The tale of the egg collection

Thanks for all the good wishes ahead of Tuesday's egg collection - every one was much appreciated and brought me support. Here's the story of how the day went.

I was nil by mouth from midnight the night before, and had assumed I'd be too anxious to sleep, but in fact I was exhausted by 9pm and retired early to a surprisingly decent night's shuteye. I woke at 6, lay for an hour contemplating what was ahead, then rose.

I'd bought special organic unscented shower gel and deodorant for the day of the egg collection and embryo transfer as we'd been advised both by the clinic and by friends who've been through IVF that strong perfumes should be avoided.

I showered, stared for a while at my hideous, gnarly unpainted toenails and then got dressed in the exact same outfit, down to the socks, that I wore for my HSG so very long ago. My logic was that a) the garments in question rank among the most comfy, cosy clothes I possess and b) I survived that so, in the same way that I always tie the exact same red ribbon on my suitcase handle when I fly because so far every plane has landed safely, I'd survive this.

My mum arrived to collect me absurdly early - I inherited this trait from her - and we arrived at the clinic well in advance of my 9am slot. I had started to sense a flutter of panicky nerves during the car journey, but sitting in the waiting room I could feel my body determinedly relaxing in the way it does immediately before trauma. My most pressing concern was the amount of pain I was by now in from the bloating caused by so many follicles. My stomach was hugely distended and uncomfortable, and I felt like I needed the toilet all the time. I could not wait to get those eggs out of me and into petri dishes.

Hubby and I were both summoned into a consulting room by a nurse I hadn't met before. I didn't really warm to her: she tried to make jokes, and I suffer from sense of humour bypass on aeroplanes and in distressing clinical situations. When her cheerful remark that the drug they'd give me was so nice she'd "like to get some for the weekend" was met with a blank stare, she shut up and gave us the facts: they were running a little behind, so we'd need to wait in reception some more before going through to prep me for theatre.

This we duly did. I wasn't irritated that they were behind schedule - these things happen in hospitals - but I do remember glancing at the clock when it reached 9.45 with something like despair, as I'd assumed I'd be nearly done by then. Fool that I am.

It was gone 10 when we were eventually escorted to the ward and introduced to the ward sister, who I immediately liked for her warm but no-nonsense manner. There are four beds in the ward - amazingly, the clinic perform five egg collections each weekday - and I was the fifth and last patient of the morning. That meant I didn't get a bed to prep in, because there were two beds in use by recovering women, one awaiting the imminent return of the current operatee, and one with the girl before me in it. We were therefore shown to hardback chairs immediately adjacent to the curtain around my predecessor's bed.

It was fine at first but my abdominal discomfort started to increase - I guess the timing of the hCG injection means your eggs start to mature right before the collection - and sitting on an unyielding chair was no fun. Hubby was doing what he does in airports (I'm terrified of flying): reading a book and studiously ignoring me. The girl in the bed next to me started to complain about her own abdominal pain, which irritated me because at least she was lying down.

The sister then returned and went through the paperwork. She gave hubby a pot with his name on it, and me a credit card thing with mine. We then had to go over to the computer and scan both - they each had a barcode - to "lock us in" to the system and make sure everything that either squirted out of him or was gouged out of me was assigned to us.

After that the sister explained that the doctor - head honcho consultant, I was pleased to learn - would come and put a portacath in my arm ready for the administration of the drugs once I got to theatre. She asked if I had a problem with needles and was rewarded with a hollow laugh.

Hubby was then dispatched to produce his sample. I sat chewing my nails, fully expecting his sheepish head to emerge from the wank room and announce he couldn't get hard. I had a variety of waspish responses ready should that eventuality occur. My favourite was "You need to get a grip - literally".

He was back surprisingly quickly and sufficiently flushed and furtive to suggest that his endeavours had been successful. I asked as much and he announced that they had.

"Where the fuck's the sperm, then?" said I. He explained that there's a little window in the room - sort of like a dumb waiter - where the man puts the pot and then presses a buzzer when he's done, presumably to spare him the mortal embarrassment of walking out into the ward clutching his juice. How very thoughtful of the clinic. Shame stirrups don't come in embarrassment-free models.

