Transfer Day
FET 3.0 - Cycle Day 16
What if everything works out? What do you need to really trust?
My therapist asked me these questions the other day in our session and I can’t stop thinking about them. I wrote them down on a note card. I look at them every morning. What does it mean to trust something? What could it feel like for things to go right? How does that feel in my body? What does that mean for my heart? What does it mean for me to be deserving of good things?
Sometimes I thought this day wouldn’t come. Okay, let’s be honest. I never thought we’d get here. I lived in my pessimism until it ate away at me. I couldn’t see beyond all the failures. All the tests. All the stress. Even with the hope and new attitude I’d been cultivating, I kept waiting for something to go sideways. Some epic shoe to drop.
But it didn’t. The week leading up to our transfer day was uneventful. I went to therapy. Had one last sushi dinner with my Dad. Met with a student to review their high school thesis project. Went for walks. Played with the dogs. I felt like I was winding down. Which in a way I was. I was preparing to spend a few days watching tv on the couch and lounging. Our clinic’s rules around transfer are not super strict, but they do want you to be as relaxed as possible for the couple days following. I wanted this as well. I wanted to let my body be the one telling me what to do and how to feel. I wanted to experience every moment of it. The week was easy and low stress.
As we edged closer to transfer day, I found myself in a particularly special headspace. One I’ve never experienced before. I was happy. Not the hypomanic happy that sometimes happens when I really want something and jack myself up about it while also trying to convince myself that I absolutely totally will get it. But rather a kind of easy, gentle happiness. Like the current of a river, going slow enough but still moving. I felt alive and wildly in touch with myself. I pulled cards almost every morning, journaled profusely, practiced some grounding rituals, and found my way into a deep chamber of trust. I trusted my body. I trusted my heart. I trusted my soul. I trusted my doctors. I trusted our clinic. As each day moved on, I grew closer and closer to being united with one of our embryos.
As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, from our second egg retrieval last year, we were lucky enough to get two normal (euploid) embryos. The girl embryo was a 6AA and the boy was a 5BB. As far as the grading goes, the 6AA was the better one, the highest quality embryo you can get. But it was also fragile. Once an embryo has “hatched” it is more vulnerable, and many clinics see this as a less optimal embryo. 5BB is a good embryo but also kind of middle of the pack - an average choice.
We had a long conversation with our doctor before starting this cycle about which one to transfer. Our doctor is great. She’s very straight forward and science-minded. I could see how some people might find her focus-on-the-facts and give-you-things-straight demeanor a bit hard to swallow, but for me she was perfect. I didn’t want someone to sugar coat things to me. I wanted her to be upfront. I wanted honesty. During our conversation, I asked her, from her medical opinion, which embryo I should transfer. Which had the best chance for success. She said the 6AA is the better embryo, but a lot of times the first transfer doesn’t work. Then she gave me some advice that made the answer feel clear. She said that if I were to get pregnant from this transfer and carry the pregnancy to term, it would likely be the only child I could conceive with my body. The adhesions in my uterus would almost certainly come back post baby/delivery and make it very challenging to go a second round. So one-and-done was kind of what I took away from everything she said. The answer felt obvious to me then. We’d transfer the 6AA. I knew that if we only had one shot, I wanted it to be the embryo with the best chance to survive and thrive. I wanted to go for gold.
The Monday before the transfer, the embryology team called to verify our choice. I looked at R to make sure and he nodded. We want to transfer the girl embryo, the 6AA, I said confidently into the phone. They thanked me for confirming and clicked off. It felt strange to make a choice as to which life to try and create, but also like it was the right one in my heart. I had to trust my gut and not look back.
I had done all of the things, prepared myself in every way I could, now I had to put my faith in something beyond myself. And let go.
Transfer Day
As my eyes blink open, I know that it’s too early to be awake. I tried to go to bed early the night before, to ensure a long good night of rest. But I slept poorly and now everything in me is willing me to move around, to be alive, to get going. I lean over and tap my phone charging at the edge of the night stand. 3:50AM. I shake my head, Oy vey, it’s early. I crumple back into the covers pulling the soft blanket up around my neck. I want to force myself into sleep, but my brain is already spinning forward into the day. Our transfer is scheduled at 11:30AM. That’s seven+ hours away. I stare at the blinds cracked ever so slightly, the smallest amount of dim light starting to filter in. While I want it to be sun on the horizon, I know it’s just from the neighborhood lights outside. I close my eyes for a while, letting the imprint of the blinds dance in the deep darkness in my mind.
