Fool me once, shame on you, fool me, you can’t get fooled again . . .

I know. That’s the longest title in history.  The “fool me once” statement is from our friend George W. Bush. And it makes me laugh every time I think about it . . . which is bizarrely often (anyone else have those weird things that stay in your head off and on for like, ever?).  But it’s appropriate here. How many times can one get pregnant and for some reason be totally certain that it’s going to work out . . . until of course, it doesn’t (“fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me”). I was really feeling good about this one – from the get go – because I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get pregnant in the first place (I mean, what are the chances? ONE good embryo. ONE.). Then the numbers didn’t quite double (51 to 96) and I was in full-on panic mode. Then they went up quite a lot (to the 1300-range). So I was feeling good again. Then . . . then they started doubling every 73 hours, not 48. This was not good, not good at all (“Is that bad?” I asked the nurse in the quietest voice possible, full of fear. “It’s not bad OR good. But the doctor is definitely watching it.” Oh, OK.). Then my breasts stopped feeling sore – no matter how often I poked and prodded them. Or stared at them in the mirror (do they still look swollen? A little, yes. Still blue and veiny? Yes and yes. But do they hurt? Not really). Then it came back this morning. The twingey, weird, boob feeling of yesteryear (it’s been awhile since I’ve been pregnant folks, like seven years). It’s not incredibly strong but they feel weird. And a little achy. Or tingly.

As I’ve said to the Husband, I just keep thinking about the following: this little guy made it through retrieval, fertilization, the 5-day blast stage, being frozen, unfrozen, biopsied, refrozen, deemed normal, thawed, transferred and implanted. Then he made it through a flimsy doubling time (OK, it was really close) to a pretty stellar rock star doubling stage . . . (and now to a pretty lame doubling time). As I said before, some of those charts say that after 1,200 IU/L the doubling time is 72-96 hours. So I would be totally in the normal range there. But I can’t help but to read how everyone continues to discuss doubling times in a 48 hour period, not 72-96. And one study I read found that even with a good sonogram, doubling time in excess of 3.2 days pretty much spells doom (“Doubling-time (DT) of beta-hCG levels was defined as DT exceeding 3.2 days. Patients with slow rising beta-hCG levels should not be given an optimistic prognosis even if viability is demonstrated at eight weeks.”). This last draw the doubling time is 73 hours or 3.1 days.

I’m kicking myself for making any kind of plans. I mean, really, what the hell was I thinking? Part of me thought, I’m just going to try to enjoy it, so f* it. And I was pretty f’n excited. I got out the baby naming book! I made a list! And I convinced the Husband to move because we’d need more space with a second kid – to a place with a washer and dryer and dishwasher because you know how horrible that is when you don’t have one and have a new baby (some of you may not know . . . but those of  you who live in NYC, yeah, you know). Will I regret moving some place where we’ll never be able to save any money for a down payment but my kid gets to have a backyard? I won’t. I really won’t. OK, maybe a little bit. I think . . . I mean, really, if you saw the size of our apartment you would be shocked. Ever since law school, I have to say, we’ve been pretty stupid about money. Our kid went to one of the best day care schools around which cost us an arm and a leg and put us in massive debt. Then we did fertility treatments since 2010. So, yeah. Not. Smart. About. Money. Strangely, I don’t regret the fertility treatment costs. It’s only been massive since 2013. We didn’t want to have to fork over that huge amount for donor eggs . . . but I’m afraid if I add up we spent since 2013, it might be close (PGD anyone? Yikes). Maybe we should have just gone ahead and done that. But if I’m completely honest, there’s a part of me that was very worried about doing donor eggs. I fear that someone (and not my husband, thankfully) would lord it over me forever, the notion that I am not biologically related to my child but they are. I see a lot of potential issues with that. And it’s troubling.

And then, and then I have to say here, somewhere, that even though I’m trying to sound jovial, that I spent most of yesterday crying.

It’s really hard for my brain to come to terms with the idea that THIS IS IT. I keep coming up with contingency plans and then remembering that, no, no, this is it. No more retrievals. No more drugs. We won’t be adopting. We won’t be doing donor eggs. We won’t, we won’t, we won’t. It’s done. Donezo. Fini. Complete. It’s time for us to move on. To pack it up and say good bye. Thanks for the memories, infertility! Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!