Screw positivity, I hate IVF. Today, I have 4 embryos at 14 cells, 1 at 10 and 1 at 8. One cracked under the pressure and elected to swan dive out of the petri dish. Now I'm pondering the unponderable...what if they all go belly up? In the interest of full disclosure, I was the one who insisted, absolutely insisted, on a blast transfer. I'm wondering, of course, if I did the right thing. (This from the dumbass who yesterday would have also insisted that each of the seven would be A++grade blasts by today: three to transfer; 4 to freeze. No brainer.) I was so sure. Today, less sure. And, overall, feeling like a dumbass all over against because it's out of my hands anyway.
I'm ready to get this party started; get the show on the road; put pedal to medal. I've got 8 books from Amazon, three movies, a fully charged laptop and Jim's Good Time Pizza Emporium on speeddial. My out of office message is ready to be activited, my voice mail message has been changed twice, I've got a stack of work I'll use as a placemat for my pizza. Good heavens, I've got new batteries in my remote control. Let's move.
I call tomorrow to see if the overachievers have made it to blast. If so, I meet for some sexy time with the RE, a nurse, an embryologist and a catheter. If not, I'll go in Thursday. Lining is hanging in there, but, to my utter dismay, did not develop into a cushion of plumpness and receptivity as I fully expected. Whatever.