I think about our embryo. In a few hours, the team will begin thawing it. This is one of the most likely times for there to be an issue. Our doctor told us that sometimes they go to thaw an embryo and it just dissolves. All that light just disappearing into the void of nothingness. The idea of it makes me a little sick. We already have cleared with the team that if anything happens to our 6AA in the process of thawing, we will move onto the 5BB. But I hope the 6AA will live. I hope that collection of cells wants to be with me and much as I want to be with her. I try to talk across the ether to her spirit. I tell her that I am ready. I ask her to be ready too.
Finally, I can’t lay in bed anymore. My brain is fuzzy with excitement and I want to get going. I slink out and into the bathroom. A shower is the perfect way to start this day. The water descending onto me. The feeling of being clean. The crispness of stepping out and drying up. I bask in every moment, enjoying each second as long as I can draw it out. Dripping on the shower mat, I go through the other rituals of starting my day. Rubbing the face serum into my skin. Massaging the post-shower oils into my drip-dry legs. Brushing my hair slowly. Telling my reflection that I love her, that she is valuable, that she is worthy of joy. I’ve never been great at self-kindness. Some part of me wants to shout out that what I am doing is silly or weird, but I ignore it. I want to have this time to bask, to revel, to feel something like good.
Finally, I get dressed. I pull on the lucky, hot pink, Forever 21 bra and then the lucky pomegranate t-shirt. I find my loosest pair of leggings. I dig up my favorite pair of socks - these super soft blue ones my Mom gave me a million years ago and push my feet into them. I grab my soft brown sweater from the closet and head downstairs. It’s still dark out, but I pull up the shades and sit on the couch facing our back yard. I stare into the darkness from the dim space of the living room. I am not afraid.
As the light trickles in, I grab my beloved tarot deck and pull some cards. The pull begins with the Queen of Pentacles. She is my favorite queen. The mother, the kitchen witch, the caretaker of stories, the one who holds sacredness. I tell myself this is me. Today, she is the energy I need to hold onto and project. I journal for a while about my card pull, the slow roll joy, my hopes and dreams, my manifestations, my emotional landscape, and my embryo. I sit in the dim light of morning in a place I love and feel loved, glowing. I’ve never been so happy in all my life. I tell myself, bottle this, keep this, hang onto this moment. No matter what happens next.
When the sun begins to peak into the sky, I begin my next ritual. Days ago one of my very good friends and mentor, Nawal, gave me an extremely cherished gift, an elephant seed pod. She explained that one is to wish on these magic seeds, and blow them away into the wind. Their magic combining with the magic of the world for good luck. I take the seed pod and walk out onto our back porch. Even though it’s chilly, the cold feels good. It’s invigorating. I feel alive. I pull the little carved elephant stopper out and pour the seeds into my palm. They are so small and remind me of my embryo. I close my eyes and wish from the deepest part of my soul for everything I’ve ever wanted. Opening my eyes, I blow the seeds and the wind carries them away. They disappear into the day and I feel complete. Part of me wants to keep the pod and carved elephant for good luck, but something inside is saying to blow that away too, to wish all of it out into the world. So I do. I stand there in the pale morning light feeling full.
Eventually, R is awake and making us hot drinks. He is joyful and ready to care-give me and I am grateful for it. We prep my medication and get the shot done. We sit on the couch with our drinks. The dogs dawdle between inside and the backyard. We listen to New Orleans funeral music (my favorite). When that record is done, we listen to DJ Shadow while R makes my favorite breakfast meal: gluten-free blueberry and banana pancakes with bacon. I drift as I sit on the couch. The day is moving forward and I don’t feel anything but warmth. As R prepares the plates, he makes them Bosch style (despite it not being formal literature, I’ve been reading Michael Connelly’s books since I was around eleven (shout out to Void Moon, my intro to Connelly) and will enjoy his detail-centric writing forever). I am happy beyond words. I top my pancakes with some lactose-free Fage greek yogurt and bananas. The plate looks like a flower arrangement. It’s almost too pretty to eat. Almost.
