I was two weeks into my cycle. Our nightly shots of Lupron were less painful than I had imagined. The estrace pills made me feel somewhat 'fuzzy.' My brain, body and soul missed coffee. My jeans missed my pre-ivf body before the bloat. Overall, I felt pretty good. A little moody. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I took a two-week commercial knowing that it would be fast and furious. Nothing I couldn't handle, but the lack of caffeine was going to kill me. I muddled through my first day, happy to be working with a dear friend in from New York. I hit the ground running. I shop for a living. It's not as glamorous as it sounds, but not a bad way to earn a living.
Around 3pm, I started to drag. My normal routine was a predictable latte post lunch.
A little kick to get me through traffic, rude salespeople and not enough time for too many sets. I popped a little dark chocolate and kept moving.
My phone rang and I read the name of my clinic in the window. Huh? Our coordinator was a chronic emailer, a call was out of the ordinary. I answered in my cheery 'work voice.' The minute I hear our coordinator's voice, I knew something was wrong. "There's been an accident," she said. "Your donor was in an accident last night. She was thrown from the car and she's in intensive care." I think I muttered 'Oh my god."
Too many thought raced through my head. I prayed she'd recover. I prayed for her son. I prayed that she'd make it through what appeared to be a horrible accident. I tried to push away my sense of dread and fear and pity and disappointment that my donor wasn't going to be my donor anymore. I sobbed. I called my man and cried some more. I was in shock. Complete shock. I felt guilty for my feelings that screamed 'why me again?' My sorrow paled in comparison to this incredible soul that was fighting for her life. I stopped crying for myself and started sobbing for her.
