“[She] told me I’d got 29 eggs. Twenty-friggingnine! I’d never even bought that many at the supermarket”
An ovary is normally the size of a grape. By the end of this process, mine would be the size of tennis balls and I was aware of them knocking around down there. Walking and even sitting in certain positions became uncomfortable.
“You all right?” a friend of my sister’s asked when he came over for a barbecue one evening.
“Yup,” I replied, wincing and shifting in my seat. “Just sore ovaries.”
It probably wasn’t the answer he was expecting, but I was determined to be open about this process. That’s why I’ve recorded a podcast about the whole shebang, from my first doctor’s visit to a counselling session, the injections, my scans, a final “trigger injection” 36 hours before my operation to tell my body to release the eggs (fly, my pretties, fly!) and the operation itself.
I waddled into the hospital by myself. It was a Sunday morning and there were mostly couples going through IVF in the reception area, so, from behind my mask, I grimaced at the only other single woman sitting nearby.
I was shown upstairs to my room and, not long after, went into theatre. I came round in the recovery room about 40 minutes later. The embryologist told me I’d got 29 eggs. Twentyfrigging-nine! I’d never even bought that many at the supermarket. Seven of them weren’t quite mature enough, so 22 were going in the freezer. When the doctor popped in to check on me, I asked between sobs whether I’d have to pay more for storage because I’d got so many. No, no, he reassured me, but said I should take it easy for a few days because such a high number meant I was at risk of a complication called ovarian hyper-stimulation syndrome (OHSS). Developing that many follicles can flood your body with fluid, which can be fatal if it reaches your lungs.
Over the next few days, I had a mild version of the condition. Sure, the results were great, but I lay on my mum’s sofa for five days like an orca, my abdomen hard and vast, swallowing antibiotics to avoid post-operation infections and drugs that made me feel sick.
But I still felt my shoulders drop. I was taken aback by the wave of relief afterwards. Even though there are no guarantees that any of those eggs will make a baby, even though my round cost nearly $9000, I was surprised by the level of peace it gave me.
I now have 22 eggs in the freezer, stashed in a tank full of liquid nitrogen with a barcode label so they’re not mixed up with anyone else’s. (“I hope the labels aren’t like the ones on old marmalade jars, which peel off too easily,” worries my mother.) I can fertilise them with a partner or a sperm donor any time in the next decade. I might not need them – a man who uses dental floss might appear in my life tomorrow, but if he doesn’t, I have options.
I’m not alone in wanting them. In Australia, leading egg-freezing clinic Genea Horizon saw a 78 per cent increase in the number of women accessing egg freezing between 2017 and 2018. In Britain, the number of women freezing eggs or embryos has increased by 523 per cent since 2012.