Retrieval

23 mature eggs on ice

1/19/25: On the train heading uptown at 6:30 AM. I realize I left the red lentil soup I made last night on the stovetop and forgot to refrigerate it. Furious at myself. Stupid, stupid, incompetent.

I arrive at the building, head to the third floor, and wait. Maddy, one of the nurses, comes out and ushers me into a bathroom in the back, telling me to change into a robe and put my items in a locker. The briefing documents tell you not to bring any “valuables or large amounts of money” with you. I laugh to myself, imagining stuffing wads of cash into the locker.

I’m then brought to a small partitioned area where Maddy hooks me up to an IV, puts a blanket over my lap, and tells me the chair has massage capabilities. She says my veins are tired from all the blood work but lucky for us, they’ll allow for this one last puncture. NGL this makes me a little woozy.

I like Maddy. She’s direct and clear but not cold, with dirty blonde hair in a messy bun and tatted arms, and she seems about my age. She tells me exactly what to expect with the anesthesia and symptoms I might experience after the procedure, and it doesn’t feel like she’s rushing through it or has given this schpiel a thousand times even though I’m sure she has.

When I got wrist surgery in 2020, I was so upset by the experience of not being able to identify when the anesthesia hit and feeling so out of control. I hated thinking about being in that fluorescent room with so many men — including the sales rep for the metal that they were placing in my wrist — and having been unconscious, not knowing what I said or did or what they said or did. I didn’t have that level of trust to give them at the time.

I cried the whole day after, feeling violated and exposed. I couldn’t fully articulate why it felt so bad to my ex-boyfriend, who was trying to comfort me. This time, Maddy was clear that I would likely wake up groggily just as I was being wheeled out of the room, and we might even have a conversation, but I probably wouldn’t remember what I said, and that was normal.

Egg retrieval is categorized as a “minimally invasive procedure,” which is hilarious if you think about it because the doctor puts a large needle through your vaginal wall to remove the fluid and eggs from your oversized follicles. On average, it only takes about 20 minutes, so you’re given a light dose of Propofol. You’re knocked out but breathing on your own.

I’m brought into the procedure room. The anesthesiologist, doctor, and nurse are there. A close-up of my name is projected onto the screen, so it just reads, “DRINK,” which I point out, and we laugh. I lie back, find the pillow with the back of my head, and put my legs in stirrups. They tell me they’re going to start the Propofol and to take deep breaths. I do and feel a hot, warming sensation on my face, a happiness.

I’m being wheeled into a recovery room. It’s Maddy. I feel such warmth and goodwill toward her. Humanity is amazing. People are amazing. I feel amazing. I owe everyone everything. I’m in and out of a fuzzy, electrically happy sleep with a medical-grade heating pad on my stomach. My mom is there all of a sudden, and we hold hands through the bars of the bed. Her hands are so soft, and I love her so much. Apple juice and two packets of saltines. Maddy comes in and tells me they collected 44 eggs, which is incredible, the most she’s seen is 53. But also tells us it’s likely they’re not all mature (a mature egg has a polar body and the correct number of chromosomes for fertilization. Not true of an immature egg.)

I’m discharged, and we thank Maddy, who promises she will call later to check in on me.

My mom and I go to the CVS on the corner and get Tylenol, Colace, Gatorade (blue and lemon-lime), popcorn, an “I Love My Cat” mug, and panty liners. We call an Uber and head to my apartment. I feel fine.

Coco comes over with egg and cheese sandwiches, Wheat Thins, and Nutella Biscuits in tow. We settle in with the snacks and decide to watch A Real Pain. We love the script and are blown away by Kieran Culkin’s performance. I have some cramping but feel good otherwise. My aunt Debra sends a delivery, and we pause to intercept it: an orchid, cat grass, Hershey’s Kisses, and chocolate chip cookies. We FaceTime while we open it. She’s still evacuated from her home, and I feel guilty that she’s thinking about me when I should be thinking about her. I get a call from Maddy, 23 mature eggs were collected and will be frozen.

You brought me home.

My mom leaves, and Lena comes over just as my stomach starts hurting more. She brings a humidifier. She’s the worst person to come at this time because she makes me laugh so much, and it hurts. Lena makes us watch Sam’s Song for Joel in Somebody, Somewhere after we give Coco an unnecessarily long background recap of the show and their friendship because she hasn’t watched it. We all cry.

Coco leaves. Me and Lena order ShakeShack, which Lena describes as “Butter-Butter,” her term for food that’s really fucking good. I’m not supposed to eat greasy food today, but we decide it’s actually not that greasy (definitely not true). After demolishing our burgers, we get in my bed and continue watching “Molly-Mae: Behind It All.” “She’s so strong,” we keep saying to each other. The pain is getting worse. Lena leaves, and I fall asleep.

1/20/25: Cecile Richards passes away. Trump is inaugurated. He grants clemency to nearly every person charged in connection with January 6. He signs dozens of horrific executive orders. Reproductive rights groups make plans for his return, while the government website reproductiverights.gov — a site launched by the Department of Health and Human Services in 2022 to provide people with information on access to abortion and reproductive health care — goes dark.

My 23 eggs make their way to their cryo-chamber as Trump makes his way to the Capitol Rotunda.

a bunch of p*ssys

“Despite clocks and the regular turning of the earth, time is experienced as passing at different rates. This impression is generally dismissed as subjective, because time, according to the nineteenth-century view, is objective, incontestable, and indifferent; to its indifference there are no limits.” — John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos