Remember Tamagotchis? Digital distraction of the late nineties? Remember THAT precious time before the constant digital distraction of the NOW? I reckon I was 12 when I had my first one. I say first, because of course with anything that has limited lives and comes in assorted colours, you will obviously have multiples.

Unfortunately for all of mine, I lost interest pretty quickly, and I either forgot to vaccinate them as infants or fed them so infrequently that they evolved into moody teenagers and I grew apathetic of them…until they died. Dead. Suffice to say I was never allowed Sea Monkeys and it won’t come as a surprise that my indoor plant game needs some serious attention.

Don’t @ me. It was an egg shaped game and I was 12. OBVIOUSLY I will remember to vaccinate all of my children, and I married an Italian – nobody is gonna starve.

Now it could be considered a long bow to draw, finding similarities between Japanese gaming technology of the late nineties and the IVF process – despite the fact that both their creators have received Nobel Prizes. BOOM! BET YOU DIDN’T EXPECT TO LEARN THAT TODAY!?!

What I’m getting at is that all those years ago, at age 12, “life” was cycling away in the pocket of my school uniform and now, in some ways – albeit it’s a tenuous link – a similar cycle was underway, in a lab, in a glass dish, 150m from the MCG.

We didn’t harvest as many eggs as we would’ve liked – see above note about indoor plants – your girl doesn’t have a natural green thumb. BUT we got one. We got one fertilised embryo. Some people get none. We got one. The sperm that we were told couldn’t, with a little bit of science, seemed to have done it.

One of the most overwhelming aspects of your first bash at the IVF palaver is that you could be pregnant come the end of the month. I know, obviously this is the end game, however after a solid eighteen months of trying and failing one becomes so accustomed to NOT being pregnant that it all feels a little bit like voodoo magic. Stick a few pins in and you’re up duff. Explain to me what’s not voodoo about that.

Our process had an extra step called ICSI, which is level up from classic IVF – the Petri dish party where the best man wins. ICSI is where the single, most attractive, strongest looking sperm is picked out from the bunch and physically inserted into the egg. It’s the fertility version of leading a horse to water and saying DRINK BITCH, and then forcing it’s head under water I suppose. As it turned out, one was clearly thirstier than the rest.

As the clock turned and a handful of fertilised eggs were no longer viable, one embryo thrived and naturally, this was all happening whilst we were sitting on the couch at home in Collingwood watching Goodfellas. Of course, the Petri dish is never far from your thoughts during those 72..ish hours post harvest and pre transfer.

It’s truly astounding just how much comfort Scorsese one can consume in that time. Almost as astounding as the concept of “comfort Scorsese”.

FACT: it is preferable to have a full bladder for the embryo transfer.

Makes sense that there should be a water cooler taking up prime real estate in the waiting room of the transfer clinic. Above it sits a radio and 3AW plays at a volume best described as obnoxious. I wonder if Neil Mitchell knows just how many pregnancies he’s been present at. It’s mid morning, and the waiting room is wall to wall with anxious couples. I assume the volume of the radio is to conceal the sound of rapid heartbeats, dry mouths and muted conversations.

At first, I’m unaccompanied in the waiting room. That is until my husband arrives, carrying one shoe in his hand as the shoe that should be on his foot has been replaced by a moon bootie of sorts. Not the hard case moon boot you can usually expect to see on the middle class signaling it’s snow season, but an almost entirely fabric sock boot monstrosity that looks as if he’s just emerged from invasive ingrown toe surgery.

I give thanks that the “conception” has already occurred because I can literally feel my clitoris deflate.

He’s come from the podiatrist. Turns out he broke his toe a few months back during a game of mixed netball.

At this point we can confirm the radio is there to conceal my “sighs”.

My doctor likes my jumper. Good. I changed outfits three times. It’s quite a thing to work out what is best to wear when you’re about to be made three days pregnant.

Then there it is on the TV. The embryo. It’s there for us to see under a microscope, projected onto a TV. The moment feels utterly Wonka-esque as we become the parents of Mike Teavee. Of course it’s not a small boy from middle america that dreams of fame. Not yet anyway. Instead, it looks exactly like it does in google image. I know this because I google imaged what it should look like, in between Scorsese’s.

My scientist returns. The catheter is locked and loaded and within minutes it’s inside me. With just one embryo, and none for the deep freeze, our eggs were in one basket. I had just become the basket and am officially three days pregnant.

“Fingers crossed” (There it is again)

Because this might be as pregnant as we get. Or maybe we’ll defy the odds and make it to nine months. But crossing fingers is literally the only thing that we and science can do from here.

As we leave, shoe in hand, and thousands of dollars poorer, my husband and I appear, to the untrained eye, like just another couple coming home from a day at the races. What sets us apart of course, it that we have zero regrets.

So yes – fingers crossed indeed.

 

I really dropped the ball on the recipes with the last post – COMPLETELY neglecting to post one at all. So to make up for it, I’ve found a guide to All the Food & Drink in Scorsese films. God. Bless. The. Internet.

https://www.bonappetit.com/entertaining-style/pop-culture/article/food-martin-scorsese-movies

Special mention to Martin Scorsese Eats a Cookie – a short film by George Clooney.