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Here is an example: eleven eggs are possible. Of those four are no good straight away. We have seven left. They fertilise those seven, and three don’t take. We have four left, two end up with some genetic abnormalities, or just aren’t good quality. We are down to two eggs – one doesn’t make it to a blastocyst (5 days old) – now we have one. It’s implanted and it doesn’t take.
Boom! Just like that – eleven possible babies gone.
So, I need all my eleven eggs in one basket. And I need them to be good.
On the ninth day, you take a big double dose of the same stuff that you’ve been injecting, and then you go in for a blood test. They need to see if you are ovulating. In my case we waited just one more day, and then I went in for The Harvest.
It’s not called The Harvest, but my love of horror films means that I wish it was. It’s called the collection. I was put out in a twilight sleep and they collected up all my eggs and popped them somewhere. I am not sure where they were, some sort of safe deposit box for ovum.
My husband waited in the recovery room with me and a nurse approached us. She had a well-meaning smile on. And I knew. I knew it was not good news.
Two eggs.
So. You see, we knew that it was over. The whole endeavour was over. Two eggs was a hopeless position. We knew in the way that the nurses looked at us and the sound of Dr. Nick's voice.
We held hands and said, “At least we tried”. I had never once thought it was going to be successful, but I had hoped. I had still hoped. My husband was loving and philosophical. We went home. We cuddled our son and made dinner and watched TV and went to bed.
