These past few weeks didn’t quite go how I’d hoped. In what should have been a lil Hugo or Evie embie transfer yesterday, turns out will now be stretched out a further fortnight or two. As if this month hasn’t been torture enough, waiting, waiting, hoping and waiting.

This time last week, I don’t think me or My Angel slept a damn wink. Both nervous, anxious, excited, scared and emotional as all hell for each other. Neither of us wanted to disappoint. For me, I didn’t want her to have to go through all this for nothing – and she didn’t want to have gone through a month of injections – which she had to administer by herself due to her hubby being called away for work, all while nursing a broken foot and managing two young boys on her own – to end up with flying fuck all to give.

It was possibly one of the most anxious waits I’ve had after dropping her at the hospital on egg collection day. Sick with nerves not just for the outcome but how she would go in surgery, if she’d be hurling up like a maniac when she came out, doubled over in pain after having her insides realigned or regret having gone through a major surgery for something she never had to do in the first place. After an hour, the hospital phoned to say she was ready to be picked up. Shit, that’s way too quick. Turns out it wasn’t. The little trouper was up on the trolley and all done in a wham-bam-leave-your-eggs-at-the-door-thank-you-mam 45 minutes. It felt kinda strange going through the doors into recovery for once, not sitting on the other side of them but there she was, My Angel, up and dressed, bounced back with very little trace – apart from a whopping great canula hanging out of her arm – that she’d just had surgery.

I give her an almighty hug, what else can you give someone who has just done the most selfless act a woman, friend and all round bloody fantastic human can do. She burst into tears, ‘I’m so sorry, I thought there’d be more…’ she said sounding quite exasperated. Bless her wee cottons. To her, a measly 11 eggs was like losing the Grand Final. Like fuck it was. Eleven is a brilliant number, it’s my month of birth! Super good luck. But for the anxiety and nerves that take over your head, she had wanted more. She wanted a huge abundance of eggies flipping backstroke around the petrie dishes. I want so much for her not to be feeling the pain, the nervousness, the fear we are both feeling right now – well all except the pain. For once, my ovaries were spared the interrogation torture.

It’s all going to be fantastic, I tell her. Now we just sit back and wait for the lil embies to multiply. Only this time it’s not just me and The Vet waiting desperately for answers from the Lab. It’s My Angel too. She’s just as anxious for the phone calls. Just as worried about our numbers. Throughout her cycle, she has been nothing short of incredible, brave, generous and strong. When, and it will be a fucking when, I do have a little human to tell this story, I will tell them how incredibly brave and generous and selfless and loving the beautiful woman who helped create them is.

We learn the following day we have seven embies that made it. Bloody awesome. Look out Octomum, here comes Lady MamaG. Over the next three days we still have seven ‘beautiful looking embryos developing away nicely’. I’m flat out creating versions of my very own multiple birth reality tv show that is until Day Five. Judgement Day. That’s when we’ll know how many of our super lil embies will make it to the freezer for laters.

Our results are: Two day five embies and one day six. That’ll do me. Always wanted triplets anyway. All I need to do now is think up a third name. Jokes. It’s such a fuckhole ride from here on in and names will be the least of my worries…

In a few days it’s back to my old mate Progynova (some hormone bound to make me even kinder, more sane and far far less likely to spin the fuck out than I currently am) followed by some other friendly fertility neccessities before a somewhat (hopeful) transfer in a few weeks’ time. Note to the general public: Do NOT approach me in the park and lay into me because my dog walked through your garden (that borders onto the park). I will fuck you up.

March has proven to be my lucky fertility month before…well just the once but I’m hopeful as all hell that it proves to be again.

The weeks ahead will be nothing short of torture…for me, for The Vet, for My Angel and for the 13 y o so on International Women’s Day thank you to all my beautiful peeps who check in daily, and make this your journey too. Love the shit outta yah’s. Lov’n’hugs Lady MamaG xox