Meet The Kids!

Today we transferred three day-3 embryos. I was really hoping for a day-5 transfer, but our little cellular bundles had other ideas. In order for my doctor to OK a day-5 transfer, I needed to have at least four 8-cell, grade-A embryos on day three. As of this morning we had two grade-A embryos, two grade-B embryos, and four others that were pretty fragmented or lagging behind.

I was semi-upset when I got the news that we’d be transferring today. In my head, getting to a day-5 transfer meant that my embryos were good quality. I felt misled by Dr. Braverman — after all, he promised me my embryos would be better quality this time around. What a cad! However, I just looked back at my day-3 report from IVF #1, and I had fewer decent embryos at that point than I did this morning, and we did a day-5 transfer anyway. So it seems that my new clinic is just more conservative with day 5 transfers. And you know what? I’m ok with that. I did not want to end up with nothing to transfer. No thanks.

The morning did not go smoothly. Tim wasn’t allowed into the OR area. The acupuncturist accidentally needled my left calf so hard that the entire muscle cramped up. The embryologist felt the need to tell me, multiple times, that just because two of my embryos were grade A did not mean that this cycle was going to work. Um, WTF? I finally said to her, “Look, I know that grade-A embryos guarantee nothing. This is my 3rd cycle. I’m just looking for some hope here.” Then the doctor was an hour late to my procedure. I had to pee so bad that my whole body was sweating. And when it was all over, the doc did not bother saying “goodbye” or “good luck” before he left the procedure room. Again, WTF?

Needless to say, I was on the edge of tears all morning. I tried listening to my meditations and all that biz, but none of it was really helping. The clinic is just awful, and unfortunately we have to use them because they are the only one in our area who works with outside doctors. The one bright spot was the nurse in the transfer room. She was awesome and totally kept the morning from careening off into The Bad Place Of No Return.

The actual transfer itself went off without a hitch — super fast, no weird catheter malfunctions, no embryos stuck in the tube, etc.. And now I have three embryos  back where they belong, which is really all that matters in the end — not what day they arrived there.

So without further ado, meet our three beautiful babes. We transferred both grade-As and 1 grade-B. The rest will continue to grow, and we’ll find out their fate on Wednesday. Say “Hi,” kids!

When we picked Lettie up from the babysitter I showed her this picture.

“These are embryos,” I told her.

She looked mildly interested, so I asked, “Which one is your favorite?”

She immediately pointed to the chap on the bottom right.

Ooooh, I thought, maybe that one is The One.

Then she said, “Do we eat embryos?”

Aw, my little cannibal. Sprinkling embryos on her cereal.

Anyway, I’m feeling pretty good right now. Maybe not the zen-master self I was in my last post (ok, not at all), but still pretty decent. I carried the picture of our three babes with me everywhere today. I propped it on the couch and the embryos watched some football. They saw Pope Francis perform his historic mass on the Ben Franklin Parkway. I leaned them up against a trivet and there they stayed as we ate our dinner.

And really, I can’t help but think today is a fortuitous day. There’s a supermoon lunar eclipse tonight. The pope was cruising around my city, kissing babies and spreading his holiness everywhere. And, perhaps most unbelievable of all, the Eagles won.

Boom.

Signs, people, signs.

All That’s Left To Do Is Let Go

For the past two weeks, I’ve been preparing my body with blood thinners, steroids and intralipids. There is a constellation of hematomas on my abdomen, like a map of our progress, a connect-the-dots path to our baby. Right before each shot, Tim and I hug. Then we send up a silent prayer to that spirit we know we are meant to meet. I don’t know what Tim says, but mine goes a little something like this: I love you. I’m open to receive you. Please come home.

In three days, all nine of our embryos will be defrosted. They will grow and divide in their mysterious way, and if all goes well, we’ll transfer two blastocysts on Tuesday.

Five months of preparation have come down to this one day. The trips to New York, the surgery, the immune testing, the supplements, the new doctors, the shots, the procedures, the blood work, the renewed hope—all lead to Tuesday.

Am I ready for it?

Yes.

If it works, I feel prepared to navigate the challenges of pregnancy after infertility and loss. I’m not saying it will be easy, but I believe I can do it without losing my sanity. If it doesn’t work, well, of course I’ll be crushed, but I will be ok. This is one thing I now know without a doubt: I will always be ok. I will hurt, sometimes so much that I won’t want to open my eyes in the morning, but I will keep going. I will heal.

And so, one way or another, this epic quest is finally coming to a head. I’ve searched far and wide to find the answers I needed. I’ve prepped my body. I’ve prepped my mind. I truly believe I’m giving this baby the best possible chance to make its way to us.

All that’s left to do is let go. To let what is meant to be, be. There is so much sweetness in that, and so much peace.

I am ready.

A Long Overdue Update: IVF # 3, Part 1

Hey, dudes. It’s been busy ’round these parts. Since my Dr. Braverman update, I went on vacation, work turned into Crazytown and I lost my friend to cancer. And, oh yeah, I did a stim cycle. Retrieval was almost two weeks ago at this point.

I’ve been meaning to update you guys on the cycle for ages, so here’s the breakdown.

What we did differently this time vs. last time

I was on a much lower dose of stims. You might recall that for my last IVF I was on the atomic bomb dosage of meds, so I was initially very worried about this decrease.

The doctor added Clomid to the Menopur and Follistim cocktail.

He also threw human growth hormone into the mix. (Yep, just like A-Rod.)

