I’m sitting on the floor with all the IVF paraphernalia. Tons of needles, vials of IVF medication, and alcohol swabs. I am taking slow, deep breaths feeling nervous before giving myself the shot. My main fear is making sure there are no air bubbles, so I’m flicking the barrel neurotically. This isn’t worth dying over.
I’ve watched Trainspotting enough times to get the gist of what to do but I’ve never actually injected drugs. It’s not easy. Suddenly Alex walks in and sees me with a needle in my leg and screams. Does he think I’ve relapsed? I don’t even have my ears pierced – that’s how phobic I am of needles. But he’s fled the scene in horror. “Come back,” I shout. “I need your help.” I couldn’t draw all the fluid up into the vial and I was sweating profusely.
It’s not that he didn’t know I was doing IVF – I just wanted to spare him the details. He had finally met my fertility doctor – after dragging his feet. He even agreed to do a sperm sample.
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