Wednesday, June 11, 2008


Yesterday's egg retrieval went very well, so fuck off Sunday's scan nurse, and you can shove your doom and gloom predictions up your negative ass.

When I came around from my multi thousand dollar float on a cloud (aka The Fentalnyl Haze) the excavating team practically high fived me because they'd retrieved eleven eggs.


From my wizened old ovaries and following a short stim cycle.

It's not a competition, but to give you some perspective here, the woman in the bed opposite me got one egg, while the girl in the bed diagonally over - who was considerably younger than me - got six.

The procedure itself, the one where they shove a needles through the walls of your girl parts and go all stabby on your ovaries, went a whole lot more easily than the multitude of blogs I've read on the subject had led me to believe. For one, you're asleep, and for two, the pain is crampy, bearable, and for me, at first not unlike a standard period pain, and later, much more like wind pain. I'm still a little bloaty today though, I think because something something ovaries leak fluid into your abdominal cavity something something.

I got no bleeding, which while not common, is a known consequence of all that needle action going on in your veejayjay, and while I had the urge to fart for, like, the entire DAY with no actual fart action going on, I also got to languish in bed for TWO WHOLE HOURS and DO NOTHING except partake of the stellar treatment one receives this side of the clinic doors.

The other side of the doors, the one where hope is dashed from your soul at every opportunity, is a MASSIVELY stark contrast to the attitude of the retrieval - and I suppose, the egg planter inner team, and it was wonderful to have people as hopeful as I am in a game where the odds are TOTALLY against me.

The night before the retrieval, my friend Enn asked me how I was feeling, and you know? I realised then that I was feeling sad.

Going through all this, and even the joy of conceiving a child, means the end of the dream I grew up with. The one where I have a child with a man who loves us both.

That dream is pretty much gone now anyway, but if I ever needed proff of its demise, this is it, so while this is all a good thing, it's still sad to mourn the loss of one's other hopes.

It also felt so safe having those eggs safely tucked in my own ovaries, so while I was looking forward to having them sucked into a needle and spat into a test tube, I was also sad about them going too. I mean, I MADE those things, they were MINE, and while I was handing them over to make a bigger and more complex MINE thing, ie A HUMAN BEING, I was still handing them over and....I'm working this out as I type....their fate was no longer in my control. Not that it was anyway, but feelings can be as dumb as a box of rocks sometimes.

But anyway, my, uh, reproductive material has been marinating in some prime beef type anonymous man juice since yesterday afternoon, and by the time the embryologist called today, five had fertilised "normally", which I think is a generic term that describes eggs that have done the rumpy pumpy with one only sperm, instead of either going over all whorey and done it with two, or had gone the other way and metaphorically closed their legs to all potential suitors.

It's pretty freaky to think about, that there are five of my potential children out there, five teeny tiny little halves of me. It's kind of freaky to think about. It's almost like thinking about the universe growing into I don't know what the fuck because the universe is infinite, how could it be GROWING?? And if it IS growing, what the eff is it growing INTO?

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