Between my Percocet haze (yes, they gave me drugs this time, fucking finally) they call to tell me that of five eggs retrieved, four were mature, and two fertilized.
So. So much for that three months of DHEA and Ubiquinol for egg quality. Turns out, time will tell, and though my skin looks as tight and smooth as a 28 year old, my body belongs to a 41 year old woman. A 41 year old woman who is - as she always secretly suspected, if she is honest - never going to have children.
Transfer is scheduled, in theory, for Tuesday.
I'm not really sad, is the weird part. Maybe I'm in denial. Or maybe I've already put a lot of emotional energy into this, and my summer of freedom from thinking about this gave me a window into what my life will be when this is no longer something to which I feel I have to give my time.
I'm almost done. I'm almost ready to move on, into the rest of my life.
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