The phone was ringing.
I stood paralyzed in our living room, bracing for the worst.
Peter answered. As I stood there I heard him say it. “Positive.”
I came into the study and faced him. I asked him to ask the nurse what the hCG level was. That’s really how they determine it. The staff at the UW’s Fertility and Endocrine Center measured the human chorionic gonadotropin hormone to determine if my uterus knew that my donated eggs were actually implanted. I knew the number had to be around 50. Our score was 128.
After all this time, could it really be true? On Feb. 26, 2003, my eggs were finally cooking.
We had no backup embryos. The two we’d hoped to freeze didn’t make it and were thrown out. Anyway, the doctor said the only embryos we should be banking on were the ones he put inside me. It turned out he was right.
The rest of that day I was struck by the news. It wasn’t about how different I felt, but, finally, how much like other women I felt.
Peter and I went to Lowe’s to get another part for our bathroom remodeling project, then to the Thai place to celebrate with takeout. It wasn’t that we needed to do something special.
Instead, we needed to be like all other couples. It’s the classic thing about infertility. You’re on the outside. The one who can’t experience. Once pregnant, I was on the inside.
Or was I?
More blood tests had to be done to confirm it. The next one showed the hCG level at 216. The one after that was 414. The levels were doubling. Yet each test proved a nerve-racking experience, waiting for a phone call. Each test meant failure was still in the offing.
I asked Roberta, a medical assistant, when I could stop worrying. Usually the road is clear by the ultrasound, which was set for March 18, she said. Two weeks away.
I always believed that some switch was supposed to flick on in my brain to tell me I was pregnant. That didn’t happen.
Waiting calmly until March 18 wasn’t going to happen either. I started buying off-the-shelf pregnancy test kits. It became a habit.
Every few days I’d buy a couple more. Sometimes the second line that was supposed to indicate a positive result was quite faint. I’d panic. I knew I was driving myself crazy. I couldn’t stop. I needed an EPT fix. I preferred Answer brand, in the little pink box.
The switch didn’t get flicked on March 18 — the big ultrasound day. It should have been. I couldn’t help but recall the miscarriage ultrasound two years earlier when the doctor lost the tiny heartbeat. I feared reliving the past.
Dr. Lin came in. I told him about my symptoms and my worry. He looked calm and started the ultrasound. Eventually, I could see the flickering strobe on the screen. It was the heartbeat. An embryo was sending out some kind of Morse code.
I watched through my tears.
Lin confirmed there was only one. No twins. I thought, out of those 10 embryos, only one made it. Lin congratulated us, asked us to send him a photo when the baby arrived, then sent us on our way.
Huh. That was it. I waited for the switch.
But no, the doubt and dread returned just hours after leaving Lin’s office.
On our way out, we told our news to the fertility center’s counselor Gretchen Sewall, who told us the embryo’s heartbeat flickers on the screen like it’s saying “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Maybe, I thought. But what was it doing right now? Was it still beating? Maybe something happened? How can we be sure?
So the torture began again.
Years of disappointment aren’t swept away with one flickering ultrasound image, or one chatty embryo. My doubts grew stronger as the days passed. I’d feel nauseous. I’d chalk it up to those awful prenatal pills. I’d feel tired but figure it was the flu or my night work schedule. I’d reach for an Answer test stick.
I started to gain weight, but, jeez, I’d been eating stuff I hadn’t eaten in years, like peanut butter sandwiches and pizza. I made excuses for everything. I knew it couldn’t really be true.
There was the April 2 visit with our new obstetrician, Dr. Julie Gilmour.
She was tall and very pregnant. That figured. She also was very low key. Peter explained right away, as nicely as he could, that his wife had cracked up and needed reassurance of her pregnancy.
Gilmour was also in her 40s. She understood. She wheeled in the ultrasound.
The image slowly appeared.
It was clear. So clear even I could figure it out. It was a peanut. I could see the flickering light. The peanut was still saying “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Next part: Serenity in a heartbeat
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