One year ago was IVF Transfer Week

A year ago…. I knew this week would be hard but I hadn’t anticipated to literally constantly be thinking “one year ago today”. Yet, here I am. Thinking about the past. Wishing for a different future.

One year ago today I was just arriving at my hotel after getting the only speeding ticket of my life. Heading to buy groceries so I’d have healthy snacks for the next few days of lounging. Nutrient dense and blood flow increasing things I’d of normally never ate. I was taking a hot shower, settling in to watch Sweet Magnolias on Netflix.

A year ago, I was 12 hours away from transferring the embryo that was meant to be my baby girl. The embryo with the best chance. My beautiful, perfect daughter. I was dreaming of the next day. Of having a perfect transfer. Of watching my daughter make it safely into my body on the television screen. I was dreaming about how I’d make everything right. I’d do it all right. Researching until the last minutes on what was best for her, for me, for us.

I was on cloud nine. Convinced after transferring 4 other embryos that never took that she was THE one. I remember saying her name over and over. Annabelle. Would I call her Annie, Anna, Bella, Belle, Elle? Maybe I’d call her all of them. Maybe she’d pick for herself what she wanted to go by when she was older. I just knew I had THE name. I’d saw it all over in the weeks leading up to this transfer after I picked it. Signs. Signs it was her name. Signs she’d make it.

Tomorrow will mark the first day that I was made whole and got to carry my sweet daughter in my body. Got to touch my belly and know she was in there. Growing. Got to pray every day, even though I barely believe, to help her to grow strong, to have a heartbeat, to be MY baby.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the hardest journey of my life. A journey that began so joyfully with so much hope and so many dreams. Just to be torn away by those simple words – “We can’t tell you anything but obviously you know when something is wrong. I’m so sorry. Take all the time you need. We’ll give you privacy.”. I’m not sure anyone ever said there wasn’t a heartbeat. The ultrasound tech couldn’t. My doctor couldn’t see me for a few more hours. But you know. You know the moment they don’t turn the screen. The moment they get a second opinion “just to measure something”. She always showed me the heartbeat first. At every scan. The moment she began pressing on my growing stomach and didn’t utter a word I knew. I knew my baby had died.

Statistically there was a 2% chance we’d lose her past 9 weeks. Even lower at 12 weeks. Yet, I guess someone has to be in that 2% statistic range for it to exist. Lucky me. I was so happy to make it so far. I finally felt safe. Just to have it all ripped away with some slight spotting that morning and an ultrasound just to be sure she was still perfect.

I miss her. I miss my sweet baby girl so much. I think of the milestones she should be reaching every day. When this nightmare began I was scared I’d forget her, now I’m scared I’ll always remember it so painfully and never forget. She’d be turning 4 months old in the next week. Rolling over. Babbling. Laughing. Getting chunky and oh so sweet.

She should be here. This will never seem fair.

I swore I’d never put myself through this nightmare again. Yet, lately I find myself thinking of my last embryo. He was the lowest grade, the worst results. Yet, he fought to make it to a Day 6 embryo.  That’s a huge accomplishment in the world of “geriatric” embryos. There’s a small chance he’s viable. A small chance he could be my handsome son. Can I live with the regret if I leave him in limbo forever? Can I live with “what ifs” my entire life?

I don’t think I can. I want to know how my story with these embryos ends. With my babies I created and considered my baby from day one. Yet, can I live through another loss? Could I ever live through making it to 12 weeks again for nothing but heartache? Could I handle making it to 20 weeks and finding out something was horribly wrong with my son and that’s why his grade was so low? Could I handle making the choice to TFMR? Or giving birth to a child I know will have major defects?

Losing my sweet Annie was the worst, darkest days of my life. I’ve never missed someone like I miss her. Yet, here I am – mourning her loss, grieving the loss of my dreams, yearning for the hope I had one year ago at this moment.

Contemplating giving my potential son a chance…

What if he dies?

But I wonder even more…. What if he lives and he’s perfect?