Nope.

I finally got to sleep last night, and we went in early this morning.

While we were in the waiting room this morning, The Man was reading the paper, and there was a quote I could see from where I sat.

 “To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.” -Criss Jami

The ultrasound looked good: the follicle was a. still there, and b. just over 18, so ready to go. We went in, there was a new anaesthesiologist. I had an entertaining conversation with him, the gist of which is that he could tell I wasn't from around here. He made me solemnly swear not to turn into some entitled Marin Mom in a silver SUV. Like I could! So we laughed about that. Insertion of the IV was effortless this time.

Then, BAM! I was awake. Probably before I was supposed to be. Awake, and coherent. They were confident, they had gotten the follicle. The Man came in to wait with me. We joked back and forth a little with the nurses.

Then Dr. C came in. They couldn't find an egg. He suspected the follicle had been empty- my low AMH would be an indicator, although it's also possible that they missed it or the retrieval was botched. (He didn't mention that possibility, however, Google let me know.) Evidently it happens more with women who are older, and in conjunction with fertility drugs. I've never heard of it before. It was almost worse: having that tiny space of hope- that 15 minutes of joy, before it was snatched away.

Dr. C wants me to move on to donor eggs. He also wanted to leave, but I had so many questions, and managed to get out 5 or six before I got overwhelmed. I am supposed to meet with him next week.

I swear, when he said "donor eggs"- I was still attached to the heart monitor, and I could hear the beat speed up appreciably as I struggled to control my emotions. Fuck! What a waste. What a fucking waste.  Those are the words that keep going through my head, in an endless shifting parade of emphasis and capitalization and exclamation points.

He left, and one of the nurses, Judy: she made sure I had Kleenex, helped me sit up, and released me from all my wires, and then she said, "I have been in this line of work for 25 years, and it's torture to see these things- the worst things- happen to the nicest people. Don't give up."

Then she left, and I got up. The Man grabbed me to help me off the bench onto the floor, and we just held each other. I could feel him shaking while I cried. He just patted my back and said he loved me, while I basically dissolved and saturated the front of his shirt.

I gave myself most of today to break down: to mourn the disappearing likelihood of having a child that is all our own. We simply cannot afford to do this over and over again: I am not referring to money- not to dismiss that either, but this process is breaking my heart. I know we have done everything possible, so far, to enhance our chances of success with this. The knowledge that crack whores get pregnant every day still rankles, but I have accepted that for me, this is just not going to be easy, and in fact, is pretty soul-shatteringly difficult.

I have two weeks, more or less, before day one.  So about a week for me to decide what the next move is.