Avalanche by Julia Leigh Read Free Book Online

forcefully to unscrew it. When each injection was over I felt a small sense of accomplishment. Done. The methodical experience lent itself to a sense of purpose . One part of international travel that I have always enjoyed is making a connecting flight, being alert, following an anonymous fluoro-lit corridor through no-man’s-land and thinking of nothing more than getting from A to B: pure and simple. There is comfort in purpose. Part of me wanted to have a child just so I could have an inviolable reason for being. Sweet purpose. Sweet dark purpose, secret of secrets: a child would save my life.
    For a two-week period the clinic monitored me closely for effects of the hormone load. This involved almostdaily blood tests. After the results came in, usually around midday, I would get a call from the nurses with advice on my next dosage. With every instruction the nurse would say something like “The doctor would like you to do X, Y, Z . . .” so that even if I never saw the doctor I would know he was there, behind the scenes. I had my first trans-vaginal ultrasound on Day 6. The nurse was very kind, applied the goop to her instrument and went about the procedure in a straightforward manner. Still, it was undeniably strange to be lying there, legs spread, feeling something probe around internally, all the while looking at a screen showing a number of dark blobs which—I was told—were my follicles, the sacs of fluid containing my eggs. The nurse took the dimensions of each follicle and measured the thickness of my endometrium. In all, I had nine follicles of a promising size, a potential nine eggs maturing. I felt nine times bloated and nine times labile. I couldn’t read the newspaper without crying.
    A second needle was introduced to my nightly regime. I would continue with the Gonal-f but add Orgalutran which would stop the eggs from releasing: they had to remain in place for collection. That needle was a littlemore difficult than the Gonal-f. The needle tip itself was thicker and it required more force, more overcoming, to puncture the skin. I also had a reaction to it: some redness and swelling. Sometimes there was a kind of bubbling under the skin. Quite normal, I was assured. The hormones built up, snow in the night. After another ultrasound and more monitoring a blood test detected a sharp increase in my body’s luteinizing hormone, known as the LH surge, an indicator I was naturally readying to ovulate in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. My belly was swollen, I was busting to get those eggs out. I was given an exact time to inject Ovidrel, the third and final needle, known as the trigger shot. Press the trigger, release the eggs. It was drilled into me that the timing of the trigger shot was critical; the clinic had coordinated a requisite thirty-six to thirty-eight hour window between the trigger and the time of my scheduled operation. I carried out my instructions with the precision of an astronaut.
    In the taxi on the way to the facility—part outpatient surgery, part lab, part clinic—it occurred to me that it would be a terrible time to have a car accident. The building itself—the place where all the precious embryoswere stored—was nondescript, fronting a major road. A catastrophist, I also wondered what would happen if the facility burned down: all those dreams would perish.
    Surgery is an adventure: I told myself this as I took the elevator to reception. Curious and curiouser . I paid money and signed more consents. I spoke first with the administrators; then with the nurses; then with the anesthetist; then with the doctor (faintly comic in his paper shower cap). I tried to meditate during the intervals of waiting. There was a reassuring efficiency to the process: time was of the essence, clearly, but there was no sense of hurry. I gave myself over, submitted to their ministrations. First, do no harm . It had been explained to me that even though I had nine