FREEZING TIME
The low point was the night that the needle wouldn’t go into my stomach. It was a Sunday and I’d been injecting myself with hormones for a week. There was a theatre to the procedure that I’d almost come to enjoy. It stung, but not for long, and the sting was normally overtaken by a wave of invincibility. I’d just injected myself! Hardcore! In the unlikely event I ever found myself in an action film where someone needed to be stabbed in the heart with a shot of adrenaline, I was now up for it.
Except that Sunday night, the needle wouldn’t slide in. I’d been alternating sides of my stomach so the dose of hormones was spread wide, but after a week of treating my abdomen like a pin cushion, every spot felt too sore and I started crying. I’d chosen this. I’d decided to put myself through egg freezing and I’d previously written and talked a lot about what a positive choice it was for a woman like me – 35 and single. And yet here I was, sitting on my bed, suddenly aware that I was doing this alone and I couldn’t even get the
