The donor-cycle diaries, pt. 4, (How we played the numbers game and lost).
Where to begin, except to say that I feel like a right royal wally after all my hopeful musings in The donor-cycle diaries pt.3. Why? Because I let good news get the better of me and, in the process, I forgot one of the golden rules of surviving IVF: don't get ahead of yourself!
So let's recap. Our first donor cycle egg collection yielded a mighty haul of eggs. 23 were mature and 14 fertilised overnight. After this initial report I was I told to expect another call on day three for a further progress update - and to prepare for a day five embryo transfer. Knowing that, for once, our eggs were coming from a young, healthy woman rather than my sorry, aged ovaries, we had an immense sense of hope and optimism and therefore spent the following two days in a relatively celebratory state - more relaxed at this stage of IVF than we'd ever been before (well, since cycle #1 when we were still wet behind the ears).
Early on day three I wandered across Blackfriars Bridge towards my office, staring up at the rain-filled sky and spied a spot of blue in amongst the gunmetal rainclouds. "That's our ray of light" thought I. "I'm ready to be a mother.".
Little did I know what was about to come. "I'm afraid it's not good news" said the embryologist. Of the 14 embryos, three are at 6-cell stage, two are 4-cell and the rest haven't progressed beyond 2-cells. The 6-cell embryos, according to the embryologist, may catch up but, "for day three we'd hope to see at least 8-cells". Upon delivering this crushing blow I was told that we'd receive a call the next morning but it was touch and go whether there'd even be anything to transfer on day five. Suddenly, I was just a wet woman on a bridge.
The rest of the day was spent in a daze trying to carry on as normal, hoping that a day's work would distract me. I found it near-impossible to keep my eyes free from tears as I contemplated the reality of what had happened in plain view of colleagues, who were oblivious to my pain. I was dead behind the eyes until the time came when I could race home to the comfort of Husb's arms where we could cling to each other and let the tears flow. Again.
Between us we just had no answers. Husb had also spoken to the embryologist, wanting clarity on exactly what had happened. Sadly this didn't change anything; it was what it was - another devastating blow in what we had hoped would be our silver lining.
The following day, now day four, I literally stared at my phone all morning. The embryologists usually call between 9-10am. By 11.30am I couldn't stand it any more. Husb, who was conveniently working nearby, charged over and we sat huddled on some steps and called Boston Place together.
Of the three 6-cell embryos, two had perked up a bit; one making it to compaction stage, the other still multiplying - but both still looked "poor" with "fewer cells and more fragmentation than we'd like to see". The others had continued to drop away. It was now a two-horse race. Again, the embryologist said it was touch and go whether we'd get a blastocyst to transfer the next day but he'd call us again in the morning to confirm whether we should come in.
This wasn't the worst news... I mean, two embryos were developing and kind of on-track (or thereabouts) so, at least for the remaining hours, we could try and think positively; fingers crossed for one, maybe two blastocysts.
Having got into a pretty well-oiled embryo transfer routine (it's our seventh) I'd lined up an acupuncturist (Boston Place work with Kent Acupuncture who come and treat you before and after the transfer), I'd already booked the days off work and had planned a nice break in our favourite Devon hideaway. All we needed was a viable embryo!
When day five finally arrived, I decided to go for an early run to help me de-stress. Midway through, the dreaded phone rang again. One of the embryos had indeed made it to blastocyst stage (yay!); the other one was still slow and probably wouldn't go any further. So there we have it. Months of planning and counselling, the final dregs of our life-savings spent and our emotional resources at rock-bottom all came down to this: one "poor quality" blastocyst. Yet, a blastocyst all the same, so off to Marylebone went we.
There are three things you definitely don't want to hear on embryo transfer day:
1. We don't know what's happened; we've never seen this happen before with a donor cycle
2. This result is worse than the previous cycles using your own eggs
3. Another donor who came in on the same day as yours has produced 16 blastocysts
As you can imagine, this didn't get us off to the greatest of starts but we tried our best to remain positive and not sob over the acupuncturist, the nurses, the embryologists or anyone else who crossed our path.
The transfer itself wasn't the easiest either. My bladder wasn't full enough (because we were told earlier that the procedure would be slightly delayed and I needed to pee) and my cervix has a very narrow entrance, which always flummoxes trained professionals... plus the discovery of some cervical 'scarring' that hadn't been noticed before and seemed to concern the doctor. There was a lot of rummaging with different catheters but, eventually, the tiny speck of life was safely transferred.
Happy for the procedure to be over with, off we went, heading towards the yonder (also known as the two-week-wait) with our little embryo on board.
Before I sign off, there are two further things I'd like to say.
While this is crushingly disappointing I know it is no-one's fault. It's yet another example of our terrible luck and, while devastating for us, I know it will also be devastating for our Amazing Donor - who, instead of being able to rest easy knowing that we have every chance of success, now has her own questions to ask and potentially some concerns that she didn't have before. This saddens me greatly.
