flipflop_diva

I stand in the deserted aisle of the Walgreens, staring blankly at the shelves before me. I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. Panic is welling up inside me. My brain has too many thoughts to be able to handle them all.

I wish someone — anyone — could just drop in from the sky and give me a hint of what is going to happen.

But what if they give me bad news?

The rows of pregnancy tests seem to be toying with me. There really aren’t all that many different kinds, but I’ve picked up every box, read every word on those boxes and put them all back, even though the past year has given me more than enough opportunities to know exactly what they say.

My hand hovers above a pink box — a First Response early detection test — but my brain can’t decide if it should tell my fingers to grab it or not.

The thoughts whirl faster. If I’m pregnant, isn’t it better to know now, rather than wait until Tuesday? That’s four days more to be excited, to tell a few select people, to not have the weight of not knowing. Four more days to not be so scared that it’s a no.

My hand touches the smooth surface of the box.

But what if it’s a no? Is it better to know now than to be heartbroken on Tuesday afternoon? Or is it better to spend the next three days at least thinking — and feeling — that maybe, just maybe, there is a chance? Do I really want that hope to die today?

My hand drops to my side. I’ve been in this Walgreens, in this aisle, in this very spot, for what feels like forever. It’s been at least fifteen minutes. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know …

•••

It’s been three months since I got the phone call that broke my heart.

“None of your embryos are viable,” the lab technician at the IVF clinic had said that December day, and I had choked back the tears before thanking her and hanging up.

It’s been six weeks since we started IVF attempt number two. This time, I was more prepared. This time I had read what seemed like every article on the internet about how to maybe make those pesky eggs inside me more viable.

It’s been four months since I have had any caffeine, including chocolate (which, for anyone who knows me, knows this is saying a lot). It’s been four months since I have had any alcohol, since I have had any artificial sweeteners. I’ve cut back on processed foods, cut back on dessert, eaten a lot more salads.

The first round of IVF there were three shots a day. This time there were five. There were more blood tests, too. More ultrasounds.

There has also been less hope this time around. More fear. Last time, I was positive it would work. I figured out the due date as soon as we started the process.

This time, I’ve been too scared to get my hopes up. Too afraid to even imagine what possibly could be. This is my last chance. We can’t afford to do this again. What if it doesn’t work?

It’s been four weeks since the egg retrieval surgery. Four weeks since an anonymous lab technician fertilized our eggs in a petri dish. The first time we did IVF we had four embryos make it all the way to the genetic testing part of the process. This time we had six.

And this time, when the lab technician called me, and I answered the phone with shaky hands and instant nausea, the words she said were much different.

“You have two normal embryos,” she said, and this time it was happy tears I didn’t try to hold back.

Two embryos. Two chances. A boy and a girl.

•••

I can’t take it anymore. The walls of this Walgreens seem to be closing in. All I can hear is the little voice in the back of my mind telling me not to be hopeful. My hands clench into fists, and I turn away from the pregnancy tests, rushing out of the store and back to the car.

I can’t face bad news. Not right now. Not yet.

I confess to my husband later that night, about how I stood in that Walgreens and panicked over what to do.

“You should just take the test,” he says, like it shouldn’t even be a question. “I’ll buy you one tomorrow.”

•••

The egg transfer part of IVF is a lot easier than the egg retrieval part. There are only two ultrasounds instead of seven or eight. The injections are only once every three days instead of every morning and night. Mostly it’s just estrogen pills, three times a day, and a progesterone insert every morning.

The egg transfer itself is a lot more fun than the egg retrieval part. There’s no anesthesia, no surgery, no pain medication needed.

We show up at noon on a Sunday afternoon and are led to a room. I change into the hospital gown provided, while my husband puts one over his clothes. The embryologist comes in with a picture of our embroyo. ‘Embryo #5’ is written across the top.

“Do you want to know the sex?” the embryologist asks. We tell him we want to know after the transfer is complete. I don’t quite have the words to explain how knowing before somehow feels like cheating.

A few minutes later we are being led to the back of the surgery center, and I’m taking my position on the table in the middle of the room. A huge screen hanging on the wall lights up, and we watch as the embryologist, in the next room, sucks our microscopic embryo — blown up on the video screen so we can see it clearly — into a catheter.

“The magic of science,” I whisper, in awe.

