![]() ![]() My husband suggests it might be the hormones “evening out”, and I want to punch him in the face. The procedure goes well, and I feel relief when it is over. I feel bad for the poor couple waiting who sees me. I walk down the hall of the fertility clinic, silent and crying. My husband holds me, but I want to get out of this room. I imagine all of the heartbeats that have stopped, all of the tissue boxes, all of the glasses of water to fetch. Am I sure I don’t want a glass of water? I say sure, I’ll take one, but only for her, because she seems like she’d really like to get me one. The technician is done and asks if I’d like a glass of water. I thought I was over the major hurdles: retrieving healthy eggs, fertilizing the embryos, growing to day 5, completing a successful transfer. I thought about the perfect timing and the age difference with my two year old. If you go through IVF and get a positive pregnancy test, you should not be allowed to miscarry. I endured eight weeks of pain and shots and worry and tears and bloating and hormones and blood-work and waiting, waiting, waiting. The baby, no bigger than a blueberry, is no longer alive. “I need to take some more measurements, just another minute or so and I’ll be done,” she says. I’ve been through two rounds of IVF I’ve had over twenty ultrasounds. I look down, and she’s right, there is a box of tissues on the table. “There is a box of tissues on the table next to you,” she says, and I realize I’m crying. My uterus looks like a black and white movie of the bottom of the ocean. She shifts the screen, so I can see for myself. ![]() I spent the entire weekend visualizing the beat getting stronger. It was a slow heartbeat, but it was so early. ![]() There was a heartbeat on Thursday, five days ago. She should have looked around more before this declaration. She moves the probe around and speaks right away. I stare at her face, illuminated in light, searching for clues. The room is dark, the only light coming from the technician’s screen, which I cannot see. “I’m just having a little trouble seeing this clearly.” He switches off the lamp. He fumbles with the lamp he can’t find the switch. “Can you please turn off that lamp next to you?” the ultrasound technician points at a lamp next to my husband. My legs are in stirrups, the probe inside of me. I am in one of the small, sterile ultrasound rooms at the fertility clinic. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |