Well, folks, we are approaching one of the most crucial stages of any IVF cycle: the egg retrieval. This Sunday, I will faithfully don a sexy hairnet and flattering hospital gown. I will be under light anesthesia while my doctor carefully goes in and extracts my eggs. Then, they will (hopefully) fertilize and grow healthy and strong in preparation for the egg transfer sometime next week.
For IVF1, I remember being nervous, excited, and giddy. I remember affectionately patting my slightly swollen belly and talking to my little eggs. Awwww, such a heart warming scene. This time around, there have been no heart warming scenes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited. But this cycle has taken so much more out of me. Walking into our doctor’s office lobby, I look like an IVF cautionary tale. That scary, exhausted woman with ruffled hair and glazed over eyes that makes you want to run out of the office? That’s me. I am bloated, crampy, nauseous, and still dizzy. But, I am hanging in. Hanging on. Clawing my way to the finish line. We are throwing everything but the kitchen sink into this IVF cycle. Any random vial or syringe of fertility medication my doctor has happened to stumble upon in his office has been injected in my belly; my pudge, as I have been lovingly calling it. This time around, I can’t even lightly pat my belly, because my belly fucking hurts.
I am living in yoga pants. I have had way more sex this week with my doctor’s ultrasound wand than I have had with my husband in longer than I would like to admit. But, when it comes down to it, if this is what gets me to my future baby then this is what gets me to my future baby. I have resigned myself to this fact.