Issue 53: Please hold for results

Saturday June 15 2019

Aaaand they’re off . . . and the Transferred Embryo is on the inside with Surrogate Lydia carefully slowing down after the first hurdle, there’s no sight of Extreme Anxiety or Frantic Forum Searching, they must not have made it out of the gate this time, and it’s Embryo Number Two on the inside, Embryo Number Two approaching the finish line . . .

Just a little light daydreaming I replay by myself while I’m resolutely not frantically searching forums. Last time round Lydia would say she had a headache and I’d be knee-deep in a symptoms forum within seconds. “Symptoms of early IVF pregnancy: mild cramps, tender boobs, slight queasiness.” It doesn’t mention headaches, though. No headaches? She definitely has a headache, so that must mean it didn’t work!

And then I’d spiral until I reminded myself that I have extreme knowledge of this experience, and actually nothing in this first two weeks really means anything. The true fact of it is that the progesterone any woman takes after their embryo transfer often has side-effects that are exactly the same as pregnancy side-effects. You just can’t ever know at this point, so while those forums are so comforting and the community vibe is really touching, they’re basically useless for frantic symptom-searchers like me.

But yes, even though I know we can’t translate exactly what a headache means for us here, I still find myself searching for the scientific nugget I might have missed before, the one that proves this time the headaches are a sure indicator of success. Winner! Winner’s medal! Because what else am I going to do to quiet my hurricane mind?

The post-transfer chatter has been lovely, actually. Lydia really feels protective of our potential baby already. She has done everything the doctor suggested with bells on. This time she even drove — solo because her husband is away working — from her home to the clinic just in case the flight was a contributing factor to the first-time failure. (It’s not thought a flight would have any detrimental effect, but she did it just in case, because she’s sweet like that).

Mr B worries about the embryo falling out. Bless him. “What’s going to happen when she goes to get dinner later?”

“Um. Precisely nothing, babe. Relax.” The confusion comes with the thought that a uterus is a cavity. It’s more like a potential cavity, stretch-to-order. Initially it’s more like a sandwich. Totally closed like the crook of your folded elbow, with wiggle room where needed. Imagine holding a pea in the crook of your folded elbow. Pretty secure, right? Even if you do somersaults on a trampoline (NB: this is not advised).

This analogy placates everyone and we get back on with waiting. Tra-la-la. Hum-dee-ho. Okaaay, hurry up already. This is my seventh two-week wait and I’m done with the bloody things. Oh God, it’s torturous, painful, thrilling, tear-jerkingly hopeful and wonderful and plain awful.

My own IVF waits were quite like Groundhog Day, for the uninitiated. Same hormones, same process, different results. There was that one time — the final time, in fact — when it worked for me, and I saved up the news to tell my husband in person. We had given up hoping and counting by then, but it bloody worked! I did a home test to witness the magical blue lines, then, fizzy with excitement, I wrapped it in a box and gave it to him at midnight when he returned from his business trip. Oh my God, that was so special. I still treasure that memory, even though it didn’t progress how we had hoped. But that was then.

For now, as much as we were able to distract ourselves from thinking about every appointment to get us here, there is no such distraction from the results. They loom in the calendar like Miranda Priestly of The Devil Wears Prada, terrifying but inspiring nonetheless. Friday is The Day. Nine days after transfer, actually ten this time because it was a bank holiday in the US. It then also becomes the day I’ll be at my friends’ wedding and Mr B will be at a stag do abroad — good luck enjoying the hell out of that one, husband.

Gah! Separation to add to the stress. Or maybe that’s better? Being apart won’t change the outcome, we just need to normalise here, it’s all cool, life will go on as usual either way. (I mean, clearly it won’t. The options are elation or devastation and nothing in between. But I’m not sharing that with myself just yet.)

OK, so here goes. I’m wearing a fixed rictus grin with as much aplomb as my Preen frock, all part of the wedding-guest dress, and, ugh, this delicious wine is not going down well at all. And as rude as I know it must seem to be glancing at my phone throughout dinner in front of these raucous strangers, I just can’t help it. I want to stand on my chair to explain myself. “Don’t you know how important this email will be? Don’t you know how elated or devastated it’s about to make me?!?” Instead I make apologetic noises about work and let them decide I’m an antisocial party pooper.

It’s nine at night before it comes in. Lydia went for her blood test eight hours ago — side note, the NHS is much quicker — and, gulp! Um. Well. Not quite sure, is where it left me.

“Lydia’s blood test shows a positive result for pregnancy.” Elation!!!! Elaaaaaatttiiioooonnnnnnn!

“But.” (No. No buts!) “At 5.9 her numbers are lower than we would like to see at this point.” Devastation.

“We remain cautiously optimistic and will do a repeat blood test on Monday.”

OH. UM?

Oh. Um. So there is an in-between.