I had a meltdown yesterday.
Unexpectedly, the embryologist called to confirm, again, that none of our remaining embryos were good enough for freezing. That I knew. I took the opportunity to ask about the quality of my eggs and she said that yes, they were developing a little slower than normal. Again, that I knew.
The kicker was when she said, well, let’s hope for the best and Dr Y will advise you on your protocol for the next cycle.
Do you hear that? It’s the sound of my heart breaking into tiny little pieces and the embryologist crushing them with her feet callously.
She might as well have said outright YOUR EGGS SUCK, PRESS THE BUTTON AND TRY AGAIN.
I burst into tears immediately after I hung up the phone.
But it turned out fine.
Because once the tears had dried, I decided that there was no point being all sad and mopey about it. Yes, Bryan and Bryna, bless their little underdog status, may decide that Camp Womb is a great place to stay in for the next nine months. But there is also a greater possibility that they won’t. I can’t put all my eggs in one basket – pardon the pun – and hope that one of them will stick. I can cry a little, mourn our inability to get pregnant just like that but at the end of the day, I cannot and will not let myself get stuck in the trenches of depression and guilt.
Sure, the Universe may be screwing around with us. Yes, it’s been a hellish journey. I am 30, look 50 and feel 60.
But you know what, I’m not going to give up and go running back to my mama crying just because my reproductive bits are not functioning as they should and some random cosmic lottery dictates that we are not meant for the easy shag-and-reproduce way out.
If it’s a fight you want, it’s a fucking fight you are gonna get.
I’m just one step away from what I want and I will do whatever it takes to get my damned happily ever after, no matter what form it takes.