So yesterday I was back in hospital, I think they know me pretty well because, it’s about oh, I don’t know, the four hundred and seventeeth time I’ve been under general anaesthetic this year (okay, so maybe not quite that many but sure is a real lot). And it’s no secret how much I love needles. Almost as much as I love pulling my toenails off with a pair of blunt pliers. But I do have a bloody funny story to tell you about being in the recovery ward which involves some intimate elective surgery and an 82-year-old.

But yes, I’m back to the start. Back to waiting. Back to needles, popping pills by the plenty and generally stuffing my body full of things that not only make me more cray cray than Sharon Osborne after a few chardy’s but has ensured that pratically every. single. thing. in my wardrobe doesn’t fit me anymore. And let me tell you sista’s, this Lady Mama G has a wardrobe that could rival Miranda Kerr on a bad day. Bit like being put in front of a giant bowl of M & M’s and told you can only look at them, thanks very much.

After my much loved needle treatment, it was time for egg retrieval. And you know the really awesome thing about Fertility (or lack thereof in this instance) is that absolutely nothing is in your control. Nothing. Around every corner there is a waiting game. You have to wait to see how many eggs they found in your baby boiler. Then you have to wait to see how many got injected. And then the real fun part, you get to wait each day for around five days (in my case) to see if said eggies have hatched into some little embies – and those are the jackpot. You need embryos to last that long so they’ve got a much better chance at making it to home base…which of course is being up the knock.

For some reason, this time I only got a third the amount of eggs as last time which means our chances of getting some good little growers is somewhat slimmer. I’d be lying like Bill Clinton if I didn’t say that didn’t hit me hard. Now it’s all in the control of the gods, the scientists, or someone anyone but me. I must sit and wait for my daily phone call to see how my little hatchlings are growing.

Every shitful bit about this infertility process is ups and downs. Ups are good and downs, well they’re about as low as scooping up a half-used cigarette butt from the gutter. And then smoking it.

But I did promise you one good story didn’t I? Sitting in recovery in my white fluffy dressing gown (standard issue) to the opposite of me was a dear old 82-year-old lady who had been in for back surgery. Beside her sat two young twenty-something girls with plastic surgeon bags beside them. After dear old Mrs Love finished telling us about her operation, she turned to the young girl beside her and asked what she’d been in for. ‘Oh labioplasty,’ came her reply. Mrs Love thought she didn’t hear right. ‘Pardon,’ she asked. ‘What’s that?’. Young twenty-something was then left to explain to the woman beside her – who no doubt had seen a lot in her time – but nothing quite like that. I’m pretty sure she will never ask another young patient what she’s in for. Ever. Again.

If you caught Mary Costa’s interview on 60 Minutes last weekend, like me, you would probably have been bawling. Her journey has been one of hardship, heartache and total and utter turmoil but – and even though it took 10 years – she finally has some good news. There is nothing easy or simple about going down the long and windy road to fertility but at least at the end of it you get something you will cherish more than life its very self.

Right now I’m crossing everything I have and mustering up all my courage just to make it through this week of waiting. Cook little hatchlings, cook good. Love n’ hugs, Lady MamaG xox