I didn't sleep on Tuesday night. I knew I had to wake up and call the embryologist to find out how many out of the 13 eggs retrieved actually fertilized. The last time I did this, I was naive. I was excited to call. I had 22 eggs, I just assumed I'd have 18 embryos to choose from. Silly girl.
This time I was wise. I didn't get my hopes up. I'm getting really good at lowering my expectations so that I'm never disappointed. Actually, I'm pretty sure my therapist would tell me that's not healthy. I should probably work on that.
Either way, I was a nervous wreck to call. I was surprised when she answered the phone after only a few rings. I told her who I was and that I was calling to get my fertilization results. She sounded upbeat when she heard my name. I always try to read the nurse's tone of voice on the other end.
Every time I've gotten a negative blood pregnancy test, I can tell just by the way they say "Hi Heather..." They could literally hang up the phone without saying anything else and I'd know with confidence that it was negative.
This time I heard a positive and light tone on the other end. She informed me that out of the 13 eggs that were retrieved, 10 of them were mature. Out of those 10, all 10 of them fertilized. I immediately started to cry with relief.
We have 10 embryos? Literally every one of them fertilized? I'm so used to hearing negative news that I didn't know what to do with it. She said that they look good and we're going to proceed with a Day 5 blastocyst transfer. Last cycle we did a Day 3 embryo transfer, which there is nothing wrong with, but a blastocyst transfer ups your odds a bit.
So it's Thursday evening and I have until Sunday morning to prepare myself for one or two of those blastocysts to make themselves at home in my uterus.
The other day an ultrasound nurse told me that if she were a baby she would for sure want my uterus to be her home. That's literally the highest compliment someone could pay me at this point. Never would I have pictured being flattered by someone telling me my uterine lining looked inviting. But there I was, flattered. I was basically blushing. Pathetic.
So between now and Sunday, Michael and I have to seriously think about whether we're transferring one or two blastocysts. When we had only two viable embryos last cycle, we didn't think twice. We transferred both without batting an eyelash. Now that we're learning how high the odds are of both blasts implanting, now we actually have to put some thought into this.
Call me naive. Call me an idiot. But, I think I'd be okay with twins. I don't doubt for one second that it would be twice as hard as one. I don't doubt that it would be a challenge, but I'm up for it. Give me one baby. Give me two babies. Just give me babies.
My concern is triplets. What happens if we transfer two and one of the two splits into identical twins? There's a reason they say three's a crowd. I genuinely don't know if I could handle three. I mean I'd do it. I'd figure it out. But, man, that is a commitment.
Michael and I decided to wait until Sunday to talk to our doctor. We agreed to make a well-informed, unemotional decision depending on the quality of the blasts.
Then this morning I was making breakfast. I cracked open an egg and there it was. TWO yolks. I've never cracked and egg containing two yolks before. Immediately we saw this as the sign we were looking for. We were jumping up and down like assholes saying, "OKAY, WE'RE TRANSFERRING TWO!!"
So much for an unemotional, well-informed decision. We now put our fate in the hands of egg yolks. Oh well, what could go wrong? We kissed and smiled, giddy about our new decision to transfer two blastocysts while I cracked the second egg.
As two yolks fell out of the second egg into the skillet, forming what would appear to be quadruplets, we immediately abandoned our rash, egg yolk based decision. We'll just sleep on it.