There are times when I’m glad I’m doing this on my own. Times when I think, thank fuck I get to make all the big decisions myself, like what school to send my kid to or whether to name it ‘Kale’ or ‘Quinoa’. Or ‘Gluten’. I don’t have to compromise with anyone and that suits me just fine. But then there are times like tonight when I wish things were different. Tonight was a big step in my IVF journey. Tonight I gave myself the big trigger injection to make my ovaries release their hold on the clutch of little eggs they’ve been working so hard to produce, so that in two days’ time they can be harvested. Each step you take in IVF is momentous, and the closer you get to potential pregnancy the more significant the step. But as supportive as my friends and family are, none of this means that much to them. Sure they’re excited for me, but they’re not invested like I am. Only a partner would be invested in a similar way. For one, none of my friends really understands the IVF process, because no one other than me has sat through all the doctor’s appointments and counseling sessions and blood tests and ultrasounds. For another, they all have their own important things going on. And I get that, I do. But when the nurse rings with the brilliant news that I’ve passed my latest blood tests and that now the egg collection is all set to happen, my support network suddenly goes AWOL. Instead of jumping up and down excitedly at the good news I spend the afternoon texting people to try and find someone to come with me to the hospital. I desperately want someone to share this experience with, and besides, for safety reasons the hospital won’t even admit me in the first place unless I have someone with me. If I had a partner there would be no question about it–they would be there by my side. But my friends all have jobs and funerals and holidays to attend to, and partners too of course, and all of a sudden no one is available. None of them understand the enormity of this occasion. This is a big deal. I’m going to be heavily sedated and then I’m going to have my eggs sucked out of me one by one by a giant needle. Each swollen follicle is going to be speared and sluiced and drained into a petrie dish. And even more traumatic is the chance that there might not even be any eggs to harvest. I want someone to share the excitement and I want someone to share the fear. I want someone to hold my hand next Wednesday when/if they inject the cluster of cells back inside me, a little life, a little person, being put back inside me to grow. And I want someone who can turn to me and say, Kale’s a fucking stupid name for a kid. What about Bonsoy?