Hubby returned to his book looking decidedly pleased with himself. The sister returned, congratulated him - yes, really; blokes need so much bloody encouragement - and then told me to get changed into a theatre gown, over which I was allowed to put the dressing gown and slippers I'd brought along.

I ducked into a tiny changing room furnished with lockers and a load of theatre clogs, presumably for girls who forget their slippers. Luckily I'd brought with me what I lovingly refer to as my "fluffy feet" - a pair of whimperingly soft and furry bedsocks which I wear nightly on my return from work until they get up and walk to the washing machine themselves.

The theatre gown was similar to the one I'd worn for the HSG: press studs in the back of the neck, then loose ties at the shoulders and waist, and otherwise open to the four winds. I was very glad of my dressing gown as I trudged back to our seats.

At this point, the girl in the next bed really started to get on my tits. The doctor was with her when I returned, putting in her portacath. I have sympathy for people who are afraid of needles, I really do, but for fuck's sake. I have no idea how she coped with the daily injections. Anyway, she was squealing and weeping and just generally overreacting in a highly vexing fashion. Hubby saw the expression on my face and his lips curved with amusement. After it was in, she immediately - immediately, mark you - started giggling and claiming to be hysterical, until the doctor pointed out wearily that she hadn't actually administered any drugs yet. At that moment my - and I like to think, the doctor's - mind was made up: drama queen. And she didn't even appreciate that she had a bed.

A few minutes later a new nurse came to collect her. I couldn't see through the curtain but I soon heard the nurse say, "No, sorry, you can't wear that - we need to be able to talk to you. Didn't you bring a CD?" and I knew that she must have not read the admission notes, which expressly forbid iPods, properly. "Nooooo," wailed Norma Desmond. "I need my music!" I mean, I ask you. The nurse sighed and said, "What were you planning to listen to? We have a few spare CDs if you'd like to choose one." The response, uttered whiningly: "Some chuuuuuurch muuuuuusiiiiic.".

After she departed I knew I had probably about half an hour still to wait. I was hoping they'd transfer me into Norma's bed, but they didn't. By this point my stomach was really hurting - it was like having horrendous wind - and the only way I could get comfy was to slouch back in the seat and prop my feet on the low magazine table in front of us. This was fine until a man arrived, presumably to produce a sample, and elected to sit in the chair DIRECTLY opposite my naked vagina. I was less than thrilled.

By this time it was nearing 11am - a lot longer than I'd thought the whole process of checking in would take. I started to worry that I'd ovulate the eggs and ruin everything, but hubby assured me that they wouldn't allow this to happen. Finally, Norma was wheeled back into her cubicle, blessedly quiet now, and the doctor came to say good morning and insert my portacath.

It went into the vein in the crook of my elbow fine, no worse than a blood test really despite what I've heard, and was taped securely in place. The doctor flushed some saline through it to make sure the liquid was going into me and then said it'd be just a few minutes more.

Shortly after that, a new nurse appeared and introduced herself as the theatre nurse. She took my CD - Sarah McLachlan, about the most soothing artist I own, with the particular album chosen for the presence of a song with the line "it'll all be worth it, worth it in the end" - and, after a quick peck on the lips from hubby (for me, not the nurse) led me down the corridor to the theatre.

At first glance it looked like a torture room from one of Eli Roth's less palatable films. There was a low sideboard spread with heinous implements, including pliers (what the FUCK could they possibly need those for? screeched my brain) and an ominous bed upholstered in black leather on a sort of raised dais in the middle. I had to walk to the end of the room, with another nurse beckoning me like a floor manager in a TV studio, and was instructed to insert my barcoded credit card into a reader. A voice then spoke to me from the wall. If I was a religious woman, I might have thought it was God, except it said "Hi, I'm Emma, the embryologist, can you confirm your name and date of birth please?" which doesn't seem like the sort of thing God would say.

Having duly confirmed my vital statistics, the nurse took my dressing gown and slippers and I was asked to clamber on to the bed and lie down. I was wearing my glasses, having sensibly left my contacts at home in case the drugs made me fall asleep, and the nurse said I could keep them on if I wanted to. This relieved me as things are always scarier when you can't see properly. I had to confirm I didn't have any allergies and wasn't wearing any nail polish (which, surely, they could have seen for themselves.

