A few days of good news is enough to trigger the negative thoughts to start creeping in, and boy did I have them last night.
I know logically that I have crossed the border into self-preservation mode. I know that every negative thought is my internal-self protecting me from disappointment at all costs.
14 eggs were retrieved (above average for a gal my age)! 12 fertilized eggs is stellar (ICSI not needed)!
And today, news that all twelve embryos are dividing nicely, perfectly, in fact.
So I should be excited….
But no. My mind wanders to my history. Every. single. time. something seemed great, it ended up to be devastating.
I think I would have been a bit more positive right now if I had not had the last failed pregnancy in February. THAT pregnancy seemed perfect. Perfect response to an IUI cycle, a BFP on my 40th birthday, betas doubling, heart beat beating… and then… it was snatched out of my hands.
“Destiny is a fickle bitch…”, or so says Benjamin Linus (for you “Lost” fans). And that quote has been rummaging in my head for the last 24 hours.
Is it okay to let myself be happy? Am I damning the universe by being a teensy bit excited?
At times, I find myself at ease with the unknown. I think and BELIEVE that whatever happens, I will be strong, and I will find peace. For the last three months, I’ve been in that place… successfully. No stressing out. Whatever will be will be.
I am good at tricking myself into believing that.
But just as HOPE creeps in, I don’t believe it anymore.
I stomp my feet on the ground like a petulant toddler, and I demand that I be rewarded for the last three (almost 4) years of hell. I paid my dues. I lived on both sides of the fertility fence. I understand and have learned more about myself than I had in the previous 37 years.
I am due. Long over-due…
Transfer is set for tomorrow @ 1pm ET.