The thing about the two-weeks wait that really drives me batty is the fact that we spend the entire second half of it speculating on an outcome that has already been definitively decided – to implant or not to implant. With exactly four consecutive fresh IVF failures under my belt, the sting of that phone call after having the audacity to hope again is almost embarrassing. “You fool!” the inner voice says. “You fell for it again.” She presses, “Stupid Pollyanna and your stupid empty uterus.” I woke up at 1:30 in the morning flooded with this monologue on loop, through my shower, the commute to work. I even Googled pregnancy symptoms at 4am like an idiot (and chances of success when feeling nada, zip, zero after an FET), like some newbie infertile who just had my first Clomid IUI.
Sick, right? I really need to work on that.