The second thing is this. While I was considering whether donor conception was the right route for me, I wondered how I'd feel about a donor-conceived embryo compared to previous cycles. Would I root for it in the same way that I had for my own? The answer is, yes. Absolutely! We are where we are. So, with one little ray of light left to hope for, we're rooting for it with everything we have - maybe even more than we have before.
So there it is. This, as you can imagine, has been a really hard post to write. But I appreciate you sticking with me. Next up... the dreaded two-week-wait.
So let's recap. Our first donor cycle egg collection yielded a mighty haul of eggs. 23 were mature and 14 fertilised overnight. After this initial report I was I told to expect another call on day three for a further progress update - and to prepare for a day five embryo transfer. Knowing that, for once, our eggs were coming from a young, healthy woman rather than my sorry, aged ovaries, we had an immense sense of hope and optimism and therefore spent the following two days in a relatively celebratory state - more relaxed at this stage of IVF than we'd ever been before (well, since cycle #1 when we were still wet behind the ears).
Early on day three I wandered across Blackfriars Bridge towards my office, staring up at the rain-filled sky and spied a spot of blue in amongst the gunmetal rainclouds. "That's our ray of light" thought I. "I'm ready to be a mother.".
Little did I know what was about to come. "I'm afraid it's not good news" said the embryologist. Of the 14 embryos, three are at 6-cell stage, two are 4-cell and the rest haven't progressed beyond 2-cells. The 6-cell embryos, according to the embryologist, may catch up but, "for day three we'd hope to see at least 8-cells". Upon delivering this crushing blow I was told that we'd receive a call the next morning but it was touch and go whether there'd even be anything to transfer on day five. Suddenly, I was just a wet woman on a bridge.
The rest of the day was spent in a daze trying to carry on as normal, hoping that a day's work would distract me. I found it near-impossible to keep my eyes free from tears as I contemplated the reality of what had happened in plain view of colleagues, who were oblivious to my pain. I was dead behind the eyes until the time came when I could race home to the comfort of Husb's arms where we could cling to each other and let the tears flow. Again.
Between us we just had no answers. Husb had also spoken to the embryologist, wanting clarity on exactly what had happened. Sadly this didn't change anything; it was what it was - another devastating blow in what we had hoped would be our silver lining.
The following day, now day four, I literally stared at my phone all morning. The embryologists usually call between 9-10am. By 11.30am I couldn't stand it any more. Husb, who was conveniently working nearby, charged over and we sat huddled on some steps and called Boston Place together.
Of the three 6-cell embryos, two had perked up a bit; one making it to compaction stage, the other still multiplying - but both still looked "poor" with "fewer cells and more fragmentation than we'd like to see". The others had continued to drop away. It was now a two-horse race. Again, the embryologist said it was touch and go whether we'd get a blastocyst to transfer the next day but he'd call us again in the morning to confirm whether we should come in.
This wasn't the worst news... I mean, two embryos were developing and kind of on-track (or thereabouts) so, at least for the remaining hours, we could try and think positively; fingers crossed for one, maybe two blastocysts.
Having got into a pretty well-oiled embryo transfer routine (it's our seventh) I'd lined up an acupuncturist (Boston Place work with Kent Acupuncture who come and treat you before and after the transfer), I'd already booked the days off work and had planned a nice break in our favourite Devon hideaway. All we needed was a viable embryo!
There are three things you definitely don't want to hear on embryo transfer day:
1. We don't know what's happened; we've never seen this happen before with a donor cycle
2. This result is worse than the previous cycles using your own eggs
3. Another donor who came in on the same day as yours has produced 16 blastocysts
As you can imagine, this didn't get us off to the greatest of starts but we tried our best to remain positive and not sob over the acupuncturist, the nurses, the embryologists or anyone else who crossed our path.
 |
| Loving the hat... |
Happy for the procedure to be over with, off we went, heading towards the yonder (also known as the two-week-wait) with our little embryo on board.
 |
| Inside the red area... the white line from right to left is the catheter. The white blob on the left-hand-side is the embryo safely deposited in my uterus. |
Before I sign off, there are two further things I'd like to say.
While this is crushingly disappointing I know it is no-one's fault. It's yet another example of our terrible luck and, while devastating for us, I know it will also be devastating for our Amazing Donor - who, instead of being able to rest easy knowing that we have every chance of success, now has her own questions to ask and potentially some concerns that she didn't have before. This saddens me greatly.
The second thing is this. While I was considering whether donor conception was the right route for me, I wondered how I'd feel about a donor-conceived embryo compared to previous cycles. Would I root for it in the same way that I had for my own? The answer is, yes. Absolutely! We are where we are. So, with one little ray of light left to hope for, we're rooting for it with everything we have - maybe even more than we have before.
So there it is. This, as you can imagine, has been a really hard post to write. But I appreciate you sticking with me. Next up... the dreaded two-week-wait.
Comments
Post a Comment