It’s 6am. I’ve rolled out of bed. I’m puffy eyed, unwashed and I’m claiming my eleventy hundredth “intro week offer” at a boutique yoga studio. I am literally doing everything in my power to be unrecognisable. Not even intentionally. Despite having had my mug in a couple of comedy sketches that have gone viral…ish and having sold you everything from property to insurance to dip and back to insurance, I am VERY RARELY recognised. And I am 100% okay with that.
Because for anyone who frequently cops the old “I know you from somewhere” you’ll have experienced first hand, the painful and diminishing experience of having to recite credits from your CV only to be repeatedly told “no…that’s not it” . Fortunately, mine doesn’t take long to get through and I’m halfway as it hits her; she’d just remembered me from another fancy yoga studio that I’d previously swindled. I’m nothing if not consistent.
It’s 6am. This time I have washed and I’m handing over my credit card to pay the bed fee for the egg harvest procedure. Alas, no “intro offer” here. As I sit in the waiting room, it strikes me that “egg harvest procedure” sounds like something out of a Margaret Atwood novel. I really do love how it sounds equal parts puritan and clinical.
The “harvesting” itself will take just fifteen minutes. It’s hard not to imagine it won’t involve a sickle. But I’m assured it won’t. It will involve vaginal walls, a catheter and some suction, which is as invasive as it sounds, so you get a drug induced nap time. You don’t “go under” per se, you’re just sedated enough to be unaware of your surrounds, and what’s going on in and around you. It’s the kind of stuff you might need/want at your disposal for a family Christmas lunch.
By 6:15am I’m in a hospital gown. The nurse is showing me her pen.
“DO YOU LIKE MY PEN?”
It feels scripted.
But yes, I like her pen.
She thrusts the pen in my face. It’s one of those drug company pens with stuff that floats around in it, bit like those rudie nudie pens where you got to see boobs depending on how you tipped it. Except this one was full of little sperms swimming around, we assume, towards an egg – but failing the seal the deal.
“Oh – this is our problem” I say.
She laughs. She’s right to. It’s a good joke.
(Later on I’ll overhear her use that joke on someone else. As if it twere her own. I’ll be too high to say shit, but in my head, I’ll draft a strongly worded Yelp review.)
For the first time in this whole process, I feel very small and not just because I’m dwarfed by the enormous vinyl armchair they have me sitting in. My doctor can smell my fear. To be fair, I reek of it. She grips my hand as I lay down on the table, introducing me to “my scientist” whom is, for all intents and purposes, a woman with her hands in an incubator in the room next door.
I. Have. A. Scientist.
SHE IS MINE. MY SCIENTIST. She’ll be taking care of my eggs. Which is a huge and important responsibility. I have this sudden urge to ensure that she’s had a good breakfast.
It’s all a bit overwhelming, I’m in a room full of people trying to help us have a baby and now I have a scientist on the payroll.
My doctor grips my hand tight as that warm nigh nigh rush of anaesthesia hits and as the room darkens, she leans down and whispers…
“You were great in Back in Very Small Business”
With my last ounce of energy I reply; somewhat panicked “should I be able to taste it? I can taste it” and I’m out.
It is without doubt. The best nap I’ve ever had. A clear chart topper in my top five naps. Would recommend. Whatever that stuff was, I need more of it.
I’m back in the enormous armchair. Beside me is a plate of snacks. A Tim Tam, Monte Carlo and Le Snack. I’m offered a juice box. Eleven year old me is most pleased. I redirect the juice box to my scientist. I want her comfortable at all times.
My doctor has left me a note, letting me know how it went. She signs off “fingers crossed” and we enter what I like to call PHASE THOUGHTS & PRAYERS. Because of course, nothing is guaranteed. And this is just one of many hurdles in making a human.
A few days later – we’ll be in another waiting room where a cop A LOT of side eye from one guy. He’s recognised me. He can’t work out where from and it’s annoying him. He’s not the yoga type, so it’s definitely not that but it’s really annoying him.
I know this because he says it out loud after his partner begs him to stop staring.
It’s the last place you expect to find your audience – in a fertility clinic. Infertility doesn’t discriminate. You don’t swindle one too many yoga studios and find yourself on a list. And you’re not protected because you did that thing that made people laugh.
I suppress the desire to say “see, I’m just like you” instead giving them both a smile that says good luck, this is terrifying.
IVeFfort 