After we slowly enjoy our delicious meal, we gather our stuff by the door and spend some time doting on the dogs. A little before 10AM, we shuffle ourselves into the car and head south. The only thing I have to remember is to start drinking water at 10:30AM (an hour before the procedure is scheduled to take place) and be sure to get down 32oz within fifteen minutes. I bounce my 32oz water bottle on my legs as we began our trip, the radio buzzing in the background of my brain. When it’s time, I drink all the water exactly as I am supposed to and also immediately need to use the bathroom. It’s going to be a long morning.
R does his best to distract me from my strong urge to pee my pants. Other than that, the drive is easy and fun. We laugh at how many times we’ve come across a Tom Petty song on any of the stations programed into our stereo console. We reminisce on concerts we’ve gone to and music we listened to. R’s hand stays on my thigh nearly the entire drive, a constant tether between us. When John Denver’s “Country Roads” comes on, I sing along at the top of my vocal cords. Same for the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams.” As we crest the hills near the clinic, I stare out at the sunny, bluebird sky and the perfect white topped mountains. I could not have asked for a more beautiful day to do this transfer.
When we arrive, I write my name on the check in sheet and for the reason, I write EMBRYO TRANSFER! <3. The woman at the front desk prints off wrist bands for R and I. Our names and birthdays all smushed together on the thin strip of paper. Mine above his. It reminds me of when we flew to Arizona nearly seven years ago, my first time meeting his extended family. I can still see the reservation information, our names hovering over one another. The warmth that swelled in my chest then. The love I already knew I felt. Literally the night we met, I couldn’t shake the sensation that we’d known one another for years, decades, eons. It felt like communion and collaboration and cohesion. I’ve always known that he was a piece of my soul, a part of me. I can’t stop smiling at our names on our wrist bands. Our souls constantly intertwined as we continue to move through our life.
We sit quietly and wait for the tech to come out and get me to do the blood draw. When my name is called, I hand R my stuff and in I go. I know this means almost nothing. They check the blood levels, but since they don’t get the results back till well after the transfer, it is more for continued data gathering and won’t affect the plan. The needle slides in and for once I barely feel it. My heart is too wired up to focus on anything else. The blood draw is over and the tech wraps my arm with the bandage a little too tight. I make a mental note to loosen it later. She ushers me back to the waiting room. R reads an article about baseball on his phone and I try not to drink any more water. It’s not so much that I am thirsty but I want something to do. I am skittish and excited, the energy within me bouncing all over the place. Finally, a scrubs-clad nurse comes out and calls my name.
We follow her back into the same corridor I’ve gone down for so many other procedures that haven’t been this. I know where I am going, but realize R doesn’t. I look back to make sure he’s still with us and smile. He’s looking at the giant images of embryos and flowers framed on the wall. He is smiling at them. I can see him looking into the future. His wide grin giving away how excited he is. How hopeful. I feel the same. We are led back to a large room with a chair covered in PPE and a large window.
After we are inside, the nurse has me sign a few forms and hands us a photo of our embryo. This is after we began to thaw her, she’s perfect. Just like a little strawberry, the nurse says. My eyes well with tears. She is perfect, and strawberries are my favorite fruit. My heart wants this so badly and everything feels like it’s aligning. It’s hard not to think that this will work. Hard not to get swept into the river. But maybe that is the point. Maybe this time, I need to believe with every particle of my being. Maybe I need to know in order for her to know, she belongs with us.
Outside the window I can see the mountains in the distance. They are tall but not foreboding, majestic without being overbearing. My heart feels light, happy, and calm. This dream is already mine, I tell myself. I smile and smile and get changed into the gown, split open in the back.
Part of me thinks about all the times I’ve put this gown on for other reasons. For surgeries, for the hysteroscopy, for the biopsy, for the egg retrievals. The fabric is old and worn. And yet it is still soft, still there. Just like me. I pull on the non-slip socks, and the hair mask. This is it. We are finally here.
We crack the door to signal to the nurse that we are ready to go. Within a few seconds a new nurse comes in, checks the names on our wrist bands and leads us into the room where the transfer will take place. It’s the same room both of my egg retrievals and the hysteroscopy took place. It’s a little weird to be here without the anesthesiologist. Every time I’ve been in this room, he’s there with his mundane conversations that make me feel safe. Now instead, R sits on the stool next to the table. He is the one grounding me now. The nurse has me lay on the table and uses the ultrasound tool on my belly. We’ve never done an abdominal ultrasound before and it feels so weird to me. She tells me my bladder is too full (figures) and I need to empty it a little. She hands me a cup and says, fill this up and then do half a cup more. What. Stop midstream, are you insane. My bladder feels like it’s ripping through me and I have no idea how I am going to manage this.
