#2 The Egg Collection
Bizarrely, this newsletter contains My Octopus Teacher spoilers.
At the end of My Octopus Teacher (the Netflix film about a man who makes friends with an octopus in a kelp forest in South Africa), we see the majestic beast retreat under a rock to reproduce after a vigorous mating session.
As she began to grow and nourish her eggs, her body started to shut down. She was dying; giving all of her energy to offspring that she’d see hatch before dozing off; depleted, weak and triumphant.
I’m very aware of sounding dramatic when I say this, but it must be said: for the past week, I have felt like the octopus.
In the days leading up to my egg collection, my energy levels plummeted. After a few hours of moderate morning activity (making a cup of tea, driving my dogs to the beach to stand while they walked themselves, reading two pages of a book, scrolling Instagram), I would take afternoon naps that stretched out into the evening. I felt constantly sick and my stomach was so swollen that it looked like I was smuggling a bowling ball under my top.
The thing that occupied my thoughts during the days I spent wallowing on the sofa, paralysed by nausea and anxiety, was that my body was not working in the way it should. I, quite simply, was not coping. But still, I came back to the same thought: I was made to do this!
I thought of the people I’ve spoken to who find stimulating a breeze and of all the people online whose stories I’d absorbed; the ones who find it in themselves to smile in front of a milestone card on the morning of egg collection. I was comparing my body to theirs in the same way I pick apart my appearance whenever I see freakishly beautiful people like Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid (even when she’s doing the crab).
Despite my mind protesting, the fact is: no one is built to have their body pumped full of hormones to stop ovulation while simultaneously stimulating your ovaries to create as many follicles (the little sacs that contain eggs) as possible. When your path to parenthood involves more than just a shag at the right time of the month, it feels as if IVF should feel natural.
Something this process has brought up a lot for me is the feeling of being unnatural, a notion I had never considered. My dad has always maintained that childbirth seems like such an unnatural pain for such a natural thing, and IVF feels a lot like that too. I know that Jess and I are going to be amazing parents, but I still struggle with the idea that we have to go through this to be where we want to be as a family.
My ever-racing thoughts and the unexpected side effects caught me completely off guard, so when it got to egg collection there was nothing left in the tank. We schlepped to the clinic in London where I was given a series of forms to sign before being put in a hospital gown and whisked into theatre.
The last thing I remember was lying on a hospital bed, legs akimbo, wondering whether anyone else in the room had seen Ratched. A tall man leaned over me and said “it’s time for your gin and tonic” and then I woke up surrounded by bloody tissue and smiling faces. I was wheeled back through to the make-shift ward – a maze of blue curtains full of hopeful people awaiting the same fate, a little bit like a chicken coop.
To add to my chaotic presence (I had already said “I can’t believe I’m having a baby with a stranger!” when the nurse had asked me to confirm the sperm donor’s details), I threw up as soon as I came round. The pain was worse than I expected, but soon subsided with the painkillers administered during the 30-minute operation.
They wasted no time in sitting me up, forcing a bottle of water down me and handing me a packet of those flower-shaped shortbread biscuits with little raisins in them. The doctor came in and told me how many eggs they’d retrieved, and within half an hour I was booted out of the clinic into the open arms of Jess and my mum, who’d been sat in the car eating Pret Christmas sandwiches on Harley Street in the rain for a few hours.
Now, almost a week later, I’m starting to feel myself coming back to life. This is the part of the process that no one really talks about in great detail. Some of the things I wish I’d been told before:
It’s not easy for everyone. Be prepared to take time off if you need it – before and after the egg collection. I suffer with PCOS and because of this I was really ill in the lead up to the egg collection and for days after.
There might be blood when you wake up in theatre. Not everyone bleeds, but if you do, it’s normal. I didn’t know that when I woke up in a puddle of it!
The OHSS (ovarian hyper stimulation syndrome) risk is real for everyone, but particularly in those under 30 and those with PCOS. It’s imperative that you learn to spot the signs as OHSS can be dangerous.
The drugs can fuck you up. If you have a fresh embryo transfer, you might be prescribed Cyclogest, a progesterone pessary. Reader: I do not get on with Cyclogest. Be prepared for post-Christmas dinner style bloat 24/7 and the most chronic constipation of your life.
I’ve spent a lot of time this week thinking about how much to share in Open Arms. For instance, whether I’ll share when we have an embryo transfer or how many eggs I’ve had collected. I’m trying to err on the side of caution, and only write the things that I’d want to read. The last thing I want is for Open Arms to become another online outlet for people to compare themselves to. I’ll continue to be honest, but I might leave out some details to protect some magic for you, and for us too.
AMA: How did you go about finding a clinic?
I had a few messages this week asking what clinic we’re with and why we chose them. We didn’t win the postcode lottery, so NHS funding for fertility treatment for same-sex couples is out of the question. Because of this, we were forced to go private. We’re aware of our privilege – this is an expensive route to go down, and one that we’ve had to save for a long time to access.
We’re with the London Women’s Clinic, who have a few regional clinics dotted around. Something you don’t know when you start treatment (particularly IVF) is how many scans you’ll need to have. I was being scanned every other day during stimulation, so found having somewhere relatively nearby useful. We live in Margate, so having access to the Canterbury clinic was vital for us to be able to carry on life as normal while we had treatment. We still had to go to the main clinic in London for big procedures, but otherwise everything is done closer to home.
London Women’s Clinic have a great reputation, are sensitive and knowledgable about fertility treatment for same-sex couples and are very transparent about pricing. Plus the nurses in Canterbury are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met.
We opted against getting sperm from the clinic’s own bank, the London Sperm Bank, and instead chose our donor from the European Sperm Bank. Newsletter #3 is going to be about the sperm donor.
Got a question? Ask me anything! I want for Open Arms to become a source of support, information and guidance for anyone considering starting a family, but particularly those in LGBTQI+ relationships and those going solo. Please message me on Instagram or email me if there’s anything you’d like to ask. There’s no question too big, too small or too silly! If there’s a question I can’t answer, I’ll find someone who can and report back.
The Reading List
This week, the news has been preoccupied with the endless doom we’re experiencing. I’ve also been preoccupied by the endless doom that is the period of rest after an egg collection. So, a different kind of reading list for a different kind of week:
Emma Roberts cover interview for Cosmopolitan
Cosmopolitan cover star and OG Wild Child Emma Roberts reveals that she’s battled with endometriosis (sad) and froze her eggs (sensible). She goes on to say “it sounds cheesy, but the moment that I stopped thinking about it, we got pregnant [naturally].” This is a narrative surrounding fertility that I cannot abide, because for lots of queer people, we can’t just stop thinking about it and get pregnant naturally. Am I being spiteful and bitter? Probably! Good luck with your life Emma Roberts!
Hammond B3 Organ Cistern by Gabrielle Calvocoressi
Trigger warning: self harm, suicide
I’m very aware that I’ve talked about death quite a lot in this newsletter, but I’ve found it to be something that occupies my mind a lot more now I’m trying to start a new life. I come back to this divine poem by Gabrielle Calvocoressi (a great lesbian poet) a lot, but especially when I’m feeling hopeful or thankful to be alive. This poem is about waking up and not wanting to die, and makes me feel an overwhelming gratitude to my past self for giving me the opportunity to live this life. IVF is hard, but I’m glad to be here to do it.
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Disclaimer
I’m not a doctor! I’m not a fertility consultant! I’m just writing about my own experience. I’m happy to guide you in the right direction, but you must know that I’m wrong a lot of the time. As with anything you find on the internet, it’s imperative that you do your own research.