Geriatric ovaries, which was only written a week ago, now seems decades ago. It would seem that my old girls came through in the end. The scan showed 17 follicles chilling out in there with 13 at a really good size! After that, things progressed really quickly.
Here is me on egg collection day:
8 mature eggs were collected, which is not bad. ICSI would be performed that very afternoon and then we would receive a phone call from the embryologist the next morning. Start popping those vaginal pessaries twice a day I was instructed. Discharged.
Things were looking hopeful. With 8 potentials, we could dream that I would fall pregnant on this round and then have some babes left over to freeze. This would save me going through all the needles, vag scans and more egg collection procedures for the next try.
It was exactly 10:00am when we got the call. Joy and I were still in bed, he was watching the news but not really watching the news. I was reading a book but not really reading the book. Several times, I had checked that my phone was off silent and that it was still working. Joy did his toilet routine in record time for fear of missing the call. I hadn’t left the bed.
Only two eggs were fertilised out of the 8 the embryologist informed us. Very quickly, our dream was put to rest. It’s still ok, it’s not bad I remember us telling eachother. It is still better than one or even worse, none.
Noone really talks about this part. The part, where you have to wait 24 hours (17 if you minus sleep time) for a 5 minute call to tell you if your embryos have survived another night. The fact that we had only two remaining, made me possibly lose my mind a tad bit. I became obsessed, reading up anything about embryo quality. I knew what fragmentation meant and how many cell divisions should be happening by day to indicate a good quality embryo. I was desperately trying to predict their chances of survival. I didn’t get anywhere by the way or feel any better.
The embryologist called the next day at 10:28am. Both had survived. But one was growing slowly and the other had stopped growing. So the clinic advised that I come in that same afternoon to pop both embies in to my womb. It is a really low success rate, the embryologist warned us.
In the IVF world, the days following fertilisation of an egg are important. Today was day 3. Now the ideal day for a transfer to happen is really day 5 as this has statistically shown better live birth rates. But, day 3 transfers do happen when one or both of the following criteria is met: A) the embryo quality is not great (that’s us) or B) if there are not many embryos (also us). So we were ideal candidates for a day 3 transfer.
The transfer itself is bloody awful. No sedation, full bladder with legs up in stirrups. The Dr also tilted the bed angle so that I felt like I was sliding headfirst off the bed while my vag and ass was up in his face. And just incase the Dr couldn’t see all that was going on, he also shone a light directly on to my private bits. Lovely. But, at least I didn’t pee on him. Once done, my consultant took his gloves off, washed his hands and simply said ‘good luck’ before disappearing out of sight. Presumably out one of the doors, I wouldn’t know as I was still hanging upside down.
The embryologist then handed me a pee tube (once I was dressed and the right way up) with the instructions to test in 14 days and to self isolate until this time. Continue popping those vaginal pessaries too she says.
So now we wait. Joy, myself and our two poorly embryos.