Holding out Hope

This two-week wait has been a rough road peppered with land mines. The end of it is near, and I'm not sure I like where it leads. Right now, all signs -- or lack thereof -- point to nowhere good. Still, I'm trying to keep my eyes on the road and pressing on, because I guess I know somewhere deep down (and therefore not always accessible by my overactive mind) that even if I'm not there yet, I may be headed in the right direction.

Two weeks after they put real, live, fully-formed embryos in my uterus, I feel absolutely nothing. Nada. I have heard countless women tell me that they, too, had no symptoms and dreaded the call from the nurse after their test -- but turned out to be pregnant. I have saved those friends' emails and read them obsessively, poring over every word like a heartsick teenager with a text-messaged love confession from her crush. But these messages from real people who have achieved real pregnancies do nothing to appease my growing sense of doom. Logically, I hear what they're saying. But logic can never shut the other part -- the worrying part -- of my brain up. Did they really not have one little inkling that something was going on? Couldn't I just have a sore boob for good measure? A little nausea for hope's sake?

Along the way, it appears I've been tested by the infertility imps just looking for a poor sucker to prey upon. That cute gifts catalogue I thought would be filled with unique holiday ideas? Also contained a baby onesie that read, "I was worth the wait." After I recovered from that hysterical crying jag I went into my office to search for something and found, instead, the stuffed dinosaur I bought when I thought this would be easy, because it was the softest toy in the land and I thought my baby should own it. Apparently, nowhere is safe for the infertile anymore -- not even her own house.

Another thing that was not helpful was my co-worker bursting into the cubicle where I was talking with a colleague and waving around the card she got for the birth of her granddaughter, which featured a disturbing photo of a baby's head being held by two hands, taken from the top of the head (Note to everyone I know: If I ever find myself holding a baby that is mine and am lucky enough to get a congratulations card from you, please do not pick the one featuring one or more babies in unnatural or vaguely humiliating positions or outfits. This includes being dressed up like flowers or animals. This practice is not okay and to my mind should be banned by law.). I'm not sure what her point was in showing this to us, although my sensitive/vaguely human side does see that one might be excited about a granddaughter. But still. I just really, really do not need to be reminded about my infertility while I'm at work trying to forget about it. Can we all agree to that? Yeah, thanks.

The other award for unhelpfulness goes to Dr. Google. Sure, doctor, you are always there -- 24/7 I know I can count on you when I want to fulfill my sick urges to search for "no symptoms after IVF" or "can you push out your embryos by coughing." You tell me what I want to hear, but my friends have told me you're unreliable. They question where your ivy league diploma is. So I'm quitting you. For now.

So here I am, somewhat exhausted by these two weeks and, in a way, just thankful that the wait will soon be over. On Monday morning, I will find out whether my first IVF, the thing that was supposed to be the holy grail, my golden ticket to motherhood, worked. So much depends on a positive beta. I don't know what life looks like beyond a negative, and I don't want to know. I don't know what there will be to hold on to. So for now -- for tonight and tomorrow -- I am holding out hope.