Orgy –- What a Big Prick! A guest post by “Regina Selfie”

Orgy –- What a Big Prick! A guest post by “Regina Selfie”

Since opening up to the whole world and starting this blog, several queer friends have come out of the woodwork and told me they’re also doing IVF. I’ve asked them to write guest blogs about their own experiences, in an effort to further open up dialogue about queer fertility. I’ve also asked a couple of queer friends to write about other ways of getting a baby (such as the adoption process or home inseminations), about how to find/choose a donor, and the trials and tribulations of being a parent in a queer community. As these stories dribble in (like donor sperm in a turkey baster) I will continue to pop them up. Here is the first anonymous confession:

I’m sitting on a grassy ovum….I mean oval… at my local markets on a crisp blue-skied autumnal May Saturday morning in Brisvegas. Holly and I are cracking each other up as we chat with gay abandon – over the convenient medium of Facebook – cathartically relaying our ‘trying to fall pregnant’ stories to each other…well not so much fall…but rather attempt to impregnate ourselves in the mechanical and calculated fashion a la assisted fertility treatment.

Upon announcing to my GP in early Dec 2012 ‘We want to have a baby’ I secured the referral to chosen fertility specialist and scheduled our first appointment with her – the earliest slot was 2 months later in Feb 2013. A bit of a wait…but y’know to be expected.

It was there in Feb – on Level 3 of the inconspicuous building in the middle of the CBD – we met with our donor…privately chosen quite some time before….and we waited…..and waited a little more….to attend the much-anticipated appointment. Fortunately the reception area contained not only a welcoming smiley-faced rather bubbly and rotund secretary, but a few simple pictorial posters and various other forms of paraphernalia detailing what in fact actually happens during the phases of a woman’s cycle and the what/how/when and why of fertilisation and pregnancy – a great conversational tool for myself and our donor – ‘ah….so that’s how it happens’ he exclaimed upon some silent interpretation of said material – I had to laugh as I commented ‘yeah – I never knew either’! My partner rolled her eyes and grinned as she shook her head – anatomy majors are all over this I guess.

After what seemed an eternity I was referred to Level 1 where I undertook a seemingly endless series of rigorous tests….checking everything…leaving no stone unturned nor body part for that matter; bloods for hormones/cell counts/organ function/infectious screening/glucose/vitamins/minerals/cholesterol and more hormones of another kind…….boob scans, ovary scans, egg counts, diet review, teeth and gums check, mentation……and same – only a few omitted – for my partner and our Donor.

We were then directed to visit the psych on level 2 who I termed the ‘Queers-Wanting-Babies-Tickbox’ who decided we were ‘fit’ to parent a baby under such sociologically ‘different’ circumstances (huraah!)…only after a series of questions about… well everything….and a few jokes about…nothing.

It was curious because I couldn’t remember my straight friends mentioning the requirement to attend that same meeting, therefore it was safe to assume that perhaps only Queers should be ‘checked’ for possessing two heads – as lesbians we passed.

It was in this moment, I realised that nothing (NOTHING!) about this process was going to be sacred and even less was going to go in the favour of Gaybo’s wanting kids, they – the stakeholders – were going to make us pay.

It was all downhill from here – we were literally referred back to Level 1….to pay the fees and sign the paperwork. There were so many forms to read, pages to fill out, credit cards to hand over, ID cards to check, more checking, cross-checking, signing, checking again and yes wait – more blood tests – all over 3 different counters on 3 different levels that by the end of that session I was starting to feel overwhelmed…not to mention sitting down in the adjoining café as we waited for our donor to return from ‘depositing’ and then have our little trio all munching away ignoring the elephant in the corner – the guy across the table just jizzed in a jar under duress for us…. and now we’re sharing pork….well ham and salad sandwiches.

Time to wait more….it’d be a further 6 months for the wrigglies to be released from ‘quarantine’.

