Egg Donation: I wish I could have brought a camera

Things you need to know:

- I've never broken any bones.
- I still have my appendix.
- I fainted once giving blood.



It's weird to voluntarily go to hospital for surgery. As the nurse put the cannula into my hand I was like, "Oooh, cool!" That may have been the wrong response.

But going to hospital voluntarily means that I was psychologically prepared.

After signing a bunch of documents and having a little identifying plastic tag secured onto my wrist (which, oddly, had the word 'female' in brackets on it rather than, say, my blood type or some more important information) I was given a hospital robe to change into. It hadn't occurred to me that I'd be wearing one and I was surprised how ugly it was. A couple different nurses told me off for using my phone, but there was quite a bit of waiting around so what else was I supposed to do? Did a little tweeting in the loo.

Then it started. The doctor introduced herself, asked if I minded some PhD students watching the proceedings. I was like, "Yeah, no worries," because I enjoy being part of SCIENCE. The cannula went into my hand followed by the liquid that would, "Give me nice dreams." Then I was being wheeled into surgery.

Being wheeled around the hospital on the wheely bed was pretty great. It was like being part of a TV drama. And I wasn't scared or in pain, like you might normally be. My stomach was aching a little from the ovary stimulating drugs, but it wasn't like I'd just taken a bullet to the chest. I was watching all these health professionals leaning over me, pushing me through this sterile hospital environment - white/grey hospitals and heavy doors - and I kept thinking, "This is really fun. What good practice."

For what?! But then, statistically, something nasty and violent may well happen to me during my life. Especially if I become the kind of reporter I want to be. I wasn't crying and I wasn't screaming. I wasn't scared about what would happen once I left the hospital. There was no external danger. Nothing to have flashbacks about later.

Going to hospital voluntarily means that I am psychologically prepared.


This morning I posted an update on Facebook. I'll repost it here verbatim. Chances are if you're reading this you got here from Facebook anyway.

So, egg donation update: AFTERMATH.

Hospital a bit of a blur. Injection in hand, bit dopy, wheeled into surgery, had surgery (apparently asked a bunch of questions but have no memory), got wheeled back to ward, ate toast, was picked up by the lovely Isla Cameron and Gabriella Da Cruz Welsh. Went to tesco, they bought me ice-cream, came home and watched X-Men: First Class.

BUT THEN, towards end of movie started to feel v.sick. Went to bathroom and said hello to my ice cream again (got to hand it to Ben and Jerry's that is still tasted good on the way back up), in bit of pain, drank some water, threw up again, phoned hospital who told me not to worry, had some paracetamol, passed out in bathroom, mum put me to bed.

Everything hurts. Feeling a bit sorry for myself.

But later this afternoon I went to the loo and there was a bit of diluted blood or pinkish fluid and I thought, "Hey, this is probably physically close to how an abortion feels." And I felt stronger. Like I'd passed some sort of mid-twenties female milestone.

Because this whole experience has been defined by it's relation to other more common things. I had a scan and asked for a photograph and they were exactly the same size and form as baby scan photos. They must use the same equipment. It was weird to look at the images and not see a baby, instead seeing this honeycomb of follicles.

The doctors told me they managed to get seventeen eggs. That's more than they usually get and they were very pleased. I'll phone up in late spring and ask if there was a successful pregnancy. They won't even have transferred them yet. They're fertilised outside the body, then the embryos are observed for a few days and then they're transferred into the woman who's carrying the child. In my case that will be the mother. I wonder how the recipients are doing and whether they're wondering how I am.

I'm upright on the sofa. And feeling strong. Yes, my stomach hurts when I laugh - but it's done! I can start going to the gym again and taking my birth control and resume the normal tenor of my life.

I feel stupidly and immensely proud of myself.