And I am officially anxious. If this FET doesn’t take, I’m going to have to really wonder if my uterus wasn’t damaged by the miscarriage & subsequent misdiagnosis by Dr. Bigshot that led to me carrying dead matter inside me for far too long. I know my doctor is worried about it, too, since my lining hasn’t been up to par since this summer’s excitement. There is a reason (besides his crappy German bedside manner) that I hate Dr. Bigshot, and a reason this clinic indulges me in that hatred & tries to keep us apart. God help me if it turns out that our ‘unexplained infertility, most likely male-factor’ has turned into ‘her uterus really is the womb of death’. What if I can’t carry a donor-egg-embryo, either? Oh god.
Ahem. Stepping away from panic stations now. I’m trying really hard to keep my emotions in slightly closer check than I have for the last year or so. It’s the main reason I want to be out of my stressful work environment for the week after transfer – I get all adrenalin-rushy when I’m angry, and I’m thinking that can’t make for a yummy hormonal soup for proto-sprog to decide to stick around for more of. I mean, if I were an embryo and I was suddenly bathed in fight-or-flight chemicals, I’d probably decide that this wasn’t the best place to hang out, and figure that maybe if I moved on down the road, there’d be a more hospitable place to stay. Surely?
So I’m trying to be calmer and a bit more willing to let stuff wash over me, instead of allowing it to get me all worked up. Easier said than done, but I am trying.
But it’s still scary. I worry sometimes that I have made the wanting of a child more important than the actual desire to raise a child. That I have invested so much in this stage of my life that if when I do get a child of my own, it will be a let-down, anti-climatic. “You mean this is what I was so keen to have for my own? I don’t want it! I take it back!” I mean, what if I want this so much simply because I’ve been told that I cannot have it? I can be contrary like that, I know.
All of which is just my way of saying that I am trying not to overstress, to accept what I’m being handed, and to try to make the best of it.
Hah. That’s going about as well as you’d expect.
But I am trying not to behave as if another failed IVF (or in this case, my first and only FET) will be the end of the world. I am trying to decide, if we have to go with a donor egg cycle, whether it makes sense to stay where we are, or – since we’re paying cash anyway – to go to a top-tier clinic where I don’t loathe one of the doctors and love the other one. I am trying to decide how much more patience my dear husband will have with this quest for sprog; it’s not as critical for him – he’s already a papa to three young women. He has a family, he is doing this for me, and while I appreciate that, it worries me that I am asking too much of him, as this drags on and on. I am trying not to worry about the fact that even if I conceive during this FET cycle, I’ll be 40 when the baby is born. Hell, I remember clearly when my youngest aunt was 40, and boy, was she old. Who the hell do I think I am, burdening a child with my old self as a parent? I am trying not to worry about what I will do if it does not work. If everything we try does not work. If I am one of the unlucky few who simply cannot be assisted, reproductively, then what? What if we never get to adopt a newborn? Then what?
I don’t have a plan B. (Or, rather a plan F. Plan B was 3 IVFs. Plan C is the FET. Plan D is donor egg. Plan E is adoption. Plan F is ???) I don’t know where my life goes after that, and it’s worrisome. Very worrisome.
I have a saguaro cactus in a pot that I have raised from a seed and that was the only plant I carried cross-country when I left Utah. It’s about 7 years old now, and nearly 4 inches tall. That’s off the charts for a baby saguaro; because although they can grow to over 40 feet, it typically takes a hundred years for them to get there. It hasn’t grown much in the three years I’ve lived in New York, but neither has it died. It’s sort of in a holding pattern.
As far as I can determine, it’s waiting to see if the sun will come out again, or if this is truly its life now, in which case it might never grow to be more than 6 or 7 inches. It won’t give up and die, because even being a stunted, 5-inch-tall saguaro is better than not being a saguaro, but it is waiting to see if things will get better, if conditions will change that would allow it to reach its potential. It’s waiting.
I know just how it feels.
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