As I looked back in the rear view mirror I saw a sight I’d never seen before. It was a sandy coloured snake half flattened by the tyres of our 2004 Black Volkswagon on its way to Horsham. A few moments later Heidi reveals, “I’ve decided I’m ready to have a baby”. Happiness follows.
You hold on, and hold on some more, sometimes there’s never a good time to pee. I can’t answer the phone. Voicemail: “Hello Tim, it’s Doctor Cameron here, the operation went well. The endometriosis was more advanced than I thought. I have noticed her fallopian tubes aren’t responding well. I’ll explain to all to you and Heidi when you when you come in the office”. Confusion follows.
“Check there’s no bubble, then simply dispense the fluid into your abdomen” Easy right? Wrong. The precise timing required for these injections is juxtaposed by the unpredictable effect caused by the hormones. There is nothing natural in this act of human pin-cushioning. Science follows.
Golf World, New Weekly or Harper’s Baazar? Who am I kidding, I wont be able to take in one single syllable. From behind the door and cream walls of a small ajoining room I hear the slow muffled assessment of male doctor, “Not much going on there”. Anxiety follows.
Through a Perspex booth window I am met by a pleasant woman, “Can you please confirm your name and date of birth? “… Ok just make sure you lock the door behind you and come back to the office when you’re done”. Freshly laundered towels protect red vinyl seats. There is a motivational library in both editorial and video formats, yet neither seems to alter the sterile nature of the environment. Relief follows.
Hopes are high, but hope has little effect on settling jangling nerves. Between 11am and 3pm they said they’d call. Minutes feel like eternity; the background chatter of Channels 9’s Summer of Cricket is not enough to distract a whirlwind of possibilities racing through my noggin. Why are they torturing me like this? 3:32pm. Finally, the phone rings. Heartbreak follows.
One, two, three strikes later and the chemistry is now more effective. Problem is the more eggs we get, the more pain Heidi endures. The irony is that in order to extract the eggs, the uterus needs to be conquered. The good doctor provides some solace in her post surgery note, “Great result, 5 eggs!” Hope follows.
No more needles. No more operations. Not for the next few months anyway. The gateway to our future now lies stored in a freezer somewhere on Victoria Parade. Waiting follows.