Fast forward 6 months and we found ourselves back on Level 3, and 3 appointments later…, more jabs, scans and screenings later, we tried our first IUI. In case you haven’t read Holly’s blog word for word (you should), it’s basically a fancy acronym for pants-off-get-on-table-spread-legs-further-further-further-further-further-and-try-to-relax-while-I-the-specialist-probe-you-with-this-rod-which-I-just-lubed-up-so-I-can-squirt-this-up-there-turkey-baster-style.

Every cycle had been meticulously monitored…prior to the IUI procedure I’d been into the City for 4 x 6.30am blood tests that week (did I mention that I have a fear of needles?!) to get the timing right.

And so it had begun…excuse myself from work or usually just exit stage left to travel into visit Level 3 for another IUI and – once the Specialist had done her thing – wait patiently and prostrate for the swim upstream – wondering whether I should or shouldn’t rub one out – simulate the vaginal environment during sex or just relax in this very white and somewhat sterile room……and all the while thinking about the peasants in China who’d go straight back into the fields after conception working tirelessly until dusk and still managing to have a baby…yes, that’s the story my specialist relayed to me after I anxiously stated I had only 20mins to get back to work before someone noticed me missing and was feeling a little stressed about not laying it out for a while with the pelvis elevated.

I’d finish up, pop my work clothes back on and proceed to drive myself back to work and pretend I didn’t have the disconcerting sensation of jizz dripping down into my undies and would I have a wet spot I’d need to camouflage…..cringe.

We waited again… 2 weeks… and did the urine test. Specialist’s expertly expensive advice was not to spend those two weeks thinking about the ‘positive’ or ‘negative’ outcome, ‘just try to forget about it’ she’d said with a gentle smile. So of course I didn’t think about anything BUT the result, after all we had a very promising 8% chance of success. I had accumulated advice books, pregnancy tests, 000 clothes, more books, visited friends who gave us their baby things they no longer needed, envisioned a new room, ate only organic foods and drank only room-temperature water, 8-10 cups a day and religiously took my ‘women’s tablet’. The exact morning two weeks after our first IUI, we experienced our first disappointment…..followed by 9 more after that….yep….it’s been a lotta waiting. It did occur to me at some point the excitement I had felt upon beginning this journey had been replaced by tedium….even the secretary looked less bubbly and smiley-faced…though steadfastly rotund.

In April 2015, 2.5 years after our ‘referral’ from the GP, we decided it was time to try a new approach. IVF.

Well, well, well, how could a mere 3 letters possibly contain such a complexity of processes and so physically violating at that. It was similar to what I imagine it was like for that clever person (probably a woman) who worked out the algorithm for ‘speed-cubing’. The only difference was that I wasn’t a cube, it wasn’t speedy, there was no apparent algorithm except that of the Universal order, and nor was there any part of it that was fun or painless. That’s a lot of differences.

Over the last week alone, beginning the IVF process, I’ve had 23 needles in my belly and arms, 3 different types of injections and 4 blood tests, 3 Doctors appointments, 2 probes & ultra sounds, 2…yep only 2 mental meltdowns, snuck out the back of work 20million times to quietly whisper over the phone (lest a work colleague hear me) to the ladies at the front desk of the clinic to book next appointments, spent 8 hrs driving to said appointments where I’d wait until 11 for my 10o’clock, and of course to pay the obligatory $8000 to the ‘ether’. My tummy and arms look like my poor attempt at sponge art in Kindy, my ‘Italian Stallion’ appetite is far from thriving and it’s been painfully quiet…no actually thankfully quiet….in the kinky department unless you count the 2 lubed-up probes from the specialist.

I spent 2 whole days this week wondering if I had some tropical lower limb virus due to the diffuse and constant leg ache that would see me walk in a wide stiff legged gait any time I had to move – taking any spare moment to stretch my legs and realising it was the trauma sustained from prolonged and repeated positioning in the probe stirrups…..seriously can you possibly spread your legs any further apart…almost to the point of subluxation…and be expected to relax at the same time?! Fuck no!

