For my thirty-fifth birthday I gave myself three gifts: a home party that got out of hand, an expensive designer table and an even more expensive event: freezing my precious eggs. Some friends had already done this to me and I wanted to hear exactly how it worked. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a fertility clinic watching a PowerPoint presentation about the chances of a pregnancy being successful, about the number of eggs needed per pregnancy and about how much the whole mess would cost me.
“A good age, certainly right on time,” said the doctor, while a face mask hid my tears. I could never have imagined that at the age of 35 I would be sitting alone in a hospital trying to extend my expiration date and thus end up among the statistics of highly educated I-can’t-get-off-the-street women. I could never have imagined that at the age when my mother already had three children and her tropical years were long over, I would still be single myself and want to spend money on that. Because that whole idea of the feasibility of life doesn’t really suit me. Because according to my colleagues I was the best single on earth. Because my desire to have children was not yet very clear.
But before I knew it, I was lying there with my legs up and I was told that he couldn’t see that many. My eggs, that’s what he was talking about. Like a sad little bird, I quickly put on my panties and for a moment I no longer felt like a woman. A film unfolded with great drama in my head in which the younger women I passed on the street were all supreme beings, equipped with an extra operating system that had an answer ready to all existential questions in life. The doctor had talked about supplies and reserves, words that reminded me of my grandfather’s chicken food: stuff from large white plastic bags that you got from the Boerenbond. Or a spare pair of underwear that you put in your hand luggage, in case your suitcase gets lost in some beautiful paradise on the other side of the world.
Situation
However, things did not go well with my reserves. I promptly decided to go for it and straighten out this shitty situation. Four months and a mandatory visit to the hospital psychologist later, the time had come – just when I had met my then boyfriend. It wasn’t exactly romantic news to tell someone I knew for two weeks: “From next week I might become a hysterical woman because of all those hormones I have to inject into my body.”
But the whole process had begun: getting up every morning at seven o’clock to give myself an injection, quickly sneaking away to the refrigerator in my car during the staff party, just before dessert, running to the toilet during a theater performance with my backpack with cooling elements. there, like a junkie on my now blue belly, looking for a place where it was still possible.
I have often felt lonely, especially in the backstage toilet, when I had to play a concert and was afraid that my chaotic self would go flat with the dose. And then came the pickup, as they say. A special moment. An overly enthusiastic doctor – wearing a military hat and striking Adidas sneakers – pretended that he had won the best prize in a shooting gallery with every egg he could pick. In the meantime, the midwives explained what was happening with great empathy, while I tried to follow along, half knocked out, and had to shout in time if I wanted more anesthesia. Then, as I lay between two curtains to recover, I was told what the harvest had yielded: a meager loot, as it turned out. I consoled myself with the thought that my love supported me and that I might not even need those eggs. And that maybe I didn’t want children after all.
Second time
Because in the end you don’t buy half a car, I decided to do it a second time. The doctor, who spoke with a few too many diminutives, showed me the test tube this time and was again extremely exuberant, even though the harvest was even poorer than the first time. When I heard that my many injections, blood tests and uncomfortable ultrasounds had yielded so little, I cried. But he said I had made a smart choice and placed a comforting hand on my leg while he drew a picture of two people copulating with a cross through it. “Not for the first few days, anyway.”
In the meantime, that love has disappeared and I am in love again, but it does not necessarily feel like a relief that there is something in a freezer that increases my chances of sleepless nights. It does feel like a strong act, because I like to give presents and this time it was one completely for myself. And because the eggs might be a better investment than that house I renovated on my own and the damp walls of that idiot contractor who disappeared off the face of the globe.
Pathetic little bird
Recently, while on vacation, I told friends about my deep-freeze adventure. When it turned out that there was someone else who had done the same thing, I was shocked. “How many did you have? In which hospital? How many days did you have to recover? And were you also the loser of the day with the fewest eggs in the department?” It was nice to share the adventure. I no longer felt like a sad little bird, just watching the eggs fall from his freshly built nest.
Afterwards I can laugh about it, with that absurd scene there in the operating room, the doctor who was so proud of me even though I didn’t have to do anything, my ex-lover who didn’t really care and the child who might have been in the freezer. is waiting. Something that started impulsively, but after that relationship made me think about what could be done, and how nice it feels to be able to postpone that dilemma for a while. Because I was given so many opportunities at my own birth and I did not want to deny myself this opportunity for postponed doubt.
(To that contractor: you know where I live.)
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You can read more thoughts about and about life in the blog Uit het hart
