Know what I love most about hospitals, well GA’s specifically? It’s not just the needles – a cannula the size of a crochet needle going into your wrist – which spell fun in themselves and not even that fear which washes over you just as your about to go out for the count that you could end up never coming back…it’s the shit-ass yakking up for six hours afterwards. Fun times indeed. 

I’m the worst at recovery. I take forever to wake up (despite the nurses constant chatter in my ear about the ‘gorgeous shade of nail polish’ on my fingers) it takes me for ever to come to. I want sleeeeeeep. Leave me to sleep, for your own good. 

Once I could keep my eyelids open longer than a flicker then comes that feeling like you’ve been riding the giant drop all day. Backwards. I’m pretty sure my lungs may have exited my mouth at one point I was retching they hard. After three hours and the same amount of different anti-nausea drugs I won the battle with anaesthetic and stopped hacking up last week’s breakfast. 

I want to look but I’m a bit scared.  My head’s all Brad Pitt ‘the box, what’s in the boooooxxx’  eventually I turn my hand over and here it is. Five little eggies. 

  
I’ll save you The Vet’s Battle of Duty tale, it’s one he can tell you himself later but let’s just say he can probably sympathise with some of his male patients right now. And is likely going to need much consoling. 

Now we wait. Now we try not to get too excited. Or disappointed. The lab has called to say three were able to be injected so now we see if those three can grow. We wait. We wait. We wait. 

I’m settling in to watch some crappy acting and even shittier storyline in Fifty Shades. Grey might be a welcome distraction. Don’t judge…hormones and all. Lov n’ hugs, Lady MamaG xox