By CDV

It’s Appointment Day after the two-week wait, post embryo transfer. For 2 hours past the appointed time, I’ve been waiting here. Waiting for two hours. Two weeks. And far more than two years, really. But getting here was not a doddle, and I’m frustrated with those that dawdle.  People who don’t have to rush out of here later to get the right bus and the right train to teach the last class. The only class that I haven’t had to cancel that day. For the third time that semester. And likely not for the last time, either. I’m lucky my workplace is fairly hands-off because this treatment is really full-on.

I’m sympathetic with the other Other Lady waiting here, too. Brazilian, I think? I’ve shared pre-op surgical and post-op consulting rooms with her.  Both of us second-guessing everything: our fertility, our fertility treatment, fertility vocabulary in Japanese, and fertility cultural norms in Japan. None of this is in our first language.  Both of us even more outside being outside our comfort zone.

I already know my treatment has failed again.  My body told me last night when I looked down after a chilly midnight pee. I’m less OK than last time, actually. I thought I’d be more OK. More resilient because I’m more aware. But I’m less resilient because I’m more weary.       

But I want to squeeze other Other Lady’s arms and tell her I hope hers hasn’t failed. I wish I knew the Portuguese for that. So I give her the warmest look I can, my eyes straining over the top of my mask to communicate my well wishes. My eyes water. For multiple reasons. The most authentic communication can be between two people with a shared, scared experience.

I know it’s not true – if you work hard enough, long enough,  things will bear fruit.  It’s hope. And I’m suspicious of hope.  ‘Hope’ can dull your senses. It’s called ‘Blind Hope’, after all. I feel better when the reality is there –  laid bare, and I can move forward with less hope and more shaky faith in the law of averages. 

I want to tell the lady with the baby nearby not to shush the little “mumumumum” ‘s. We’re all left hanging here,  hanging out for that very thing. That very precious little thing. I want to say, “enjoy it!” because I am.  Deep down though, I wonder why she is here at all. Her baby is still so young, and I’m ashamed that I think it seems a bit greedy that she might already be trying again. 

Ah. My turn with the doctor, who says it’s not my turn to be a mother. As he appropriately arranges his face and I try to rearrange mine,  I tell him I already know it’s “no.”  Still hurts, though. Like a sucker punch to the gut. And the uterus…And the heart…. and the bank account. 

It’s not OK, but “It’s OK,” I say. “You’re trying your best. There’s not much more that you can do.” Or me.  ‘We’ I mean. My husband is in this with me, too. But it’s mostly me. ‘We’ll’ just keep going until the eggs and/or the money run out. Whichever comes first in being the last. Then we will stop. Because ‘we’ have to, not because ‘I’ want to.  

So I say, “Let’s try again” – again….And I feel better, oddly. Because, despite the odds, there is momentum. And momentum is good because that equals progress. It’s ‘doing’. Not delaying or not doing, or no longer doing.  I put my mental health in a whole lot of Momentum. I am doing all that I can, and that’s all I can do. And I hold on to that thought as I rush out the door to get the right bus and train to teach that last class.

seems a bit greedy that she might already be trying again. 

Ah. My turn with the doctor, who says it’s not my turn to be a mother. As he appropriately arranges his face and I try to rearrange mine,  I tell him I already know it’s “no.”  Still hurts, though. Like a sucker punch to the gut. And the uterus…And the heart and the bank account. 

“It’s OK,” I say. “You’re trying your best. There’s not much more that you can do.” Or me.  ‘We’ I mean. My husband is in this with me, too. But it’s mostly me.  ‘We’ll’ just keep going until the eggs and the money run out. Whichever comes first in being the last. Then we will stop. Because we have to, not because ‘I’ want to.

So I say “let’s try again” – again. And I feel better, oddly, because despite the odds, there is momentum. And momentum is good because it keeps me going. Literally. I am doing all that I can, and that’s all I can do. And I hold on to that thought as I rush out the door to get the right bus to get the right train to teach that last class.