The Shattered Hope
The Torturous 5 Day Wait
Day 0
I was shocked by how much hope I felt when I saw the number 16 written on my hand.
It was like a rush of endorphins; the warm, delicious sensation ran through my body and I relished it. I’d forgotten how GOOD hope felt. It felt so nice, so comforting, so energising yet calming – so addictive. I could get used to this.
I’d once read that HOPE is necessary in this journey, that that is the only reason we continue. But I had scoffed at that; I was in denial, but I wouldn’t admit it. I tried to stay cold and stoic.
“I’m only doing this for closure,” I’d staunchly say to myself, as if articulating the words out loud would convince my little fragile, hopeful heart.
Hope hid deep in the crevices of my soul. It was smarter than me. It knew that if it exposed itself that I would crush it, so it laid low until the time was right to emerge, and when it did, the sensation was so sweet that I wondered why I had suppressed it in the first place – the feeling so delicious that it filled all the cracks in my soul.
“This is my time,” I thought, “I FINALLY feel hope. That must be a good sign.”
That afternoon I got the call from the scientist. He informed me that only 12 out of the 16 eggs were mature enough to try to fertilise. I thanked him and hung up the phone. HOPE still clung tightly. 12 was good right? I’d never had that many before! I was finally making some headway.
I slept well that night.
Hope was a great snuggler- it kept me cozy and warm – and I wasn’t cheating on my husband because he was snuggling with hope as well.
Day 1
Hope was nice enough to stay around for coffee that morning. I was relishing the company. But then the scientist called and Hope suddenly disappeared. There was no “Thank you for the coffee” or “You’re a great snuggler” – there was NOTHING. I blinked back angry, resentful tears as the scientist delivered the news.
“I’m afraid I have bad news. Only 2 of your eggs survived the night. The other eggs were not very good quality and did not fertilise,” she said sadly.
I’m sure this scientist delivers bad news EVERY day, over and over and over again. I was impressed that she still had empathy in her voice.
I searched frantically for Hope but it was nowhere to be found. I was so angry that I had let it come back into my life. I should have known better. I should have protected myself against its delicious addictive presence. I started to weep bitter tears.
Had I gone through all this for nothing?
Had I spent $10,000 for nothing?
Had I suffered physical and emotional pain for nothing?
Had I taken all my leave from work for nothing?
Had I felt hope for nothing?
Or perhaps Hope has nothing to do with it. It just is what it is. You have no control over the outcome. What happens happens. Your feelings of positivity or hope truly have NO effect on the outcome, though some people try to convince you otherwise. I could tell that I was sliding back into my old ways – resenting hope for making me feel warm, loved and safe.
The next few days were indescribable torture.
Each morning I’d wake up full of anxiety, waiting for the phone call from the scientist, preparing myself for bad news.
Day 2
They call me at 07:30am.
“Your two embryos are still alive,” they say. I breathe a sigh of relief and try desperately to keep myself distracted for the rest of the day.
I still have 3 days to go. I feel like the suspense is going to kill me.
Day 3
They don’t call me until 10am.
Time warps -it slows down.
Each minute is torturous.
I stare anxiously at my phone, willing it to ring with the invisible powers of my mind.
It FINALLY rings.
My heart is beating outside of my chest and I feel as though I am going to have a panic attack.
“Your 2 embryos are still multiplying,” the scientist reports,” they have 6-7 cells now.”
I exhale the pent-up tension. I feel like I can breathe again.
My husband and I go to the movies and then we go for a walk. We have to keep ourselves distracted or else we are going to lose our minds. Talking about it only seems to make things worse.
Day 4
“Your 2 embryos are still splitting and the cells have now become compacted, which is what we want to see,” they report, “It looks like you will have an embryo for egg transfer tomorrow.”
I blink in surprise. Did I just see Hope peeking around the corner? It’s shyly waving at me with a cheeky grin.
“NO!” I yell at it, “You snuggled with me ALL night and then you LEFT me! I’m afraid you will do that again. I can’t risk it. My heart is too fragile.”
Hope is not scared off or offended. It inches a bit closer. I can feel its radiating warmth.
“But honey,” it says gently, “You know that’s what I do. I come. I go. You knew that when you invited me into your heart and into your soul. You knew the terms and the conditions. You knew the risks.”
My lip starts to quiver. It gently wraps its arms around me as I start to falter. The hug just feels SO good. Perhaps I can sit with it a little bit longer. I lean into it’s softness. I let it linger. I mean, what’s the harm?
Day 5
I drive to the clinic without hearing from the scientist. I assume that’s a good sign. Surely they would have called me if the eggs (embryos) had died overnight.
With this last cycle the scientists did what is called ICSI and HIMMS. They looked through their fanciest microscope and picked the best quality sperm to give us the highest chance of success. They also stripped the outer membrane of my eggs to look at egg quality, and from what they told me, it wasn’t good.
When I finally see the doctor he is shaking his head sadly again.
“We tried everything,” he said, “and yet your egg quality was not good. I am sorry to say that your endometriosis has caused such severe damage to your ovaries that it has damaged your eggs.”
I want to burst into tears, but I bite my lip stoically. That means no “stash of frosties” after all – the one thing we had hoped for.
As for my two remaining eggs, only one has grown to a “Day 5 blastocyst” (meaning it’s at a stage that could be frozen). The other egg is lagging behind and not looking as good.
I feel so torn, but I choose to freeze the good embryo and put the “slow growing” one in. I try my best to stay positive and hopeful, as I’ve had friends who have had success with “poor quality” eggs, but I have this sick feeling that it probably wouldn’t work.
The scientist and the doctor say that this embryo might continue to split/grow or it could die overnight. They have no idea. It could go either way.
We do the embryo transfer and I drive home in a very sullen state. At least I have one frozen embryo out of this cycle. This is now my 3rd fresh transfer, but I’ve read that women with moderate-severe endometriosis have higher chances of success with frozen cycles.
But this time is different, I try to remind myself. I’m on steroids and having intralipid infusions; perhaps this time it might actually work. Against my better judgment I allow Hope to linger a bit longer.
I now have to survive the “2 Week Wait from Hell”. Once again, I feel like I am in an endless loop of torture.
I am becoming numb – my affect flat.
My husband, on the other hand, is engulfed by hopelessness; every morning he cries before going to work. He’s starting to allow himself to grieve and his sobs break my heart. Every morning I hug him from behind, as he sobs into his hands.
I have nothing to say, as nothing will help, but I don’t cry myself.
I guess I am saving those tears for two weeks from now – for when I receive that dreaded phone call.
