You'd think I'd be done posting today, but my sleep schedule is fucked. Heather was roused earlier, took her pills and the PIO shot (painlessly!), sent me to Walgreens for Tylenol because her fuck-up girlfriend didn't pick up the pain meds from the pharmacy in time, and now has fallen back to sleep on the couch. It wasn't even the Tylenol PM-- and that much is worth noting simply because I wanted to force the sleeping stuff on her so she'd stop making sad faces at me for forgetting the prescription. Rachel FTW.
The thing that has belatedly occurred to me as I contemplate a late-night snack is that I will have to be the first to listen to the embryologist's message. Heather knows the message will be in our mailbox at noon, and she knows how to access it, but I feel pretty confident that I'll be the one dialing. Should we put it on speakerphone and listen together? That would have to be better than telling her. Still, I'll have to watch her face when she hears the numbers.
We spent a lot of the afternoon talking about the next steps-- how many eggs we thought would fertilize, etc. "You know," I said, "If you'll remember, there were a couple weeks when we thought we'd gotten pregnant after the first ICI. We said it had to happen to somebody and maybe we're the lucky ones who'll beat the odds. That didn't happen, but what if it happens now? We haven't caught a break yet, so maybe this is it. Maybe all the eggs will fertilize perfectly, and then four of the embryos will pass PGD. It has to happen to somebody."
So we're going with that.