EGGS. Usually the extent of my thinking about them is scrambled or poached. Lately though, I’ve started thinking about eggs of the less delicious kind.
I’m talking about the ones that travel down my fallopian tubes each month as an annoying reminder that I’m not pregnant (a memo will be sufficient next time thanks ovaries, the current system seems a little dramatic.)
Why the sudden ovary angst? British Gynaecologist Professor Geeta Nargund has an answer for that. A few weeks ago Prof Nargund called for fertility lessons to be added to the school curriculum.
“I have witnessed all too often the shock and agony on the faces of women who realise they have left it too late to start a family,” she said.
“Ideally, if a woman is ready for a child, she should start trying by the time she is 30. She should consider having a child early because as a woman gets older, her fertility declines sharply.”
The reaction was instant and huge. Some were shocked, others were horrified, and the remainder were outraged that an individual might question a woman’s baby-making skills post 30.
I have to admit that up until now I wasn’t aware of the facts. After hitting the big three-oh, a woman’s chance of conceiving per cycle is around 20% and drops down to 5% by 40. As somebody who’s in no rush to have kids (and by no rush, I mean crawling pace) yet always pictured being a mum some day, I found myself really confronted.
What happens if I wait until I’m ready only to realise that my body can no longer create a child?
I can’t shake the image of my ovaries withering away to depressing sultanas before I’ve even had the chance to say the words ‘baby mumma.’
For the first time ever, I’m thinking about freezing my eggs. Yep. Me. THE most un-clucky person you could ever imagine. Who shudders when I hear a kid so much as murmur on an aeroplane. Who answers with “I can’t even” when asked about starting a family of my own by my nosy aunties. I even find myself strangely annoyed by those silly miniature sunglasses children wear. Yet I suddenly pictured what it would be like to never have the chance to put those silly little glasses on a mini human of my own. And it scared me senseless.
Right here and now I find myself at a perfect baby-making age, with ripe fallopian tubes and a womb that’s ‘on point’ if I don’t mind saying so myself. And at the risk of making parenthood sound like a storm action plan, I’d feel careless not to consider a backup for one of the most important parts of my future. You never know what life might throw at you — illness or bad luck — so why not consider it at the very least?
Based on the initial research I’ve done, the process is complex and extremely expensive but that’s still not enough to deter me. How do you put a price tag on creating life? How do you quantify securing the true purpose of your being?
To some it might seem unnecessary to even be thinking about at this stage of the game, but nobody and I mean nobody has the right to question another’s consideration of their life creating another. It’s a deeply personal decision and not one that I take lightly.
I have a Doctor’s appointment next week to talk through my hundreds of questions and then a later a chat with my bank manager to increase the limit of my credit card (joking … but seriously.)
Eggs — no longer just scrambled or poached, now they’re a potentially frozen baby … literally.