I Picked a Bad Day to Quit Sniffing Glue
With retrieval behind us, I was able to shift my obsessive laser focus attention on the embryo transfer. Over the last couple days, Matt and I have discussed (or really agonized) at length how many embryos we wanted to transfer. We vacillated back and forth, pro'ed and con'ed it to death. It's Sophie's Choice over here.
At my initial consultation, my dr. indicated that with my age and health, he would consider transferring two maybe even just one. That was part of what sealed the deal between us (and the fact the the bathroom felt like a spa). When we started down the rabbit hole of infertility treatment, we decided that we wanted to minimize our chances of multiples. It seemed like the sane thing to do.
Now don't get me wrong, I love twins. I mean really, really love them. Afterall, I am a twin, and it has been one of the greatest joys of my life. But I am also a very selfish and self-preserving twin and cannot foresee raising two babies in New York City without the support of extended family or a small army of hired help, neither of which is available to us. I know that if I had them, I would man-up and make it work, but if those odds could be lowered than I could breath easier. But then we started to consider the fragility of those little embryos all alone in a cold lab. And the statistics weren't very promising. I also wanted to maximize the odds of those 45+ needle sticks paying off with a real live baby. This being our first IVF, we have not reached total desparation. But it was still a tough decision. My gut wasn't giving me much guidance beyond urging me to make for the nearest bucket into which I could toss my cookies. A great deal of time, resources and subcutaneous tissue had been invested in these last 5 weeks, and were we really so naive to think we could just throw one up there and hope for the best?
Yep, we were. Naive optimism carried the day. After consulting with the attending who was doing the transfer, we, nervously and with a great deal of apprehension, went with door number 1. We still have two weeks before we will know if there is a goat or a baby behind that door.
At my initial consultation, my dr. indicated that with my age and health, he would consider transferring two maybe even just one. That was part of what sealed the deal between us (and the fact the the bathroom felt like a spa). When we started down the rabbit hole of infertility treatment, we decided that we wanted to minimize our chances of multiples. It seemed like the sane thing to do.
Now don't get me wrong, I love twins. I mean really, really love them. Afterall, I am a twin, and it has been one of the greatest joys of my life. But I am also a very selfish and self-preserving twin and cannot foresee raising two babies in New York City without the support of extended family or a small army of hired help, neither of which is available to us. I know that if I had them, I would man-up and make it work, but if those odds could be lowered than I could breath easier. But then we started to consider the fragility of those little embryos all alone in a cold lab. And the statistics weren't very promising. I also wanted to maximize the odds of those 45+ needle sticks paying off with a real live baby. This being our first IVF, we have not reached total desparation. But it was still a tough decision. My gut wasn't giving me much guidance beyond urging me to make for the nearest bucket into which I could toss my cookies. A great deal of time, resources and subcutaneous tissue had been invested in these last 5 weeks, and were we really so naive to think we could just throw one up there and hope for the best?
Yep, we were. Naive optimism carried the day. After consulting with the attending who was doing the transfer, we, nervously and with a great deal of apprehension, went with door number 1. We still have two weeks before we will know if there is a goat or a baby behind that door.
Comments
Post a Comment