The full bladder is to help compress the uterus so they can see everything more easily (how, I don’t know nor do I understand). I walk over to the bathroom and I realize this is going to be a lot harder than I thought. As my butt touches the seat, the pee already starts to flow. I feel like I barely have control as I quickly start to fill up the cup. Within a couple seconds, it’s full. I clench everything I can to stop the stream. A bit dribbles out. I pour out the cup and let myself continue. I fill the cup again half way and stop. This is possibly the hardest physical thing I’ve ever had to do. It takes every ounce of strength to convince my body to stop peeing and stand up. I manage to do it without making a mess or totally emptying my bladder. This kind of shocks me. I have more control than I expected. I head back to the room, hoping that lying down doesn’t trigger my body to pee more.
The nurse checks my bladder again and says we are good to go. She disappears behind a door and for a moment, R and I stare at each other. This is it. This is really it. My doctor and the nurse emerge from behind the far door and leaves it open. Behind her is the embryology tech we spoke with earlier sitting at a station with a large microscope. The large screen on the wall opposite me blinks to life. Our embryo appears in a solution. That’s her. I squeeze R’s hand. Everyone keeps telling us how she is a perfect embryo. Really, really good. I feel weirdly proud. My body, which hasn’t been able to create anything thus far helped make something wonderful. Our doctor walks us through all the steps and asks if we have any questions. We don’t.
She gets ready and in goes the catheter. I had some mild trepidation about this, since every time they’ve previously put anything through my cervix, I’ve damn near leapt off the table. But today, I feel nothing but pressure (the valium, my doctor prescribed me, probably helped). The doctor directs our attention to the little screen next to me. She points out where the wand is within my cervix and says, here we go.
Everything is moving in real time, but I am seeing it, experiencing it slower. We watch the embryo get sucked up into the catheter on the large screen. We turn our attention to the small monitor. A bright light flies into my uterus. A shooting star. I make a wish.
They freeze the screen on that moment and take out the catheter. All done, our doctor exclaims. They all wish us luck and then leave. I’m told to continue laying on my back for about five minutes and then someone will come in and let me get up to pee. I stare up at ceiling. The dimmed lights make everything feel ethereal and not real. Tears start to roll down my face. It happened. In the blink of an eye and the span of so, so many years. Now our little embryo was inside my body, hopefully burrowing her way into my uterus, finding her nine-ish month home. R kisses and squeezes me. It’s real, I can’t believe it’s real, he says. We hold one another. Our private moment lingering forever.
Eventually, the nurse comes back in and tells me I can get up and go pee. I feel weirdly full. I know it’s because of my bladder, but also just knowing our baby is somewhere inside me feels like magic. I pee and head back to the room we were in beforehand.
I get changed and somehow things feel exactly the same and forever different. R and I hold one another and I cry more. I am happy beyond words. I have all the faith in the world in our embryo. Our perfect little collection of cells. I never knew love could feel like this. Unconditional and wild.
When we get in the car to drive home, I get woozy and begin to drift. The warm sun is baking in through the window and the cool air from the vents blows in my face. It reminds me of being at the beach. It reminds me of being in the mountains. It reminds me of home. The last thing I hear before I slough off into sleep is R say, Finally, we are bringing her home.
It’s wild to me that often through these Substack letters I’ve been writing through the course of several days, sometimes even months, but this one just focused in on one day. One morning actually. Time is a funny thing. The way it bends and moves in our minds. How we create, deconstruct, and recreate our memories. Each moment is sacred.
I hope you’ve been learning a lot of about the trials and complications of infertility and IVF. Something I’ve discovered in going through this experience is that folks often say something incredibly insensitive or uninformed when talking to those of us in the IVF journey. I hope that by reading these notes you’ve gained insight to be kind, gentle, and mindful in your communications and actions with those you meet/know going through the process. It’s scary. It’s hard. It’s expensive. It’s emotionally turbulent. And yet, we are still going forward, still moving in the direction we think is right. I hope these letters have helped you see that struggle, that pain, and the little joys within.
With love and light,
E
What an amazing description of what is such a magical day. Thank you for sharing.
Just the absolute best!!! 💓💓💓💓💓