 could be thawing under extreme medical supervision, ready to try and become someone. How profoundly utterly amazing! We think like this, with a fizz in our chests for about an hour.

And then. Melissa is typing . . .

“Have you spoken to the doctor? I’m a mess.”

Cold. Dread. Sure enough Dr Fernando is calling. The fluid has returned with a vengeance. He recommends that we cease trying. Stop this transfer, stop this cycle, stop our connection with Melissa, full stop. In medical terms she “most likely isn’t a viable surrogate”.

I’m not sure I remember how to breathe properly. We talk some more, but I didn’t hear much of it. We did a medical to rule out this kind of possibility, didn’t we? Melissa passed with bells on. We’ve come so far since then. But apparently this kind of anomaly happens and there is no way of predicting or preparing for it. Mr B battles his own devastation to get some clarity on our options. The doctor suggests we start looking for another surrogate. But we can’t! We’ve already invested so much in Melissa. So much time, and yes, so much money, but more than that: we are all emotionally invested, there have been many obstacles and benchmarks and building blocks and we’ve been in it together. This whole long process has been like a labour in itself.

His recommendation is that we stop but we could try another cycle with Melissa because there is a chance this fluid build-up was a one-off reaction to the medication, or maybe from a small infection, and next time it will be fine, gone, poof! It’s a gamble; it will mean more investment to try and win this losing hand. But if we don’t, are we throwing our cards away before the flop? Before we even tried? “It will be a lot quicker and less expensive for you if it works out with Melissa, than if you call it off entirely while you look for another surrogate. It’s up to you.”

It sounds brutal, doesn’t it? Entirely devoid of emotion, but that tends to be the way with doctors. They are about facts and stats and prognoses, and it’s up to someone else to deal with the feelings. Only we have to consider both, very carefully and equally. This conversation feels cold and business-like, but it also gives us all hope. And, as much as our relationship seems to be struggling, we want more than anything to complete our family with Melissa. It’s why we connected with her in the first place; she already means a lot to us. We need to know, if we try again, is it likely the problem will recur?

Dr Fernando shrugs. “To be perfectly honest, it’s rare enough that I haven’t seen enough cases to make a comparable judgment.” Of course it is. This is us we’re talking about.

We make a decision to ask Jane at the agency to start looking for a new surrogate while we try Melissa on a new cycle. It’s a £9k punt, but it could take months (again) to find someone (again), so we need to know, if it doesn’t work, that we’re not starting from square one. We have to think of ourselves here. Obviously we don’t tell Melissa that we’re looking again. I can only and hopefully assume that her growing silence is down to worry. Maybe a feeling of failure — which I can entirely understand — but we so don’t want her to feel it.

We message: “Hey Melissa. I think we are all three a bit deflated [read: I know one of us is crying into our pillow and one is frozen in disbelief], so just reaching out to say keep your chin up and let’s see how what the next few weeks bring and go from there [read: we want you to want to talk to us. We want you, at least, to feel better]. Please, please don’t worry and please take care of yourself.”

She doesn’t reply to say she hopes we are feeling OK, to recognise our pain too, or to check in on us. She doesn’t reply to say she will try to keep her chin up, or even a misguided attempt to say she’s sorry. In fact, she doesn’t reply at all.