Tomorrow could be it for us: It in a bad way or it in a good way. Tomorrow may begin the last chapter of our journey through embryo adoption. Tomorrow could even be the final page. Or wonderfully, it could be the beginning chapter of an incredible new story as we finally embark upon parenthood.
But no matter what happens, some very integral pieces of this story will indeed be written tomorrow. So much depends on the thaw.
To recap the plan, the embryologist plans to start by thawing two embryos: One embryo from Libby’s pair and the final embryo from Vicky’s batch. The survival of both of these embryos would mean we still have a final embryo of Libby’s remaining on ice. It would mean we still have one more chance. I will be overjoyed. I love them all and I don’t want any of them to die. But of course I would also love another chance.
Tomorrow we will know if we still have one more chance.
If both do survive, we will transfer them together - one of Vicky’s and one of Libby’s. This means I could potentially become pregnant with twins who are not genetically related to me or each other. Or I could become pregnant with a singleton baby and we wouldn't know it’s genetic background until birth.
Tomorrow we will know if one of each will be transferred.
We've wondered and worried since March about the embryo from Vicky’s batch surviving thaw. The embryologist wasn't optimistic due to the way it was thawed and refrozen using slow freeze. If Vicky’s final embryo dies tomorrow, I will grieve the mere fact it’s gone. This is the last remaining snowflake of its kind. There will never be more. Ever.
Tomorrow we will know if Vicky's snowflakes are gone forever.
If Vicky’s embryo dies, we will transfer both of Libby’s final remaining embryos. I will be beyond anxious about the results of this transfer not only because I want to hold these babies in my arms, but also because I will have none remaining on ice. Everything and I mean everything will come down to this final transfer. If it doesn't work I will never have another chance to feel baby kicks, to know a life is growing inside of me. If it doesn't work, I will not only grieve the loss of Libby’s precious snowflakes, but also that I will never know what it’s like to be pregnant to term.
Or in a real terrible turn of events, they all might not survive thaw. There may be none to transfer. I will feel blindsided. This is unlikely, but possible. So the final page to this chapter could even be written tomorrow.
We will finally know how this part of the story will be written tomorrow.
I will arrive at the clinic at 7:30am for an 8am CST transfer.
I am eager, hopeful, and scared for what tomorrow brings.