As I eagerly awaits for the Divine Panda to experience the ultimate experience in life (ha), I went for a blood test this morning just to confirm I did indeed ovulate and can start down-regulation for my fresh cycle this month.
Was quietly sitting in the blood room on a blood chair waiting for the blood nurse to fetch my blood file, I overheard next door's conversation.
"You got all your meds for this cycle?"
"Is this your first cycle?"
"Right, so this must be all new to you, so can I have your date of birth please?" (Assuming it was meant for Medicare related purposes)
I snorted (quietly and discreetly of course). Doesn't 1984, make her, like, 21 years old? What is she doing here? She should be out in the sun, dancing, bearing midriff lining up outside a nightclub waiting to get in, experience assorted hallucination drugs, join the Greenpeace, learn how to break-dance, get a degree, anything. Anything but strapped willingly to a blood chair waiting to check her hormones to start a gruesome IVF cycle. It was ludicrous. When I was 21 I didn't even know I have two ovaries.
But once my selfish-I-do-IVF-so-leave-me-alone self recovered from that little titbit of information, I reasoned with myself that IVF is for everybody who wants to start a family - even if it means you are 21 (or 14). But then again even if I had the knowledge when I was 21 that I am infertile, I still won't go through IVF at such a young age. No-fucking-way.
And on that note – things are looking good hormonally and we are due for a start when the witch shows up in a week or so. Bring on egg collection.