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I’m OOO this week for a very unglamorous reason: I’m having another round of egg extractions - my third.
For the uninitiated, yes, it’s exactly as painful as it sounds. Yes, it costs the same as a small car (or a Jumbo Chanel 2.55 bag, which is my money metric.) And yes, it’s emotionally fraught in all the ways you’re imagining plus a few you probably aren’t.
I’m trying to hold onto the “it’s insurance, and I’m lucky to be in a position to do it” mindset which is true, but honestly that feels pretty far away when you’re pumped full of hormones, bloated like a sad goth pufferfish and feeling like warmed-up dog shit.
So, here’s what I wrote about the process the last time I went through it. Sharing it again because someone else out there might be in the same boat, or thinking about it, or just curious about what actually happens behind the polite euphemisms of “fertility treatments.”
I have to be fully honest: I didn’t really want to write this post.
Partly because I’m in the middle of it, which means everything feels raw and unprocessed. And partly because I’m now doing another round of egg freezing immediately after the last one - no breather, no emotional intermission, just straight back into the injections and the scans and the quiet, creeping dread of another crap result.
And if I’m really honest, I’m scared. Not in the big cinematic way - more in the quiet, persistent way that sits in your chest like a stone. I’m scared of going through all of this again only to end up with the same disappointing amount of eggs. I’m scared of pouring more money, more time, more hormones and more hope into something that might not even work.
What makes it harder is the deep unfairness threaded through the whole process. You endure the bloating, the bruises, the tears that appear out of nowhere, the hormone fog that makes your brain feel like cotton wool and still, you’re left with numbers and outcomes you can’t negotiate with. There is no “working harder” at this. There is only surrendering to biology and hoping it decides to be kind.
For those who haven’t experienced it before you’ve begun you’ll be told about the status your own fertility, the decline in eggs 35, and how you’d be better off a) getting knocked up naturally or b) freezing embryos. Cheery stuff, if you’re single and over 35, let me tell you.
Then the egg extraction process entails the weeks of hormone prep along with almost-daily trips to the clinic for vaginal scans. Depending on the clinician you get, they’re either careful or shove this perspex probe into you and wield it around your nethers like it’s a bloody joystick from the 90s. The actual injections themselves are tricky to administer, but you do get quite blasé about injecting yourself in the stomach several times a day. But I wasn't prepared for the low moods, month-long extreme PMT, painful stomach cramps, emotional outbursts and exhaustion that comes along with it. And that’s before you’re sedated to have the eggs extracted by a surgeon with a giant needle and then sent home to recuperate in agony on your own.
People have been well meaning when they cheer you on during the process, in a sort of “well done you for taking control of what you can” kinda way, but in truth as a single person, it feels like yet another thing to do on your own, up there with paying your bills, making sure you don’t die alone in your flat (I think about this way too much) and spider catching (up the hoover, zero fucks given.)
Everything rests on your shoulders, an invisible pressure that coupled up friends who are now a ‘we’ so easily forget, or just haven’t experienced. At my worst moments I’ve even found myself jealous of the nervous couples in the waiting room at the fertility clinic. Though their journey is so tough too - at least they’re huddled together in their anguish. When you’re single, that misery is yours alone.
I genuinely thought the hard bit was getting down to the weight limit, which has been a source of conflict for me (read more about that here) and finding the extortionate amount of cash needed to do it, which I also recognise is a privilege. But it turns out, there was much more doom to come, namely that all of the negativity that I’ve tried so hard to keep out of my mind has decided to group together and plan a sneak attack on me. In more rational times I’d remind myself that it’s better to be alone than with the wrong person, I'd be lying if I said that part of me has started to think that maybe I should have just picked somebody ok and gone for it.
I keep catching myself thinking about the alternate timeline - the one where I stayed with the gorgeous “I just want a simple life” ex. The one who found so many things about me intimidating that I slowly, almost imperceptibly, started dressing down around him. What would life look like the ex who maintained that he wanted somebody smart and independent, but married the exact opposite. Or the one who just can’t seem to make enough space for me in his life, despite the love letters and heartfelt declarations. The searing loneliness of this process isn’t helped by so many friends being pregnant and having kids (including an ex who said he didn’t want kids and now does - ouch.) It’s a seductive fantasy - the parallel universe where everything is easier, neater and feels more aligned. At least in my mind.
And then, right behind the wistfulness, comes the anger - the part of me furious that I put up with all of that and let my own time slip through my fingers. I’m also angry at the things that contributed to so many poor relationship choices. My own Indian culture for not allowing me to feel worthy unless I was top of the class (I never was). I’m angry about the missed ADHD and dyslexia diagnosis that leads so many neurodivergent people to have deep-rooted feelings of low self worth because we’re trying to exist in world’s built for neurotypical brains.
I’m both furious and heartbroken that the beauty standards of my early life imprinted so deeply that I spent years believing thin and white were the only ways to be attractive. That belief convinced me no one would ever want to date me, and it’s taken a long, painful, ongoing journey to unlearn that and actually see my own beauty and value. And on top of all that, I’m exhausted by the men I’ve dated who are perfectly happy to waste your time - men who never seem to feel the same pressure of a ticking clock.
None of these are cute thoughts and I don’t want to sit in them for so long that they become my default setting - or worse, my armour. Perhaps the antidote is being surrounded by the love of your chosen family (animals, pals, Real Housewives, KFC) and keeping hold of any hope you can muster, even if it feels exceedingly fleeting. Right now, I’m so hormone addled I have no idea. But if you’ve got any thoughts or experiences to share, I’d love to hear them.
Much eggy love….
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