Every morning at 6.20 on the dot, we (my partner) injects the hormones – Gonal (sounds like a fucking STD) and what the Specialist nicknamed ‘Orgy’ that’s or-ghee (say what?!) into by belly. I had to stop self-injecting (I call it taking a selfie) as I was so shaky I almost had a vaso-vagal faint and gave myself a killer bruise. Incidentally, I’ve recently gained much respect for my diabetic friends, and of course hail to all the women out there who have already been through this process. Gonal stimulates the ovaries, the other ‘Orgy’ stops me from ovulating too early, you know, before the egg-pickup. No wonder why they call them hormones, HOR-MONES: it even sounds onomatopoeic for a series of self-torture techniques which always result in some form of suffering…. I empathise with that irritating Moaning Murtle of Harry Potter fame lately…you can often find me sobbing in the bathroom or navel-gazing –literally – staring aghast at my latest set of pin pricks and bruises.

The emotional rollercoaster goes something like this: I laugh, I cry, I wail I am the most fucking courageous person around, I’m awesome, I’m so vague, I can’t make decisions, I’m going to have a baby. I in one moment despise any pregnant woman or happy mother I see… followed almost instantly by a feeling of overwhelming and unconscionable love for them….then silently applaud their success, feeling happy for them, regardless of the fact that they are complete strangers.

And then….my ever-understanding partner whose comforting arms I fall into one moment , who inspires me to write a whole EP of love songs for her, or who in the words of Sandy from Grease ‘I feel totally devoted to’, is also at the behest of my rage & outbursts. This love is promptly followed by a rapid series of juxtaposing emotions where “how dare she come home from an 11 hr shift and not throw herself at my feet, coo in my ear and stroke my pains away, diligently asking me all about the latest series of meds, needles and roller coaster of emotions” of the day.

So just now on this crisp Saturday morning, my specialist texts to say that I have ‘nice hormone levels’ and I’m ready for my final injection tonight precisely at 7pm, it’s called the ‘Trigger”. As a musician I can understand that timing is everything, so I abide by the 101 timings that I have been instructed to do with utmost care. This final selfie will give my body time to ovulate so on Monday morning we and the team of Doctors can begin the egg-pick up (surgery) in hospital followed by insemination a few days later followed by a 2 week wait to see if we are successful, that’s to say, nothing goes wrong in the meantime.

As I read over my blog and soak up the sunshine I realise that this onslaught of hormones have also brought out the philanthropist in me… and quite unexpectedly the Hippie too.

Since arriving at the markets I’ve donated money to ‘Stop domestic Violence’ campaign, the ‘Save Tibet Campaign’, the ‘Save Nepal’s Children Campaign’, and donated money to the homeless. Whilst doing this I’ve sung along with a random man to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack at the Chai tent, had a Bindi placed on my forehead from the ‘belly-dancers against DV’, been given a ‘Smile’ sticker from the Hare Krishna’s, a bracelet from the Tibetan Monk, a Magazine and ‘ta’ from the Big Issue seller. I am feeling vague, content and one with the world, all very unfamiliar feelings. Today I am wearing ‘alpha’ undies – perhaps unconsciously to get in touch with my inner male…. and female energies…. and I made myself a shrine of turtles, elephants and trinkets which I mumble at religiously. I do still wear Rexona though, no crystals under these pits thankyou!

So I sit here with blessings from around the world and remember that I am a part of this Universe and I am blessed to be able to afford this procedure and be supported by my partner, family and friends. I kick back, stretch my sore legs, touch my aching ovaries and stop thinking about what Monday will bring…. instead I sip on my Chai and text a photo of my newly acquired benevolent global accessories to Holly, humming Hare! Hare! Hare! and smiling at the Belly Dancers as they shake their big beautiful bellies. Booya!

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s