The embryologist enters the room we’re in. He hands the catheter to our doctor. We turn our attention to the screen on the ultrasound machine that’s by my feet. We watch as our doctor places the embryo in the exact right position in my uterus.

And just like that it’s over. I get up, and we walk back down the hall. I change back into my regular clothes. The embryologist pops his head back in once I’m done.

“Do you still want to know?” he says.

“Yes!” we answer in unison.

“It’s a girl!” he says, and my heart warms in a way it never has before.

•••

The pregnancy tests, still wrapped inside the Target bag, sit on the table. David, who came home with four of them, is in the other room playing video games on his computer. I’m on my laptop, trying to write an email, but I can’t think about anything else.

It’s been six days since the embryo transfer. There are still three days until I’m supposed to go to the lab to get an official blood test. The results of that test will be sent to my IVF nurse and doctor. They’ll call to tell me the results. Pregnant. Or not pregnant.

I’ve been following the advice of anyone and everyone who has ever gone through IVF and written blogs about it. Don’t eat cold food, some say; drink a lot of hot beverages. Eat a slice of grilled pineapple every day, others say. Make sure you take lots of walk, people advise.

I wish someone — anyone — could just drop in from the sky and give me a hint of what is going to happen.

But what if they give me bad news?

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I grab the bag off the table and race upstairs. I don’t tell my husband I’m going. He doesn’t need to worry the way I’m worrying.

I lock myself into the bathroom and pick out the First Response test I had stared at forever back in Walgreens. This one is the most sensitive. If I’m pregnant, it will tell me.

My hands are shaking so much I almost drop the box. I manage to open it and cut the wrapper off one of the tests and pull out the little white stick.

I take the test and close my eyes. I want to know, but I don’t want to know. I have no idea what the future is going to hold.

But I can’t wait. I open my eyes, stare down at the test.

Two lines.

Two beautiful little lines. One is faint, barely there. But it’s there.

Pregnant.

I race downstairs, test in hand.

“It’s positive!” I tell David, tears in my eyes. “I’m pregnant!”

•••

Three days later, on Tuesday afternoon, around one o’clock, my IVF nurse, Lisa, calls me. The lab results from that morning’s round of bloodwork is in.

“Congratulations,” she says. “You’re pregnant!”

I hang up the phone and text David to tell him it’s official. I tell my sister, my best friends, my parents. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so happy.

Of course, the hard part isn’t over yet — there are blood tests every week for ten weeks to make sure she is developing correctly. The estrogen pills and the progesterone inserts don’t stop until then either. There are ultrasounds at least once a month until she is born (weekly during the third trimester). I have awful morning sickness for eighteen weeks. I see a high-risk specialist to measure her growth more carefully than a normal OB would do. And every day I worry that something is going to happen to take away this little girl who I have wanted for so long.

But nothing happens. The voice in the back of my head, who still remembers how much it hurt to lose our first child to a miscarriage, is simply being paranoid.

And so, one year and one month after we first meet with the IVF doctor, twenty-two months after I have the miscarriage, and two years and seven months after we start trying, David and I head to the hospital with our bags packed.

Seventeen hours after we arrive, Ellie Michele enters this world via an emergency c-section. Her cry is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. And I know, without a doubt, that she is more than worth everything we did to get her.






non-fiction.
I’ve been waiting a long time to tell this part of the story. Until the perfect prompt arrived. I’ve talked about the rest: About the miscarriage, about trying to get pregnant again, about the first round of IVF and even about the aftermath. But this is the best part; it’s the happy part.

People — including my parents — have asked me if we’ll tell her when she’s old enough to understand. I always say yes, without any hesitation. One, because I don’t think infertility is something to be ashamed or embarrassed about. But more than that, because I want her to know just how much we wanted her. I want her to know just how much we loved her, long before she even existed.

A couple fun facts: Our IVF egg retrieval surgery, and the day she was conceived, was on my husband’s birthday. If we try for the second baby — a boy — and it works, Ellie and her brother will be able to tell people they were conceived on the same day but born years apart.

Altogether, over the two attempts, we had 10 embryos genetically tested to see if they were viable. The lab techs number them in the order that they make it to that stage. Ellie was #9 out of 10. Possible future baby boy was #10. If ever there was a case for not losing hope …




Thank you for reading! This was written for Week 16 of the therealljidol. If you would like to read the other entries, you can find them here!