Issue 51: Relinquishing control (yeah, right)
Saturday June 01 2019
We’re gearing up for the second embryo transfer, but this time it’s different. This time it’s better. Somehow we have all psychically agreed to back the f*** off. It must be an emotional response, because we’re collectively taking the same tactic without having discussed it.
It involves putting real life first and letting the well-practised IVF train pootle along in the background. It’s on vibrate mode, rather than “ringer on”. Make sense? Any more analogies I can offer up? I think it’s probably more like emotional exhaustion, the kind that makes you want to lie down and stay there, but we’ll wrap it up as “vibrate mode” instead, OK? OK!
Letting it happen, instead of trying to control the happening, is a revelation. Without the constant chasing and questioning and worrying, it’s actually possible to forget the date of the first ultrasound. Without twice-daily texts between Lydia, Mr B and me, it’s possible to be pleasantly surprised when you get an unexpected ping in the middle of a movie (sorry, a bzzzz — my phone is also on vibrate mode).
“Hi guys! My ultrasound was great! All looks perfect.”
Oh yeah. There was a scan that happened without me obsessing about it and it was good news! Therefore, the trick to manipulating the universe in my favour is to stop paying so much attention. I need to play hard to get with the universe. Actually no! I need to forget all that nonsense and accept that life is life, and things happen or they don’t, not matter what mode I’m in. But still, I’m feeling this mode. I’m going to actually finish this movie and concentrate on the fictional plot line instead of my own one for once.
Ah yes, I like this idea. Lydia seems to like it too, because she’s definitely slowed her thumbs down; the texts are few and far between. Mr B and I check in from time to time to make sure that she knows we are thinking of her, and she seems chill AF. Collective chill must be a better lead-up to the big transfer day, surely!
Same thing a week later. Bzzzz. I glance at my phone after it has bzzzzed a few more times like a staccato drumbeat (that usually means it’s Mr B sending individual sentences one after another, rather than one complete message. Bam, bam, bam. It’s his somewhat pesky signature).
“Guys” (it’s Lydia)
Mr B: Go on
Lydia: Are you ready?
Mr B: It’s good news isn’t it?
Lydia: Sit down if you aren’t already
Mr B: Cos of the way you’re saying it
Lydia: 9.4!!!!!!!
OMG. She’s talking about her womb lining. Last time it was way too low, and took a long time and extra meds and acupuncture to get it up. This time it’s perfect right from the off and I got all the info at once, after the fact, instead of waking up worrying about it. Hear that, universe? More of that please!
Who am I kidding? I knew exactly when this appointment was, I just pretended I was chill all day. But that also kind of worked for me — fake it until you make it, eh? Now if only we could get the whole transfer and two-week wait done without our knowledge, that would be excellent, thanks.
Obviously there is no chance of that happening, because we’re way too excited and now Lydia is too, so it’s with a full and happy heart that we start imagining the process.
“When is transfer? What does the calendar say? Next Wednesday? That means the test will be the 22nd!!! Soph, I just pictured you cradling a baby, dunno why. Wait. No. I’m gonna continue to not actively think about it, maybe that’s working.” Ah, so Mr B is playing hard to get with the universe too. It’s officially a thing now.
How nice this past three weeks has been. How uncomplicated and normal — as far as engaging a surrogate in another continent to IVF on your behalf can be anyway. It has been wonderful and it makes me realise that we accept these tiny wins now like they’re the lottery, rather than the kind of experience we had hoped to be having a couple of years ago when we started.
In actual fact this should by all accounts have been the easy bit. IVF clinics usually give live-birth and clinical-pregnancy stats, the difference being that not all clinical pregnancies turn into live births. When the live-birth rate is in the high seventies (as it is in our case, using donor eggs and a surrogate) you can see how easy it should be to surpass all the previous hurdles by degrees. That number needs to be way higher at the start of the process to end up so healthy at the end. This knowledge isn’t helpful to me, it’s actually a source of teenage-tantrum “it’s not faaaaiiiirrrr” contrition. But if I turn it into the positive it should be I can see that the chances of this embryo even implanting this time are very high, at least. So why the f*** didn’t it do it last ti. . . nope. Not going to go there. Positive, positive, positive!
So here we are. On the eve of our second embryo transfer and everything is in our favour. Man, that feels good. And, since we’re on a roll, I’m going to go and buy an actual lottery ticket. The number 22 is going to come in, you hear me, universe?