Issue 04: Everyone needs a funny one

Saturday July 07 2018

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve tried to explain the female reproductive system to my husband. Most of them were during our year of IVF using donor eggs. Granted, the addition of another person makes it slightly more complicated, and once his one job is done (absolutely essential, but definitely on the more fun end of the medical spectrum) he loses capacity for comprehension. I get it, he doesn’t have the same organs, ergo he can’t comprehend the biology.

Today we’re on the sofa catching up with Ozark on Netflix, calming downtime after reading through our surrogate Laura’s profile. It’s the same questionnaire the agency — which, for reasons that I have explained in previous columns, is in America — sends to intended parents and potential surrogate to make sure we’re aligned with regards to moral stance (how we’d deal with any abnormalities, multiples, doctor’s advice, etc) and relationship goals (how much contact we’d like with the surrogate pre and post-birth). This forms the all-important initial matching.

There’s TV-induced tension as the hero gets electrocuted in his own boat.

Husband pipes up: “I like that she doesn’t want an emdomedum for the birth. She must just really love having babies.”

I think for a minute. “Do you mean epidural babe?”

“Maybe. What’s the emd-thingy?”

“Endometrium? The lining of the womb? You definitely need one of those to have a baby.”

But it’s kind of nice that, because I’m not going through it myself, he doesn’t need to worry about the intricate details.

Even better for me. Any (frequent, I’ll be honest) anxiety or sadness I have at not being able to carry my own child is quickly countered by the relief of not having to go through countless uncomfortable scans, daily injections, drugs on top of more drugs and, in my case, several operations.

We’ve just booked our flights to Miami where our chosen fertility doctor is to facilitate, essentially, the world’s most expensive masturbation. It takes me back to the start of our Russian donor-egg IVF escapade, which yes, for a moment, feels as though we’re going back to square one. The timing is annoying. I’m not getting any younger, but more importantly, we are desperate for my husband’s 91-year-old grandmother to meet her favourite great-grandkid one day, so my heart feels heavy at the thought of starting over on this new path after so many attempts on the last one.

However, the sheer relief of travelling to a clinic and not having to do a thing is incredibly refreshing and uplifting, and makes my husband feel jealous. Ha! One point to infertility. I will take my small joys where I find them.

A few days later we’re driving to my parents’ house and I can see my husband is deep in thought. “I’m a bit worried about Laura travelling too frequently for hospital appointments in her ninth trimester.”

Me: “In her what?”

Him: “Her ninth trimester.”

Me: “Exactly how many TRI-mesters do you think fit into a pregnancy my love?”

His concentration face busies itself for the next ten seconds or so before his realisation face takes its place.

It’s so nice to cry because I’m laughing for a change. With eternal thanks to my sometimes hilarious husband.