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Lemme at those eggs. Please.

September 19, 2010

The first one to two months of the process must feel to the reproductive staff a little something like dealing with a kindergartner on Christmas Eve:

Can I see the egg donor list now? Can I? Huh? Now? Now? When? Now?

Now?

It all feels super urgent, because while you’re waiting for permission, some other woman is snatching up your perfect egg donor. Again, like dating — if only you’d been available at the same time, it would have been kismet. But some other woman (some less attractive, less intelligent, less you person, of course) slipped in there and snatched her away from you.

No, not now, the nurses say, faux-patiently. In reality, most of the nurses seem to think that because they’ve been through this schedule 300 times, so have you. Guess what, nurses? We’re not all Duggars. This is entirely new information.

First, we’re going to need some blood from you. Then, you’re going to need to wait a week until you hear back about the blood we took from you. Then we’re going to need a little more blood.

Then it will be a month of estrogen patches (more on that amusement park ride to come), after which we’re going to stick a camera in a place nothing was ever expected to enter. After you get the uterine pronouncement (did I mention mine was beautiful?), you will be let into the golden gates.

It’s an enormous occasion, right? This is when you get to decide just what combination of genetic whosits and thingamabobs will get mixed up in a petri dish in that magical moment when your child was conceived. (If some people name their child Dallas, or Paris, after the locus of conception, should mine be named Laboratory?)

I imagined being summoned to the World Fertility Headquarters, in a scene out of “Get Smart,” with doors opening and locking behind me, until finally I was alone in a small room with a giant book, bound in leather and trimmed in gold leaf. Within were the profiles, the essays, the baby photos — nay, the essences — of all the women lining up to be my baby mama.

What actually happened: They sent me a password to a website.

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. CWebb permalink
    September 21, 2010 6:37 pm

    YOU SHOULD SO NAME IT PETRI!

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