It’s okay to be ordinary, so “tit’s up”

Note: Italicized words in this post are hyperlinks.

To begin, in my last post I emphasized how extraordinary I felt as my bod had just released 9 eggs after a round of IVF drugs. “You’re an incredible Hen House,” my friend Cristina had noted. What pride I felt. What luck, I thought as I reveled in my eggcelent success.

Maybe, a voice echoed back.

This week I was reminded of the story of The Chinese Farmer. The story begins like this:

Once upon a time there was a Chinese farmer whose horse ran away. That evening, all of his neighbors came around to commiserate. They said, “We are so sorry to hear your horse has run away. This is most unfortunate.” The farmer said, “Maybe.” The next day the horse came back bringing seven wild horses with it, and in the evening everybody came back and said, “Oh, isn’t that lucky. What a great turn of events. You now have eight horses!” The farmer again said, “Maybe.”

The following day his son tried to break one of the horses, and while riding it, he was thrown and broke his leg. The neighbors then said, “Oh dear, that’s too bad,” and the farmer responded, “Maybe.” The next day the conscription officers came around to conscript people into the army, and they rejected his son because he had a broken leg. Again all the neighbors came around and said, “Isn’t that great!” Again, he said, “Maybe.”

I have been reflecting on this Zen short story because this week has taken last post’s “what good luck” to this week’s “what poor luck” and I needed to reframe that thinking.

This past Thursday, Dae-Han and I entered the doctor’s office to learn how many embryos might have been created from those 9 eggs.

The doctor took her time to explain that

9 initial eggs

-3 bad eggs

= 6 eggs to fertilize

-1 egg that didn’t take to the process

= 5 embryos created

-4 embryos that did not develop robustly

=1 embryo sent to genetic testing

which came back as a mosaic embryo.

If this sounds artistic, like transferring this embryo to my womb could bring the next Gaudí or Emma Karp Lundstrom to the world, the language is misleading you. A mosaic embryo is not an indication of artistry as much as it is an indication of chromosomal abnormalities.

Now, it is possible that a mosaic embryo self-corrects if it does implant in the womb, and in this week’s therapy session Tracy did remind me of the gifts of imperfection. Has my imagination painted a picture of this mosaic embryo resulting in a baby that chooses a brush instead of a pencil at their first birthday, for their doljanchi and then grows up to become a famous calligraphist? Of course it has. Bless my imagination.

Our doctor is less about my imagination and more about science and statistics. For this reason, she has advised us to freeze the embryo for back up and to give another round of egg retrieval a go in hopes of an embryo absent of chromosomal imperfections. When Dr. Kim suggested this, I was … frustrated and confused and angry. Because we had had such good luck initially.

Maybe.

And now it felt like we were having such bad luck.

Maybe.

After the first round of egg retrieval, I had started to fantasize about being this extraordinary couple who in their 40s becomes this “one and done” story. As Dae-Han and I rode the elevator down from the fertility clinic, he turned to me and said, “We’re not extraordinary. We’re ordinary. That’s okay. It’s okay to be ordinary.”

So this weekend I am meditating on this notion that there isn’t really “bad luck” and “good luck.” There is just what is.

And what is next for us now is another round of egg retrieval (which does mean another anesthetic slumber and I don’t hate that).

I know that our baby already exists in some realm somewhere. Perhaps this sounds … woo woo or weird, but I already feel connected to our baby in some spiritual sense. I don’t get to control when that little bean is ready to make their way to my womb, but I do get to sing my own version of Cardi B’s WAP. (Gram, I advice you against clicking the link to the original song. If you felt that the 2022 halftime show was NOT CLASSY you will have even more thoughts about WAP.)

I haven’t finished writing it, but my version starts like this:

Room in this womb

There’s some room in this womb

There’s some room in this womb

There’s some room in this womb (‘hol up)

(I’m now really stuck now how to to take “certified freak seven days a week” to something more maternal. Open to suggestions if you have them.)

When I recounted this week’s fertility disappointment to Ceci, she responded with empathy, and concluded with the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel’s favorite inspiring phrase:

“Tit’s up!”

Image credit