Wendi weturns

I had thought of all these things I should tell you on my post-transfer-blog.

Then I read my dear husband's blog and realized, there really isn't much more to tell. Did he do a good job or what?

However, I never don't have anything to write, so, not wanting to ruin that tradition, I've got my own bit of info to share. Warning that some of this may be TMI (too much information), but oh well, if you read past this point, you've been warned. We've already laid most of our personal life out there so what's to stop me now.

JB's account was very accurate, and it's how I remember it -- well, what I was awake for. I have no recollection of being asked to spell my name. Trying to get a cramp out of my foot while being in complete la-la land required enough of my concentration. But I do remember a woman standing there so that must have been what she wanted.

I also remember being completely panicked that these toe cramps would continue into the operating room. I had a fear of being strapped in with everything in place and busting out into a full-blown cramp which are very comparable to a charlie-horse only more difficult to get rid of. (I'd rather have a charlie-horse any day.) I was very blessed when the entire procedure flew by without a cramp.

However, the rest of the procedure did not fly by. JB was right when he mentioned the transfer had its share of frustrations. Last transfer was a piece of cake. This time, if the transfer was a piece of cake, it was a pretty crummy piece of cake. Last time, they dilated my cervix a few weeks before the transfer. For some reason they did not do the dilation this go 'round. I'm not sure if this was the reason for the trouble or if it was a different doctor's technique, but I was a pretty unhappy camper for at least an hour yesterday morning.

I did, I remember, tell the embryologist that he was "the man" when he told us that both embryos were thawing nicely and "cleaving well". I had to ask JB what this meant when the embryologist returned to his lab, and apparently it means "dividing". So they were dividing appropriately. If IVF does not work, as it did not work last time, it is for one of two reasons. Either the sticky babies didn't stick, or they didn't continue to divide, something that happens inside a regularly ovulating woman all the time.

Another thing I remember was hearing the doctor say that my bladder was not full enough. Last time I didn't have a full bladder and it was okay, and no one told me I had to have a full bladder this time. Had they told me, I would have made sure it was full. So why, I wondered was this a problem? Later, John would explain to me that having a full bladder pushed the uterus into more "reachable" position.

As soon as Dr. G. said "the bladder's not full enough," I had a solution. But before I could say, "I can chug an Aquafina in thirty seconds flat!" I heard him saying something about a catheter to fill up my bladder.

This is one of those things that has always scared me. For some reason, I have feared a catheter with maximum fear capacity for as long as I understood what a catheter did. Everyone in the room started comforting me, but I didn't find it very comforting. The post-catheter take on it: it isn't that bad. But it isn't that good either. It does not require life-altering fear, I admit. But I'd prefer that no one ever said the words, "her bladder is not full enough," again. Another sign that something isn't going to be very pleasant is when everyone starts telling you, "Breathe through it." Uh oh.

Next issue? As they filled up my bladder, I began to have to go to the bathroom more and more with every millisecond that went by. Add to that that they were pushing on my stomach (or abdomen as JB would say -- I have learned that the stomach is actually an organ) with their ultrasound machine, and I was wondering how in the world I could complete the one hour bedrest that follows the procedure without needing to use the bathroom.

As if she could read my mind, I heard the REI fellow say, "Don't worry. He will leave the catheter in so he can empty you bladder when he is done." Whew. Sweet relief. Now if she could not press so hard on my "abdomen"...

The other bad thing about the whole catheter issue was that we had had great difficulty getting everything (i.e. whatever it is they use to get me prepped for the procedure) into place easily. Dr. G. had tried many times before his tools went in without causing me great pain. So when he realized my bladder wasn't full enough, that meant removing the apparatuses that were now in fairly comfortably, putting in the catheter, and then starting again. The second try was even harder than the first. My stupid roller coaster cervix and I were going to have some discussions when this was done.

I kept thinking I was a complete whimp! I attribute these feelings to my father completely. Prior to having umbilical hernia surgery in high school, he told me I was a big whimp. This had a huge impact on me because I woke up from surgery asking everyone I met if I was a whimp while coming off of the drugs. I think this caused my dad a bit of guilt. Ever since, I have really wanted to refrain from every being a whimp again. Everyone in the room kept assuring me that the problems Dr. G. was having were not my fault. It was my "rollercoaster" looking cervix that was to blame (and so maybe my parents are still to blame since I inherited my anatomy from them -- just kidding mom and dad). Either way, I was trying to be tough, but really having trouble relaxing.

JB was wonderful. He sat right by my head the entire time encouraging me to picture the white sands of Destin (the most beautiful beach I could come up with on the spur of the moment). And picture-away I did. This imagery would last for about twenty seconds, before a pain jolted me awake again. JB would remind me to go back to the beach, and return I would, for another twenty second jaunt in the ocean surf. I wanted to return for another valium. Or maybe another two valium.

All said and done, we were in the room for over an hour -- probably double the length of time we were in there the first time. I am soooo glad to be home and out of that cold, sterile room. Thank goodness that is done. And maybe, possibly, I will only do that one more time -- to return for our one remaining "sticky baby".

A Dairy Queen Blizzard (now the chocolate french silk variety thanks to my new twin Kelsey) completed the night.

Now begins the dreaded two week wait. Two weeks before we get a positive or negative. Thanks everyone for all your love and encouragement. We received so many email and cards, and it honestly means so much. Just as we were walking out the door, we found Dave and Lesley's card slid under the door. It was such an encouragement to know we weren't going in there alone. Keep those prayers coming during the next two weeks, and hopefully during the next nine months.