Because of my age, the NHS in my area offer egg freezing as standard. Just in case the chemo knocks my fertility for six. I love the NHS. I truly, truly do. There has not been a single thing I could fault in the past two months.
If I thought dignity had gone out the window with having my boobs checked, lying on a bed having an “internal” ultrasound scan every other day for two weeks is on a whole new level. And yes, “internal” does mean exactly what you think. However lovely everyone is, however quickly and efficiently everything is done, and however fascinating it is to see your eggs on the ultrasound screen growing by the hour, you leave your dignity at the door and pick it up as you scuttle out onto Euston Road.
Day 1 – signing a million forms to allow them to remove the eggs, freeze the eggs, use the eggs for research, freeze an embryo and on and on and on. All very useful and all very legitimate forms. After all, I don’t want my eggs being used in just any old way. And for couples going through IVF then it’s all especially great. For a single girl on her 33rd birthday though, there’s nothing quite as depressing as filling out the said million forms asking for “your details” and “your partner’s details”. Um. Yep. Don’t have one of them. But thanks for asking. And asking again. And again. And again. And once more for good measure. Thanks. Not blooming applicable.
I also managed to get halfway through a form giving them permission to freeze my sperm before I realized I wasn’t quite their target audience.
So on to the scans and the injections. Again, I have to do it, and I want to make sure I have something in my back pocket in case my ovaries do bail on me, so let’s crack on with a smile on my face. Until the day they couldn’t find my left ovary. I knew it was in there, they knew it was in there. My legs are in stirrups, the doctor has an elbow on one knee, holding my other leg out of the way with his other and while I press down on my tummy and he ferrets around with his ultrasound stick. It’s not elegant. It’s not particularly comfortable. In fact, it’s all a little James Herriot. So it’s made all the better when I nurse pipes up with “Have you been eating a lot of fruit and vegetables? Maybe you should cut down a bit – we probably can’t see it for all the gas.”
And back to the Euston Road to scoop up that dignity and stride off with as much self-respect as I can muster.
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