Lots to organise! Lists to write! Things to cross off lists!
Flights to book. Accommodation to organise. Appointments to coordinate.
Oooh, going interstate…this could be fun! We might get to go a few times! It would almost be sad if I got pregnant straight away. It’s always so warm in Brisbane. Maybe we could just move to Brisbane for a year? Oh yeah, work. Must get time off from work. Three days? Five days?
So exciting! God the days are dragging. Can’t wait can’t wait can’t wait can’t wait. Appointments booked. Flights booked. Accommodation booked. Booking receipts printed, copied and in folder ready to go. That will definitely help. I’m sure my ovaries must appreciate how organised I am. I’m totally going to organise myself into gestating.
Time to go! Flying is the best! And taxis, they’re the best! We’re on time! And the clinic is on time! We are so organised!
Talkety talk talk talk. Ovaries, cycles, statistics. Chart this. Scan that. Inject these. Swallow these. Call on this day. Come back on that day. Yes? Yes.
Train. Plane. Pick up car. Home.
Scans. Injections. Tablets. Charting. The most organised, colour-coded, fertility friendly chart you ever did see. Thinking about it. Not thinking about it. Being certain it will happen first go. Being certain that I’m kidding myself and it will never work. Eating leafy things. Not drinking coffee. Wanting coffee.
Go time. Flying is the best! Appointment booked. Lie here. Scan this. Well behaved ovaries – have produced just enough, but not too many follicles. Ah, the relief. Like passing an exam. Must not disgrace the clinic by producing an obscene number of fetuses at one time. Very bad for publicity. Wait a hundred (3) days. Inject this. Come back. Put this in here. And that in there. Legs up! It’s definitely working. How could it not work? All the players are in position. The chart is complete.
Train. Plane. Pick up car. Home.
Is that a feeling? Is it a pregnant feeling? Is it too soon to get a car seat installed? Am I feeling sick? Yes! Definitely feeling sick. Or hungry. Or tired. Or having caffeine withdrawal.
Failed. Will never be pregnant. Have worst anatomically normal reproductive organs ever. Maybe my tubes do that thing where the little waving bits wave in the wrong direction. Maybe my eggs are all going the wrong way and spilling out into my abdomen, wasted. Or they’re bad eggs. Perhaps they’ve got that thing where their shells are impenetrable. Stupid, stubborn eggs.
Waiting. Charting. Injecting. Back to Brisbane. Flying is the worst. It’s so hot here. And raining. Always bloody raining. I should be at work. This is pointless.
Scan. Inject. Insert. Legs up.
Cup of tea.
Waiting. Exhausting myself with endless cycling between:
Acceptance – What will be will be. If we don’t have babies we can go and work for Medecins sans Frontieres and be Real Midwives. And own more cats.
Optimism – I am visualising my baby. My baby is here. She is just waiting for the right moment to come earthside. Or she is waiting for a sane parent. Hang in there baby. Relax. My eggs are penetrable. I will have a baby. Breathe. Stretch. My womb is bathed in a golden, welcoming light. That can’t be normal? Pink welcoming light? Better.
Self-flagellation – Idiot. Barren idiot. If you were ever going to conceive a child, you would have done so in your slutty teen years. Save your money. Get another cat.
Staying home. Sulking.
Going again. Flying. Whatever. Blah blah, Brisbane. Rain. Humidity. Wandering rainy city streets alone. The beloved at home.
Scan. Inject. Insert. The romance has really gone from this baby making business.
Home alone. Beloved in Hong Kong.
Wow. That happened fast.
It’s definitely going to be a girl. I can just feel it.