From 10 or 12 cells to up to 160.
Go embie, go!
I’m skipping ahead here, because I haven’t blogged about the transfer yet, which went ahead on Day Three, to give our lone embie the best possible chance of growing.
To say I was strung out would be like saying Tony Abbott likes speedos. (Australian political reference… our opposition leader has a very unfortunate penchant for tight little swimmers that are also known colloquially as “budgie-smugglers” or “dick-stickers”. It’s not pretty.)
All morning I willed the phone not to ring. I did not want to see the clinic’s number flash up and have a technician tell me that out bundle of cells was kaput. Please, please hang in there, little embie. Pease, give us a chance.
So we went to the acupuncturist half and hour before transfer, cell phone within reach. She stuck needles along my shins, belly, ears and one in the crown of my head. Who would have thought I would ever sign up for MORE needles.
I tried to relax and imagine my uterus as the friendliest, most nuturing place on earth, one ear cocked for the phone.
Then I went next door to the clinic with my mum, put on the gown and blue booties and fetching hairnet/hat and waited for the lowdown from the spermologist. (I am never going to know what he is actually called but I think spermologist fits). I felt surreal – I could not quite believe that we had made it this far. I kept thinking tat at any moment they were going to say, “Sorry dear, your lone embie didn’t make it.”
On the way to my cubicle, I mooned three other couples waiting for transfer, because I’d forgotten to put a robe over my nicely ventilated hospital gown.
“I wondered who that was when I saw that bottom go past,” the jolly nurse said when she hurried in to hand me a robe.
I watched some other women come and go from theatre, thinking how strange it was that such a potentially momentuous and life-altering moment should feel so mundane.
Then the spermologist bounded in, saying “Good news!”. Our embie had been four cells the day before, six early that morning, and was now eight cells. It was powering along!
Of course all kinds of things can still go wrong – not all eight-cell embryos make it to blastocyt stage on Day Five (when cell division really goes bananas). And because we had only one, we did not have the luxury of watching several grow in a dish for a bit longer to try to judge the strongest.
But today is blastocyst day, and I am hoping and praying that our embie is still powering along, and ready to burrow down and start the real work. My boobs are ENORMOUS and very sore from the progesterone, and I seem to have developed a supersense of smell. I’m hoping these are positive indications. but the only real tests comes in a few weeks’ time on June 15.
They say this TWW is the hardest part. But so far – ha! two days! – I feel happy and so damn grateful that out embie made it far enough to give us this chance.