On a beautiful sunny day, a few hours after we did a family photo shoot in kimono, everything turned into a nightmare.
My husband had left for the UK on business. I was alone at our home. Throughout the day I started to spot. It made me nervous. It was about to get a lot worse.
When the bell buzzed, I entered the doctor’s office under a cloud of doom.
It’s been a while since I posted. My mind has been elsewhere. My life pulled in different directions all at once. In November, after my return from Texas, we took out another egg.
It failed to mature.
My lining was over 10 mm, which is very good. We decided to go ahead and transfer our second best Day 5 blastocyst. Let the cards fall where they may. This would be my first Day 5 embryo transfer and I had no idea what to expect.
A common complaint I hear from my female friends is about their parents pushing them to have kids. That was never me. My parents knew I’d have problems with fertility since I survived cancer at the age of six. The doctors weren’t even sure if my reproductive system would ever turn on at all.
Instead of “when you’re a mother”, it was more or less “if you do have kids”. My parents hoped I could have children if I wanted them, but feared setting my expectations too high. After all, it wasn’t my fault if I couldn’t.
There was a sigh of relief among my parents and doctors when my reproductive system turned on at age 12 and worked perfectly through my early twenties. It seemed like maybe I’d defeat the odds.
Sadly, the odds caught up to me by my mid-twenties.