The Path of Least Regret

The transfer was almost an out-of-body experience. Since Nicole was in Texas, I had to remember on my own white-gown-opening-in-back under blue-robe-opening-in-front myself. That is challenging for someone with a full bladder, a tenuous grip on her emotions, and a girlfriend 3,000 miles and a time-zone away. Then for the good luck charms: Nicole’s picture in my blue skid-proof booty; Jen’s medal safely safety-pinned inside the robe; Mina’s Mom’s ring on my pinky finger (the only finger it would fit considering The Bloat) and a picture of Leif and Skye too. I felt that I smuggling contraband (a.k.a., liquids onto an airplane).

While not-so-patiently waiting for the doctor I vaguely recall talking on my cell to Nicole, who was delayed at the airport (thank God, so we could speak before the transfer). I had on my cumulous hair net, which makes me look ridiculous. I guess we need to protect my uterus from stray migrating head hairs. My only solace is that everyone has to wear the hair net, doctors and nurses included.

When he came in, I couldn’t read him at all. Did his face say Sorry, all of the embryos are gone? I recall him introducing himself (he is the director of the practice and one of the doctors I rarely met with during monitoring) and I stupidly said “I’m Jennifer.” Which he probably knew. His news was good; I was relieved. Nine embryos made it to Day 5. We discussed how many to put back and decided on three. Icy terror coursed through my veins as I recalled Nicole’s Absolutely No More Than Two rule. But the doctor seemed confident that this wasn’t a triplet event; just an increased-chance precaution. And this is what happens when I have to voice opinions/decisions on my own. There is a reason why I shouldn’t do these things alone!

We went back down the hall together to the operating room, which is almost romantically dark. The nurses and lab staff were moving about in such Official Business way. I settled onto the table and after a flurry of activity (confirming my name on all sorts of documents, seeing the embryos for the first time on the video screen on the wall, watching them getting sucked up the tube) it was all done. Three embryos are happily looking for real estate in my uterus. I am, as they say, pregnant until proven otherwise.

I was then wheeled on the bed to recovery. The short trip there was in itself surreal. We moved at a dizzying pace that was compounded by the fact that there was something metallic in the lights on the ceiling that reflected my imagine back to me. I have never seen myself from that birds-eye view before, and probably never will again. There was something sobering about seeing myself laying there with the hair net on and tucked into the nubby white blanket.

As soon as I got to recovery I reached for my phone and asked the nurse if it was ok to call Nicole, who was still delayed in Texas. I placed the phone on my stomach and she gave her what is now sadly ritual pep talk to the embryos.

No coffee. No strenuous exercise. No heavy lifting. I can’t take baths. I can’t sleep (insomnia). I can’t concentrate for more than three seconds on anything.

As much as I complain I am happy to sacrifice baths and coffee and bleu cheese and strenuous activity and even Ambien for this cause. After all, when I look back I want to think I made the right decisions so I can live with no regrets.

And that—as Mina I hope prophetically said—was the most beautiful day of my life.