I can't imagine what my blood pressure and pulse rate registered at, this afternoon. I'd just about convinced myself that, if they'd all arrested, someone would have already called me—right? RIGHT?!—as I walked down the hall in my hair net and hospital-issue slipper socks (just like the ones Annajane, of course, wore for most of this year).
And then Dr. C. was spontaneously cheerful about the embryos. A 9, an 8, and 2 7's were still going strong. "Usually we need to start with 7 or 8 fertilized to get this many." I'd written "whatever we have" on the questionnaire, several days ago, that asked how many we wanted to put back. He advised 3; I asked for all 4, pointed out that this was our last cycle, and confirmed that we were willing to reduce if necessary. They say 3-4 for women who are 34, so it's not way out of line.
The embryologist confirmed that, indeed, Beaker's sperm had been used. No assisted hatching.
I lay still, then taxi'd home.
On tap for this evening: several tabloids, lots of jellybeans (primarily pink grapefruit), and a tenure meeting (Beaker's lending my department his fancy meeting-grade speakerphone).