Welcome to my life of infertility. Menopur, gauze, alcohol wipes, needles, injections, vials.
On Tuesday, I underwent my egg retrieval after taking a bunch of medications for a week and a half.
The news was swift—as soon as I came out of anesthesia—ELEVEN EGGS. Double-you, tee, eff.
I couldn’t believe they’d gotten 11 eggs out of my ovaries. (I could’ve sworn my left one was disintegrating and not producing more than 2.) But there it was. Tuesday’s news: 11 eggs retrieved from my ovaries.
Wednesday’s news? 8 mature eggs but 7 fertilized. So now, I’m still batting over .500 considering that more than half of the eggs produced fertilized.
More news to come Monday: How many fertilized eggs made it to Day 5 (the blastocyst stage)? Am I going to be Kate plus eight? Donate embryos to needy couples or send off for stem cell research testing?
OR do I just USE them?
My nurse asked me if I wanted to know the gender of each embryo that made it through additional testing for Down syndrome, trisomy, and other defects. I said sure.
But then it dawned on me that if these embryos had gender, they’d have the potential to be a life. They weren’t currently living but I don’t know that I’d feel comfortable donating a boy embryo for stem cell research when I know that boy embryo could actually be my son. It just puts a whole different perspective on things.
So as of now, there are 7 embryos in play. I find out on Monday which ones make it to the next round of testing.