Of those 12 beautiful little eggs that were retrieved, all 12 were mature and 11 fertilized with ICSI! I cannot tell you how thrilling this is to a couple whose first IVF fert report found us with 9 retrieved, 5 mature and 4 fertilized. And the good keeps getting, um, "gooder". As of today all 11 are still growing and dividing: 1 5-cell, 6 4-cell, 2 3-cell and 2 2-cell! Usually I'm all for unity but in this case, DIVIDE, baby! DIVIDE! Assuming there isn't mass cellular mutiny in the next 12 hours we're looking at a 5 day transfer on Saturday. For the very first time, this afternoon I thought of those photos of expanding blasts that some women show off after transfer - and I imagined them to be mine. It never occurred to me until now that those could be *our* embryos; healthy, dividing, numerous embryos. But I'm starting to hope - to reasonably hope - that they will be.
For some reason I expected to feel myself again after ER. I expected the bloat to subside, my energy to soar, my brain cells to flourish. Afterall, with IVF #1 I was pretty much a-ok within 24 hours. But then with IVF #1 my post-retrieval cocktail included: Crinone 1xday. Not much of a cocktail, really. More of a slimey, discharge-y scotch on the rocks, hold the rocks. This cycle, on the other hand, the cocktail includes: PIO, progesterone suppositories, 3 estrogen patches swapped out every 3 days, Zithromax, Methylprednisolone, baby aspirin (cherry flavored - yum!), Metformin and the 7 other pills I take daily. Not so much a "cocktail" as a garbage can punch served at a frat party. And most of the time I feel like I've been drinking said punch. A lot of it.
Me. And not just the bloat and the PIO targets drawn in Sharpie on my ass. No, the ugly is more a state of mind. And unfortunately, this state of mind has been unleashed more on my darling husband than anyone else. I might be sitting peacefully, thinking delightful thoughts about what a caring, kind man I have, but if at that moment he walks into the room my mouth takes over, erupting and shouting about one thing or another. And just like PMS, regardless of my ability to acknowledge my cruelty and to apologize incessantly, I am completely powerless to stop. Thankfully this good, kind man is understanding, even soothing while I rage - always understanding and patient. The bastard.