For the past two weeks, I’ve been preparing my body with blood thinners, steroids and intralipids. There is a constellation of hematomas on my abdomen, like a map of our progress, a connect-the-dots path to our baby. Right before each shot, Tim and I hug. Then we send up a silent prayer to that spirit we know we are meant to meet. I don’t know what Tim says, but mine goes a little something like this: I love you. I’m open to receive you. Please come home.
In three days, all nine of our embryos will be defrosted. They will grow and divide in their mysterious way, and if all goes well, we’ll transfer two blastocysts on Tuesday.
Five months of preparation have come down to this one day. The trips to New York, the surgery, the immune testing, the supplements, the new doctors, the shots, the procedures, the blood work, the renewed hope—all lead to Tuesday.
Am I ready for it?
If it works, I feel prepared to navigate the challenges of pregnancy after infertility and loss. I’m not saying it will be easy, but I believe I can do it without losing my sanity. If it doesn’t work, well, of course I’ll be crushed, but I will be ok. This is one thing I now know without a doubt: I will always be ok. I will hurt, sometimes so much that I won’t want to open my eyes in the morning, but I will keep going. I will heal.
And so, one way or another, this epic quest is finally coming to a head. I’ve searched far and wide to find the answers I needed. I’ve prepped my body. I’ve prepped my mind. I truly believe I’m giving this baby the best possible chance to make its way to us.
All that’s left to do is let go. To let what is meant to be, be. There is so much sweetness in that, and so much peace.
I am ready.