067: Goodnight, Little One

How do you grieve that which you could never hold?

A few weeks ago I had a fresh embryo transfer. The call had arrived just before noon, and my husband and I were expected to be at the hospital in three hours. I had spent the morning in a frantic cadence, one moment hopeful that the call would come imminently, the next in a downward spiral, convinced that something had gone terribly wrong. Finally, I was euphoric.

As we were preparing for IVF, my doctor recommended that we start off with a fresh embryo transfer. Given my age and overall health, she felt comfortable in us not taking the more common path in America of genetically testing embryos and doing a frozen transfer. In the days leading up to the transfer, we patiently awaited news of whether we would be doing a Day 3 or a Day 5 transfer. At a Day 5 transfer, the embryo develops into a blastocyst, giving it a better chance at implantation. One blastocyst would be selected for transfer, and the remaining would be tested and frozen.

When I received the call from my doctor that we would be doing a Day 5 transfer, I felt exalted. From the very onset of this process, I was extremely fortunate to not have had a terrible experience. There were no raging hormones and climbing of walls, and for the very first time, I happily surrendered myself to any and all changes to my body. I had grown comfortable with the early morning appointments, the daily pricks of needles, our dining room table briefly transformed into a miniature science laboratory each evening while we mastered our shot-massage-clean up routine with the deftness of a synchronized team sport. There was a purpose to this rigor, and I welcomed it. I felt steady and calm; what once irritated or angered me now left me feeling unfazed. My egg retrieval had gone astonishingly well; I was certain that none of my eggs would mature, so that when the numbers had turned out positive, I cried hysterically from shock and relief. All the doubts I had about myself and my body, that it had failed me and would go on failing me, began to recede. My dues seemed to have been paid in full and the light had begun to enter. The walls went down and the optimism slowly crept in.

Early in the summer when I first learned that I would never be able to conceive naturally, what I found hardest to accept was that I would not experience the romantic spontaneity and surprise of pregnancy, nor the blissful unknowing. From day one I would be hyper-aware, vigilant and nervous, like walking on ice: one misstep and I could go under. This denial took longest to overcome, and I did so by telling myself how lucky I was to even have IVF as an option, as those who hadn’t experienced what I was experiencing were prone to reminding me. What was a moment in a lifetime, afterall?

At the hospital on the day of the transfer, I was given the cap, gown and robe – the closest I’ll ever get to donning graduation attire – and a pointless pair of blue cotton pants, worn for only a handful of minutes before having to remove them. After a long wait, my time came quite suddenly, so suddenly that as the nurse was leading me to the next room, I realized I hadn’t hugged my husband, or kissed him, no goodbye or good luck. A woman in a hospital bed was being wheeled back to the recovery room. She was looking at what seemed to be a postcard she held in her hands.

When it was my turn, I climbed onto the bed and placed my legs up and open in a pair of stirrups. There was something comically absurd about the environment in which this transformative moment was taking place: the bright fluorescent lights; my head tilting back and downwards; the presence of the nurses and doctor and embryologist; the silly blue cap on my head; the realization that I should have shaved; Titanium by David Guetta and Sia pulsing in the background. One day I would have a good story to tell, I thought. A spell of mild discomfort later, it was over, and I was given my own postcard. A picture of our blastocyst with my name and the date on it. Positive thoughts! the doctor called out as I was being wheeled away. Later that evening I ate a mountain of fries.

Now we entered what some refer to as the dreaded 10-day wait, and most unlike myself, I continued to feel serene. Yes, I was very much aware of what was inside of me but, in a way, it made me feel special. How fortunate was I to experience this intimacy so early on, to have a co-conspirator of my own. I spoke to it throughout the day, apologizing to it when I made the shower too warm, suggesting to it we take a rest when I felt tired, whispering goodnight and sweet dreams before each sleep. I borrowed a term of endearment my husband had come up with for our cat, little one. I knew she wouldn’t mind. My husband and I made a dinner date for the day after we would receive the pregnancy test results, and thoughts of burgers and fries, pies and shakes filled my mind. I would finally pull the trigger on a dress I had wanted for years as a treat. I pictured my parents’ elation, and entering a new year while the little one continued to grow.

A day or two before I was due for my pregnancy blood work, I noticed that some symptoms I had experienced earlier on after the transfer had subsided. I no longer had the overwhelming need to round off every meal and snack with an apple, nor was I excessively thirsty, nor tired. During IVF, the body becomes a highly unreliable witness. Every and any bodily reaction could be nothing, and so I thought it best to think nothing of it.

Five or so hours after I had my blood drawn, I received the call with my results. The transfer had failed, I was not pregnant. At some point in time, the little one had ceased to be. Maybe it had happened before we had even reached home, before the mountain of fries, maybe after a goodnight. There would be no celebration, no co-conspirator, no secret of ours to reveal, no story to tell. At some point in time, I had continued speaking to it, but it was no longer listened.

My little postcard.

What no one tells you about IVF is how crushing the devastation will be when it fails. The lights go off and the walls go back up and over. The abrupt withdrawal of the hormones you become accustomed to ravages through anything resembling joy and hope, and all that is left is pain. Laughter comes in the form of hysteria, the tears are limitless, and any happiness that is not yours can become a violent affront. I held secret hope, so sure that a mistake had been made. When I would receive that call, I planned to be forgiving, benevolent. And then there was no denying it, my body delivering confirmation. In the days that passed, I continued to speak to it. I had questions, demands, maybe if I bargained or pleaded. Where did you go? I loved you so much, why did you leave? How could you go? I woke up each morning crying.

How do you grieve that which you could never hold, when there is no date or time or place to affix to a loss, when there is not even a form? A void begins to open where hope once resided. Positivity and optimism must be approached with caution, perhaps shelved for another time. Slowly the rage and tears dry up and become a steady heavy sadness no one else will be able to comprehend but is yours entirely. And maybe you will grieve this forever, but somehow you pick up what remains, and try again.

*Header image credit: Etel Adnan, California Coast (1982)