The production of eggs is such a difficult thing that James has vowed to buy free range chicken eggs from now on. As he says, "The chickens have been through so much already. It's sad that they would also be in cages while their bodies are working so hard."
Like a good chicken, I produced a perfect dozen eggs yesterday. I pranced my bloated self into the operating room, and tried to complete my thought before the sedation took my brain. (Last time I think I was in the middle of a sentence about whether people snored in the operating room). They made me stand up, say, "Katherine Bailey," my social security number, and I added a "good night." Then I sat back down and conked out.
Twenty years later ... wait, I meant twenty minutes. Twenty minutes later I was back in the recovery room, trying to put my clothes on without the benefit of balance. James whisked me away to McDonalds and I was sleepy enough to not even get a shake. We got home, I downed my Big Mac, and I was off to dream land.
This morning I found myself looking out our bedroom window, through the thick summer foliage, to the school playground behind our house. With blurry, sideways eyes, I saw a series of colors parade by on the other side of the leaves. Blue, red, yellow, pink. They looked like Easter eggs. No, they were kids in t-shirts. Human kids. But every one had started out as an egg.
A people egg. Like mine. The kids all used to be eggs. That gives me hope.
This morning I got a call from the clinic and they told me that our 12 eggs rendered eight healthy embryos. Eight little babies. We'll monitor them and hopefully have a few nice-looking blastocysts to put back in by the end of the week.
That's something to dream about.