I did a double trigger. So instead of just HCG, I also injected myself with Lupron as well at trigger time.

I took my Dr. Braverman supplements throughout the cycle.

I worked with a fertility coach and she helped me change my entire headspace. Although I had a few relapses, I made it through the cycle with minimal anxiety. I’ll try to write more about the work we’re doing together soon. She’s awesome.

Instead of doing a fresh transfer, we froze everything on day 1. The embryos will later be thawed and grow to day 3 or 5 before being transferred.

How it turned out

I stimmed relatively fast — only 8.5 days

They retrieved 11 eggs. My first cycle they retrieved 10, and my second cycle they retrieved 8.

9 out of the 11 fertilized with traditional IVF! My first cycle 6 fertilized via traditional IVF, and my second cycle only 3 fertilized using ICSI (insert sad face here). So, HOT DAMN, 9 is pretty amazing for my bod. Dr. Braverman promised me that my embryos would be better quality now that my endometriosis is no longer hanging around, and I’m hoping the high fertilization rate means he’s right.

I believe

Since the embryos were frozen so early, we’ll have to wait until they thaw and grow to really know if they’re good quality. I believe in them, though. And I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to say this, but: I’m beginning to believe in my body again, too.

 

38 Years Of Being Alive

Shortly after I turn 38, we fly to San Diego. We arrive at 2 am east coast time. When we emerge, bleary-eyed, from baggage claim into the warm night, Lettie points to the median in front of us and says, “Is that the jungle?”

“No, baby,” I say. “Those are palm trees.”

She turns to Tim and says, “Daddy, there are palm trees here,” and her eyes shine like she’s in on a secret.

**

The next day we gather at my brother’s house to celebrate my dad’s upcoming marriage,  because it’s never too late to find new love or old love or any kind of love. This is one thing I know: there is always more love.

I put on red lipstick and take pictures with my brothers and sisters. A mariachi band plays in the background. Lettie trades shoes with her cousin and together they set about the very important work of filling pails with landscaping rocks. Later, I will wash her dress and find tiny rocks in her pockets. Everywhere I go, I hear the sound of my sister’s distinctive laughter, a sound I have not heard in three years. Listening to it makes me feel two and ten and thirty-eight all at once. It is a reminder that wherever she is, wherever they all are, is home.

**

A couple of days later, I lounge sleepily by the pool with my twenty-two-year-old niece. We pass cans of chips back and forth. She takes pictures on Snapchat. I don’t even fully know what Snapchat is, but it doesn’t matter. We are two halves of kooky whole, her and I, always have been.

There is not one speck of white in the entire sky. The sun is hot, but the air is breezy. It is, quite possibly, the most perfect day in all the days.

“California is the worst,” I say.

“It really is,” she says.

One of my brothers, who has been busy in the kitchen, walks outside and heads to the lemon tree at the edge of the yard.

He pulls two lemons off the branch. “Can you believe it?” he says. “If you need lemons here, you just go pick lemons from a tree!”

I completely understand his excitement. It’s freshness and light, right at our fingertips. To me, it feels like this: in this magical place where tiny suns grow on trees, it’s almost like we are invincible.

**

On the ride to LA to visit Tim’s sister, fresh off a stop at In-N-Out burger, we get the news. Our close friend is losing his battle with brain cancer. It won’t be much longer now. Weeks, at most. I start crying in the backseat, where I am sitting next to Lettie. Tim keeps his eyes on the road, stoic as ever. Dry, cracked hills whiz by the window.

Lettie says, “What’s wrong, mama?”

So I tell her about cancer and dying and losing someone you love – all the things you wish you’d never have to explain to your child.

She looks at me with serious eyes, and then says, “Am I allowed to get cancer?”

I want to tell her, “No, you are not allowed to get cancer, not ever.” I want to be the Great Allower, the one who has control over All Things Terrible, so that I can keep her from them, so that I can keep everyone in the world from them, but I’m not. Not even close. So instead I tell her that it’s mostly older people who get cancer, and most people die when they’re old.

Then she says, “But I don’t want you to be old. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to leave me.”

I can’t tell her that this is the stuff of my nightmares — something happening to me, leaving her without a mom. Or something happening to her, leaving me with a moon-sized crater in my heart.

I can’t say any of that, so I say, “I promise you I will do everything in my power to stay with you for a long, long time.”

She points at me with her chubby, stubby finger and says, “Me too. I will do everything in my power to stay with you for a long, long time.” She stumbles over her words a little bit, but I hear her loud and clear.

There are seven stickers on her leg. An In-N-Out hat sits crooked on her head and she has ketchup on her fingers. Looking at her like that, I’ve never been more grateful that in this life where there is always more love, but never more time, she is mine for as long as the Great Allower allows it to be.

**

At the Santa Monica beach, the water is just chilly enough to feel refreshing. I hold Lettie’s hand as the waves wrap themselves around our ankles. Whenever one hits, she yells, “Heeee-YA,” and squeals with delight.

After a while, I pass her off to Tim and walk deeper into the ocean – something I haven’t done in years. I loved swimming in the sea as a child, but as I grew I got nervous about rip tides and creatures lurking in the depths. Today, though, I do it for our friend, who will never swim again. I dive beneath the surf, into the salty cold, feeling wholly alive in a way that I haven’t in a long time. I come back up for air and the sun is putting on a show, reflecting off the waves. It’s as if everything, everywhere is sparkling.