My Mind's Ink

Michelle is scheduled for egg retrieval tomorrow. We are hoping for so much. We hope the follicles produce eggs. We hope the eggs are mature. We hope the eggs can be fertilized. We hope the fertilized eggs develop into good embryos. We hope we don’t have to do this again. We hope we end up with a healthy baby. There are so many steps left, and at each one we must add hope. It’s fucking exhausting.

Tonight we inject the HCG, which matures the eggs. This is where we went wrong the last time. The doctor offered to mix the shot for us, and thankfully, we chose practicality over pride, and accepted the help.

I take the prepared syringe out of our refrigerator, warm it in my hand, and inject Michelle. She is intensely nervous, and the injection does not help matters. She is not feeling the stinging reaction that the nurses prepared her for, in fact, she doesn’t feel anything, and she thinks something has gone wrong.

My involvement in getting Michelle pregnant is largely over. The clinic secured a sperm sample from me which concludes my contribution. In IVF, just like a natural pregnancy, after sperm donation, the father is relegated to a supporting role.

I support Michelle by talking her down from ledges. With the odd exception, I keep my nerves in check, and try to portray a calm I don’t always feel. I assure her that everything will go well tomorrow, and I add another hope to the list. I hope that I am telling her the truth.

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