Once I was in position, though not yet in the stirrups, my blood pressure was taken. Next, a clip was placed on my left forefinger and an oxygen mask over my face. The doctor was bustling around with who-knows-what at the business end, and the theatre nurse told me she was going to administer the pain killer now, and then once it had taken effect, the sedative.

I didn't feel anything for about a minute but then suddenly it was like this warm, woozy sensation flooded me, starting in my legs and soon taking me over completely. The best way I can describe it is like being very, very drunk, but without the queasiness and room spin that often entails. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't quite pleasant. But one thing about it was that I knew I was no longer in control of my faculties; that I probably couldn't leap off this bed and run away if I wanted to, and that was a bit freaky.

Happy it had taken effect, the nurse started pumping in the sedative. And then it seemed things started immediately, although time sort of took on a fluid quality so perhaps there was a delay. The doctor said she was going to examine me, and I felt an icy cold speculum being cranked open inside me. It twinged a bit more than a speculum usually does, which made the words "Oh, fuck" scoot across my mind. Then that was removed and the scanner put in its place, which wasn't so bad.

"We'll do the right side first," the doctor said, and then there was a terrible pain. It was brief - it lasted maybe 15 seconds - but it was bad. It would have been the needle penetrating my vaginal wall and going into my right ovary. I must have gasped, because they all told me it was OK and how well I was doing.

I don't really remember much about the eggs on the right side coming out, just a feeling of intense pressure, slight crampiness and the sense that a lot of implements were rummaging around very deep inside me. Then I heard the dreaded words, "And now the left side" and braced myself for that stabbing pain again.

I remember nothing after feeling that. They said I might not remember any of the procedure - I like how I remember the pain of my wall being perforated but not something boring like being put on a trolley - and I certainly don't recall it ending, the scaffolding being dismantled and me being put back on the ward.

I woke up after what I assumed was only about ten minutes. I was in bed, in a curtained cubicle, in the recovery position, no longer wearing my glasses. I stared for a while at the curtain until I could focus and noticed that it was printed with images of bridges and famous buildings from the city where I live. I then became conscious of awful cramping pains in my lower tummy, and flipped on my back to ease them. A nurse checked on me just as I was doing this and told me I needed to lie on my side in case I was sick. She helped me roll over and then told me to sleep. I lasted about a minute on my side and then flipped back again. I'm nothing if not disobedient.

I dozed for a while but it was noisy on the ward - I had the sense there were throngs of people milling about - and I wanted my mum. I must have been woozier than I thought and whimpering as much because after what seemed like only a few minutes, the nurse was back asking if I wanted anything. "My mum," I said, so she went to get her. The sound of my mum's voice asking, "Is she OK?" as she was led down the corridor was music to my ears.

It turned out I had slept for nearly an hour and a quarter. Mum got a bit freaked when the first thing I said was that the bridge was on my curtain, until she looked and saw that it was true. She was with hubby, and they each took one of my hands, my mum chafing the one she held between her own as if I'd just come in from the cold. She put my glasses on me and the nurse propped up my bed so I was sitting. The cramps were still bad but subsiding and I started to feel better quickly.

I was given toast with strawberry jam, orange juice and coffee. I hadn't imagined I'd be hungry in a million years, but having not eaten since dinner the previous night I found I was ravenous. My mum read out a checklist of the things I needed to demonstrate before being discharged: namely, sitting up, eating, drinking, walking, and urinating. Anxious to be home, I did all of them.

The embryologist came to see me and told me they had got ten eggs, which she said was really good. I was told to phone at 10.30 the following morning to check fertilisation, and with that was sent on my relieved, if not merry, way.

The only issue on the way home were speedbumps, which jarred my tummy something rotten. But once back in my house I spent the afternoon snoozing in bed and on the sofa, and by evening felt as right as rain, if still a little bloated and sore.

I'm still tired and feel like I've written my fill today, but I'll be back tomorrow to tell you about embryo transfer - all ten eggs fertilised, and we ended up with three good embryos, one of which is now (hopefully) nestled inside me. All in all, it's been a dramatic week.