I’m watching R sleep comfortably in the recovery room, wrapped in the baby blanket her maternal grandmother made for her when she was born. The blanket traveled all the way to Ohio, along with two small pebbles we picked up on a beach somewhere long ago. While R was in the operating room I held onto the pebbles and said my prayers.
Dr. A retrieved 11 follicles, gave me a reassuring arm squeeze, and whisked them off to the laboratory where our KD’s sperm is thawing from a deep freeze. And with that folks, it’s all out of our hands. I’m relieved to know that our part of the work is over. Rather, the hardest part is over; while we still have a few meds to remember each day it will be a cake walk from here to the 21st.
So I’m sitting in the dark, a little more free to breathe deeply, and happily listening to R’s heart beating in perfect synchrony with that of the lady in the next bed. Every now and then they break rank, but for the most part, they mark time together.
It’s nice to breathe again. Our trip here was a little harrowing. The “tinker toy” (my aunt’s nickname for the tiny red Fiat we rented) was covered in ice this morning, and it idled the entire way to the clinic. At one point I thought it was starting to smoke. I wasn’t sure we would make it here today, between the malfunctioning car and R’s attempt at reading directions through a thick fog of valium. If we have to do this again, R’s support person is going to need a support person!
It’s been a bittersweet week. In midst of our hope and anticipation we lost R’s grandmother, Ruth. In many ways R lost her grandmother years ago when dementia stole away with the chain smoking, coffee drinking woman who taught her to play penny poker at the kitchen table. Many of our family members pondered how Ruth, who loved dancing to big band music, gardening and drinking margaritas, left this world just as our children are about to enter it. I like to think of them, mingling and laughing, in that place where we are before and after we are here.