(In)fertility, Part 6: The “Transfer”

Hello, Dear Readers.  I’m back.  No, I haven’t finished the paper that is due next week (haven’t even really started it), and no, I’ve not tidied up the loose ends from work, but here I am anyway.  I feel like I should do something productive, and it sure as hell isn’t going to involve unloading the dishwasher or putting away laundry, so it might as well be this.  You all probably thought you were more to me than a decent alternative to chores, but apparently you were wrong.  Sorry about that.

Anyway, last you read I was being probed.  Yes, like that.  They took my little follicles, and his little swimmers, and put them all together in what I think of as the The Baby Blender.  I actually have no idea what they did with them, but I imagine a tiny little Kitchen-Aid with an “embryo” setting on it.  Anyway, whatever happened, a couple of days later we got a phone call.  Of my six follicles, five had fertilized and four had developed into embryos.  They were all top-notch (OBVIOUSLY), and we should plan to come to the clinic the next day for The Transfer.

Actually, the conversation wasn’t that straight forward.  Somehow the doctor and I got into a discussion about how many embryos to transfer.  She had been very clear from the beginning that she recommended transferring one embryo and only one, but she would consider two if we really wanted it.  When we knew we had four good embryos, all of a sudden the possibility of transferring two became very real.  On the one hand, transferring two embryos might increase the chance of one taking.  On the other hand, it also increased the risk of twins.  On the other hand, Josh and I loved the idea of twins.  We have several friends with twins, and we love hanging out with them and their babies.  Also, two for the price of one!  On the other hand, gestating and birthing twins carries with it a number of serious risks to both babies and mother.  On the other hand, lots of women give birth to healthy twins.  On the other hand, we weren’t guaranteed twins, much less one baby.  Overall, too many hands for a woman shot up with a shitload of synthetic hormones to deal with.  I freaked out, cried at my desk, and then jumped into action.

I did what I always do.  I called everyone and their mother who might have an opinion or advice to give.  The first call was obviously to Josh, followed quickly by calls to my aunt who is a doctor, her husband’s ex-wife who is a reproductive endocrinologist, my friends who have also conceived through IVF, friends with twins, and everyone else I could think of.  The whole time I was on the phone all I could think was, “We shouldn’t be making this decision.  This should be G-d’s decision.”  I’m not a terribly religious person, but there were times during this process when I felt like we were crossing an invisible line in the sand of baby-making.  It’s a bizarre experience.

Anyway, after an hour of frantic phone calls, Josh and I talked again.  We agreed that our doctor had not steered us wrong in the past, and we would do well to take her advice.  One embryo it would be.

I was given a number of instructions to follow on the morning of the transfer.  No make-up or jewelry, and I was supposed to drink a lot of water so that my bladder would be nice and full for the ultrasound they would use to guide the transfer of the embryo back into me.  I complied carefully, ditching my usual extensive early morning make-up routine (HA!) and leaving my bling in the drawer.  (Didn’t I feel like a schlub when we got there and I saw every other woman in the clinic dressed to the nines.  Jesus, ladies, it’s a fucking fertility clinic – you should have already found your sperm donor by the time you get there!)  Anyway, I downed a shitload of bubbly water on the way there, only to find out that bubbly water is a no-no because the bubbles in your stomach can screw up the image.  Great.  Because at that point I really wanted to drink more.

After consuming enough water that I was considering building an ark to deal with the inevitable flood, we were finally called into the baby-making room to do a little baby-making.  Sadly, not like that.  It was so not hot.  There was an exam table with a big-ass pair of stirrups and an ultrasound machine and a doctor and a nurse and a lab tech and a big screen on the wall and nary a candle or bottle of champagne to be found.  I assumed that all-too-familiar position, and they put this image up on the screen:

Yep, that’s our little munchkin, embryo-style.  I think she looks like me.

