Maybe Baby Blog

Putting All My Eggs Into One Basket

Today was the big day: the day that all my eggs went into one basket, or test tube or Petri dish or whatever the IVF wizards use these days. Then my husband’s contribution was added, the whole thing was given a bit of a shake and left in a dark room while the fertility pixies worked their magic. Or that’s how I imagined the process in my hormone addled little head. I’m sure it’s a touch more scientific than that. 

By 9am the waiting room was full of couples like us. When I say, like us, none of the others seemed to be having such a good time. It’s not that we weren’t nervous – I especially wasn’t looking forward to having a big needle stuck in my ovaries – but we couldn’t help getting the giggles. 

Anyone who’s met my lovely bloke will tell you that he’s a bit on the loud side; his laugh is a cross between Sid James and Basil Brush and his language is what my mother would describe as colourful. He doesn’t do it on purpose, and most of the time it’s quite entertaining, but on this particular morning he really needed to turn down the volume a couple of notches. 

Looking at one couple who were sitting sullenly a few feet away from us, he commented.

“You don’t have to be an expert in body language to tell they’ve had a tiff.” 

It was probably a good job that he had to keep disappearing outside to call his office. That’s where he was when our lovely nurse appeared through the mysterious double doors at the back of the room and called our name. 

After retrieving said husband (let’s call him Sid) we were ushered through the swing doors into a large room sectioned off into little, blue curtained areas. It was in one of these that our nurse explained what would happen next, including the part that Sid had been dreading most. 

OMG! Us girls have to go through injections, blood tests, being poked with rude looking probes, not to mention various procedures involving no pants and legs in stirrups. All the blokes have to do is what blokes do everyday, whether they like to admit to it or not, only this time they have to aim it into a little plastic tub. And the fuss they make! It’s not as if they have to do it in the middle of the waiting room with the rest of us cheering them on. 

Sid looked encouraged when the nurse said I could go with him – I don’t think he was joking either – but the look I shot him told him there was more chance of my mother playing for Arsenal. He calls it my Clint Eastwood look, because of the way I narrow my eyes and look mean, and I used it plenty over the next few hours.

Posted by Maybe Baby on January 31, 2008 at 10:03AM

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