The Weight of Bad News
For the first time in a long time, Stephanie expressed some concern that this IVF cycle was not going to work. She’s been the trooper, the positive one. Or, at least she’s been the one in control of her emotions. But on Monday night, with absolutely no symptoms to speak of, she was concerned that we’d gone through everything for nothing. I, of course, in the way that I always seem to do, had other things on my mind. I was so bothered by information I’d just received on my craft lecture (to be given on Thursday morning) that hearing her be upset just sent me into a tailspin. I was able to comfort her, to explain away most of her fears, and to make her laugh, but inside of me there was a kettle boiling over.
The bad news about my craft lecture is something that I won’t get into here. You never know who might be reading. What I will say is that I feel betrayed by certain choices that were made in regards to my seminar by the higher-ups in the program. The worst scenario I could’ve possibly imagined for this presentation, which I am already tremendously nervous about, has come to pass. Thursday morning has the potential to be an outright disaster and I’d love to wring the necks of the people responsible.
Vague enough for you? Sorry about that.
But, back to the fertility issue… Stef’s primary reason for worrying was that she had stopped feeling any pregancy-related symptoms on Monday. Previously, she’d experienced quite a bit of fatigue along with a bit of nausea and a heaping helping of mood swings. But on Monday, it all seemed to go away. She felt much better. This, she was convinced, was bad.
I asked her, in between our little micro-spats, if she might still be just a little bit moody? She laughed and agreed that the moodiness was one symptom that hadn’t gone away.
As for the other stuff, I rationalized that it was just the fact that she’d gotten used to the hormone injections now. Any pregancy-like symptoms she’d been experiencing, I argued, had really just been side effects of the progesterone we were injecting into her each night. Eventually she agreed. I cooked us dinner, which is always a good way to get her in a better mood, as she likes my cooking a great deal, and all was well.
Until the shot. When it came time for the shot, I nearly broke down myself. Recalling the fear of failure that she’d shown, and no longer convinced by my own arguments, I balled up a bit as I took the medicine out of the cabinet in the kitchen. We hugged for a moment and then she went upstairs to ice herself down while I got my act together.
We’ve got a week to go until we find out if this worked or didn’t. And I’m no more prepared for bad news now than I was a week ago, when this horrible waiting period began.