The nurse put me on ultrasound and immediately gasped.  I thought there was something wrong, but in fact she had rarely seen someone with a bladder as full as mine.  She even offered to let me go to the bathroom and empty it a bit if she thought I could stop myself, and still keep most of the pee in.  Seriously??  Anyway, there was no way I was going to be able to shut that door once it opened, so I stayed there with my ultra-full bladder.  They got everything all prepped, and suddenly a woman in scrubs, a cap, and a mask appears through a second door I hadn’t even noticed.  (That freaked me out, but not for long.  I was too focused on getting to the part where I could pee again.)  She handed the doctor a petri dish containing the embryo we had seen on the screen a few minutes earlier.

After the embryo was properly inserted into the catheter, she disappeared again.  The doctor then proceeded to attempt to cath me.  And it didn’t work.  And then he tried again.  And it didn’t work again.  There was some amount of mumbling about trying a rigid catheter instead of a flexible one, but the doctor decided against it.  So he tried to cath me again.  And again it didn’t work.  And then attempt number four, also a failure.  Please keep in mind that all of this is happening while I’m flat on my back, legs spread, with a bladder full of 2 liters of bubbly water and 3 cups of flat water.  Not only did it hurt like a bitch every time he shoved the tube up there, but do you have any idea how damn hard it is not to pee when someone keeps shoving a tube up your hoo-ha?

Finally, the doctor agreed to switch to a rigid catheter, and it goes in on the first try.  He dropped the embryo off at her new address (#1 Uterus Lane), pulled all the tubing out, wrote a quick note on the computer and headed out to his golf game.  I had to lie there for ten minutes (they even set an egg timer next to the table for me) before I could get up and go to the bathroom.  The nurse was kind enough to leave a little bed pan there for me in case I couldn’t hold it, but I was desperate to hold on to the last tiny little shred of dignity I had, and there was no way in hell I was letting loose into a bed pan.  Besides, the nurse saw how full my bladder was – what on earth made her think that such a pathetic little bed pan could possibly contain the tsunami that was sure to erupt once I finally opened the floodgates?

Josh, being the sweetpea that he is, was trying desperately to distract me from how badly I had to go.  He chatted me up, told a few jokes, and politely refrained from poking me in the bladder.  Then he wandered over to the computer and started reading the note the doctor had written.  Most of it was pretty standard and boring, until he got to the part where the doctor described how the embryo had been “skillfully introduced” into the top of my uterus.  Skillfully introduced, my ass!  Man, I would hate to see what an sloppy transfer would look like – inserting the tube into the wrong hole?  (Did I really just say that?  Sorry.)  I tried to get Josh to amend the note, but he was a good boy and didn’t do it.  B-O-RING.

Anyway, as soon as the egg timer went off I was on my way… slowly.  It’s not easy to walk with a ridiculously full bladder, but I waddled as quickly as I could down the hall, past a number of other patients and staff members, to the bathroom.  (Remember that last shred of dignity I mentioned?  GONE.)  There is no possible way I can describe to you how good it felt to finally go the bathroom.  I’ve never done crack, but maybe it felt like that.  (That’s not a bad idea for a PSA – Hey kids!  Don’t do crack!  Just go drink a shitload of your favorite non-alcoholic beverage, hold your pee until you are more uncomfortable than you ever thought possible, and then hold it ten minutes longer.  Finally, let it loose.  Better than drugs!)

While I was peeing, the nurses asked Josh if I was a nurse.  Apparently they didn’t think anyone who wasn’t a nurse could be capable of holding urine for so long.  (Perhaps nurses have larger-than-average bladders?  Or lots of experience holding pee?)  Anyway, Josh told them that I’m a social worker, and apparently that was an acceptable substitute.  Nurse, social worker, resident bad-ass, whatever – it was all the same to me and my rockin’ bladder.  That little badge of honor more than made up for the doctor’s “skillful introduction”.

After that, Josh and I went home to start the long process of waiting to find out if it took.  I hate to leave my readers in a state of suspense, so I’ll just offer this little hint:

8 months old today…

… and not quite sure how we feel about it.