April 11, 2005
One envelope held new nametags for Maggie and Mumin, tags we ordered to allow our babies to go outside into the sunshine, tags which will allow them to be brought back to us should they ever run faster than we can. They'd had a hard weekend-one last follow-up injection to prevent against feline leukemia. Name tags. Flea protection. Nails trimmed and fur combed. To say they were unhappy was an understatement.
A serious birthday card for me comes in from a family member.
One envelope held tax information for Angus. It's tax time here in the UK and he's been invited to submit a tax declaration. As my case is far simpler-get paid, pay taxes, repeat monthly-they will do my taxes for me and simply mail me a statement. We also had our Swedish taxes come in and to my surprise I have received a stunning and unexpected windfall that will get packed into a bank account to prevent my temptations.
Another card comes in from another family member, complete with two pictures that I didn't ask for and don't want. It hardened my heart and my resolve. All three wound up in the garbage can.
The final package was a thick bundle of papers we had requested. I had called the office- a surgery located in London-and talked to the administrator.
Me: Hi, my name is Helen. We've been attending another clinic but we'd like to join yours.
Her: That's no problem at all! May I ask why you're switching?
Me: We thought the doctor was a pompous ass. So if you have a pompous ass there, better tell us now.
Her: No pompous asses here! Do you know what program you want?
Me: Yes, egg donation.
Her: Ooooh. We have a really long waiting list for that I'm afraid. How long are you willing to wait?
Me: Um....I dunno really. A month?
Her (pausing): Right. Our waiting list is two years right now.
I am utterly speechless at this as I hear the sound of my biological clock smashing to bits.
Her: We have a lot of women who need conception help and must wait a long time to receive eggs. Your name will be added to the list, and-
Me: Oh wait! No. I mean I want to DONATE my eggs, I don't actually need anyone else's.
Her: You want to donate? You mean the Egg Share program?
Me: Yes, I understand it helps others and I over-stim anyway.
Her (with a smile in her voice): How soon can you come, Helen?
The package of information, in a shiny blue folder with the picture of a gurgling baby, is from an IVF clinic in London. Angus and I have done a lot of research and found that there is a massive shortage of eggs for women who can't use eggs of their own-either due to pre-menopause, congenital defects, or lack of egg production-to the extent that the waiting lists are long. Most clinics are reaching a two year wait, and as such in England if you qualify (under 35, BMI of less than 32 and other factors) then if you will donate half of your eggs an IVF cycle is more or less free.
When I did my cycle of IVF in Sweden I produced 21 eggs. 21 is considered a high number, and of those 21, 18 were viable. 8 later fertilized. With this program, I will donate half of my eggs straight away to a woman who cannot have her own eggs. To a woman for whom the process isn't as simple as holding the love of her life close to her in bed, to make love and find the color changing on a stick out of sheer mystery and imagination. To a woman who wants to be a mother and have a family with the love of her life so badly.
A woman like me.
So we read all the literature in our shiny blue pack. On any given cycle, provided I produce more than 8 eggs, half will automatically be given to a woman who will be cycling with me, but whom I will never meet. I will never know her name and will never meet her children. I will be told if she conceives using my eggs, and should I not have my own children, maybe that will somehow soften the blow.
It feels so unbelievable to think that my life will forever be entwined with another woman that I will never meet. That our little family will have a connection to another little family as we go about our daily lives on the same small island. It's strange to know that me signing my name to a form means someone else's name jumps off the waiting list and into the world of injections, tears, and prayers.
We fill out the forms and put them in the envelope they came with. On our way back from grocery shopping and neighborhood checking (as we are beginning house shopping), we pull over to a red mailbox. Pulling my fingers out from their curved nook in Angus' hand, I put my fingers on the fine white paper. I easily slide the letter into the slot, feeling excited, feeling scared, feeling hopeful. I watch the envelope tip into the box and slide into the darkness where it will lie in wait for the next fingertips to take them.
The postman will never even realize that he is holding my heart.
The post gave me a gift. And in return, riding on a train somewhere and snuggled into a mailbag, my hopes and dreams are making their way into a London clinic.
In some way and in all modesty, I like to think that someone else's hopes and dreams are being answered now, too.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:56 AM
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