Issue 48: Another 2WW

Saturday May 11 2019

Until today I’d kind of been pretending that I was down with this whole two-week-wait (2WW) thing. We did the embryo transfer ten days ago, so today we get the results. Yah. Totally chill. Been round that carousel a couple times myself already (FIVE TIMES — FIVE DAMN TIMES), so if it doesn’t work it doesn’t work. S’cool.

This morning, however, I woke up alone. Mr B is away on business, which is ridiculously bad timing because today is our “embryo transfer, surrogacy success, wow we’ve come so far” D-Day, when Lydia, our surrogate, goes to her nearest clinic for a test that will measure the level of HCG — the hormone that a developing embryo produces — in her blood. It needs to be a value above five, and it’s commonly referred to as a beta test.

I say “woke up alone” — more like “got up”, since you have to be asleep to awaken from it. Sleep was not compatible with my nervous system last night.

So I got up, feeling sick, and went about my daily business as if everything was cool, man, when in fact I was on the verge of puking the entire time.

Anticipation is THE WORST. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. This so-called 2WW is an absolute killer, and I think it’s accumulative. Read any IVF forum and it’s a steaming hotpot of anxiety. For me it brings back all the feelings tied up with my previous failures, and I think that it gets worse with every new traum... I mean each time. Depending on what doctor you have, the first day that the HCG is reliably readable is nine or ten days post-transfer. But “the nine-or-ten-day wait” is not as neatly abbreviatable in an IVF forum I guess.

In the interests of painful nostalgia, I remember my ability to deal with the 2WW declining after the first one. I already knew that the blood test would be negative because I had peed on a stick that morning. Argh! You still have desperate hope because they say that you don’t know until a blood test tells you so. Each one became more important, but equally, each one had the added pressure of diminishing embryo supplies, and an increased expectation that it would be bad news — so, all in all, it was just grim.

This time I thought it might be easier because it’s not my body, and therefore not my constant mindful symptom-scanning or incessant googling (“is one aching rib a 2WW pregnancy symptom?”). But you know what? I think it’s worse.

We have only three embryos and, because of our contingency plan being blown out of all proportions, we don’t have any more money. We’ve paid the clinic a package that covers four embryo transfers, so we’re OK there. But that doesn’t take into account the medication, the local scan appointments, the flying back and forth to Miami, the insurance and the rest of it that adds up to about £7,000 to £8,000 extra per cycle.

I’m piling on the 40th-birthday pressure too. Silly? Maybe, but it feels such a significant benchmark for me. Bear in mind that I started when I was 35 and had to reconcile things with myself then, because even that felt late. So, after all these near-misses, this recent transfer was my last chance to have a baby before 40. Of course, it doesn’t matter in the end if I’m 40 or 45 (please, God, not another five years of this), but right now it feels important. And for every person who tells me that it isn’t I say allow me my feelings or I will come back and HAUNT YOU, OK?

Ahem. I’m refreshing my emails about every two seconds. In fact, I’m now writing this on my phone while I wait for a prescription because I need to stop obsessively refreshing my phone. Also, my hands are shaking, so it’s quite difficujt. Sorry, difficlt. Difficult.

Mr B, bless him, is having a legitimate conniption over in India, where he waits with me, but miles away from me. He’s so anxious that he messages Lydia every hour or so asking if her nausea is still there or if she’s extra fatigued.

“Guys, stop it,” I jump in. “We can’t guess at this point. We just wait, which is EXCRUCIATING.”

See? Totally chill.

The thing is, if it hasn’t worked it will feel like a momentous heart(break) attack. For all involved. For that reason, by the way, I haven’t even told my parents that the transfer went ahead. I wish I could call my mum right now and tell her that I’m having a panic attack, but that would take an admission, an explanation. Plus, I’m now on the train at rush hour, so it would be a bit more than awkward too. Imagine waiting for an imminent heart(break) attack on your own on a rush-hour train. Or alone on a business trip in India. Hell.

Lydia is also waiting, with her family in America. She’s right there with us, so anxious that she can’t eat. I feel guilty about the emotional responsibility she must be carrying. It’s why I pretend in our chat that I’m not eating my bag strap in anxious agony. Instead I tell both of them that “if it works, it’s super-lucky; if not, we just try again”. Or: “What will be will be, there’s no point worrying about it because no one can have done anything to affect the outcome.” Or: “We’ve got this!” And a strong-arm emoji.

I don’t subscribe to these things, otherwise I’d be eating the dinner that’s sitting cold in front of me, rather than my bag strap.

Check emails. Nothing

Check emails. Nothing.

F*** it, I’m gonna have to phone my mum. Only I can’t bring myself to do that either, so I just sit and stare at the phone, and keep refreshing and refreshing for Four. More. Hours. Until...

Email from the clinic: “Hello Sophie. We have the results of Lydia’s beta test and I don’t have good news. It came back negative. I’m sorry.”

Oh. I didn’t know that I was capable of breaking any more.