IVF
My gynecologist stares at the ultrasound screen with raised eyebrows. “Hey… What…” she mumbles.
“What is going on?” I ask alarmed.
I get a smile that is now familiar, the kind that should disguise anxiety. “I see three eggs,” she says.
“Only three!”
That’s a score of nothing. For days I’ve been giving myself hormones to grow as many egg sacs as possible. If I want to have a chance of a pregnancy via IVF – if I have finished treatment in five years and am still alive – then I need at least eight so-called ‘follicles’. More is of course better. Women without cancer can go through the cycle several times. I have one chance. The hormones feed the cancerous tumor in my breast. Throwing fuel on the fire for longer than three weeks is irresponsible.
“Do you see this vesicle?”
I stare at a large white spot and nod.
“It’s huge. Ten times the size of the other two. I never actually see that. All the hormones go there, so the rest don’t get a chance to grow. At the moment you really only have two usable egg sacs.” She puts her hand on my shoulder.
Well great.
“And now?” I ask – my voice is shrill.
“We’re going to increase your medication, and quite a bit.”
“Does that make sense?” I ask.
“I hope so,” is the unoptimistic answer.
All right, I still have a chance. I take it for granted that I will feel even more depressed because of the hormones.
Makeable future
I take a seat in the waiting room again. I have to have blood drawn after every check-up. My arms now look like those of a heroin addict: blue, full of syringe wounds.
A wave of sadness engulfs me. For the first time it dawns on me that I probably won’t have another child. All my life I believed that my future could be made. I would have two children and watch them both grow up. How naive. The gray cloud over my head turns black.
With an app I inform Duncan. He no longer goes to every hospital visit. There is also still work to be done.
‘Not nice sweetie. But better than no eggs at all,” he writes.
What?! Such a light-hearted response? I feel like killing him. Duncan and I are not exactly on the same page when it comes to ‘project baby two’. One child is also beautiful, he believes. And Duncan doesn’t like it three times that I inject myself with stuff that not only makes me insufferable, but also emotionally increases the chance of my death.
I lean my head against the wall behind me and take a deep breath. The woman to my right looks at me, with a look of understanding. A look that says: I understand you, we are in the same boat. But we’re not, I think sullenly. If it were a competition, I would win. Because I have cancer.
“Are you okay?” she then asks.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Um, yes,” I answer, ill at ease.
“You don’t have to be big for me. I know how it feels.”
She says that she and her husband have been busy for years. Years of bitter disappointments. Years of loss, of grief and intensive treatments.
“This is my last round,” she confesses. “I still want to continue. But my husband can’t anymore.” She smiles sadly. “To be honest, I don’t believe in it anymore. So we have to start thinking about how we are going to shape our life without a child. But how do you do that?”
Tears in her eyes.
I think of Noah. By his chubby body, which is almost baby-finished. By his wet kisses. The way he yells “mamaaa” in the morning. And suddenly I’m ashamed that I thought I was higher in the hierarchy of grief. I realize I wouldn’t want to trade places with this woman.
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