Buns in the Oven

I was a bit of a late bloomer myself. My first bona fide boyfriend arrived on the scene at about 16, and I didn't start getting really good grades until college. So it comes as no surprise that the two embryos they transferred yesterday are slow growers -- six cells each, to be exact. But you know, those embies are 6 cells going on 6000. I can just feel it. I hope to confirm this with my pregnancy test on the 24th (let me just reiterate my call for more advanced technology allowing for earlier post-fertility treatment pregnancy tests...come on, genius scientists across the world). In the meantime, all I can do is wait. And obsess (Can I go to the bathroom? Cough? Laugh? Are they still in there?). And obsess some more.

There are a number of ways I can look at this. The doctor who did my transfer yesterday did not seem concerned by the slow growth, and cited a couple of times the "excellent" pregnancy rates the clinic has for my age group. And I have heard and read several times now the fact that perfect looking embryos do not always produce babies and by the same token, imperfect looking embryos often do. No one seems to be at all gloom and doom about this news -- but me.

The problem is, we now have a photo. Before I got over my mental and physical stumbling blocks and did this IVF cycle, it felt like I had nothing but a wing and a prayer going into the two-week wait and, when those cycles failed, dashed hopes and despair for the intangible loss. But now, there is a photo. I can see what they've put inside of me, and it is real. And if it/they do not stick, it will mean the loss of that something real.

It's not that I wish I had refused the photo. The realness of it also means that the opportunity here -- the chance for something real to develop from all of this effort -- is that much greater. Plus, don't tell me you don't think it would be cool to show future children what they looked like in a petri dish. It brings a whole new dimension to parental guilt trips ("I have been looking after your wellbeing since you were just six cells!"), doesn't it?

So the wait has begun. Some moments I think it seems like an eternity; others, not so bad. Some moments bring hope; others, pessimism. And while I can look at the photo of my little six-cell slow bloomers for inspiration, I can also look at my post-embryo transfer discharge sheet for some comic relief:

"Progesterone: Crinone - one application per vagina tonight. Tomorrow change to morning administration."

(I don't know about you, but one is about all I can handle these days.)