I Will Trample Your Freedom by Getting IVF Treatments

Not that you asked, but I’m in the uniquely devastating position of being unable to have kids the “usual way” (sex). My doctor gives my husband and me a less than 10 percent chance of things “working out naturally” (also, sex). (He loves air quotes.)

I’m done crying over it. You know what I’m going to do now? IVF. That’s right: in-vitro fertilization, which you oppose for some reason. Still, that won’t stop me.

I can’t wait to trample your freedom with my own personal decisions. There’s going to be so much trampling up in here, and by “here,” I mean my uterus. But also up in your rights, somehow, in a way I’m not totally clear about.

We’ll start with some tests. I will be in stirrups up to the knees as a dye is injected into my hoo-ha. It will hurt like a mother. Did I choose infertility? No. But trying to have a kid in this incredibly difficult and painful way? Damn straight.

After the egg retrieval, I’m going to have so many more ideas about how to restrict your freedom. I’ve exhaustively researched artificial reproductive technology—the only way I can conceive a child—and I will figure out how it applies to your rights. Once I have a day of bed rest and the anesthesia wears off, you’re toast.

Turns out I’m actually not done crying over it, but I can trample through my tears. Feel that? It’s my non-skid surgical sock pressing on your neck.

Sorry to interrupt your Newsmax binging, but here’s a video of my endometriosis removal surgery. Are you squeamish? This was one of the worst cases the doctor had ever treated. What’s that smoke, you ask? That’s my insides being cauterized. An ovary had adhered to my pelvic wall. Ovulating with a stuck ovary is metal as hell. That’s a pain you can pass out to, baby. (Three times, in my case.)

You might be wondering about my husband’s role in the IVF process. It’s a secret. He’s alone in the clinic’s secret room, with secret magazines and a secret vial. I think you’re actually on board with this part. His freedom does not seem to trample on your freedom. Isn’t that funny? I’m laughing all the way to the bank, where I will withdraw the thousands of dollars this uninsured procedure costs.

Injections, ultrasounds, appointments, blah blah blah. It takes a ton of time and waiting, and then eggs and sperm are together at last. Thanks, lab. Thanks, science. Voila, embryos.

Now they grow. Not sure yet if it will be three or five days later when the doctor transfers them to Ye Olde Wombe (i.e., the womb of any woman over twenty-three). The lab monitors embryo growth, so we won’t know if the procedure will happen until the morning of. Better take a sick day, just in case. What a company grifter I have become. Hope you hate it.

Full disclosure: I’ve actually trampled your rights before. We did a round of IVF last year, but it didn’t work. With no embryos left to freeze, we saved up to start again from scratch.

Why are you muttering, “Please stop, it’s none of my business”? Oh, my bad. I thought you wanted to be in my business so you could know when and how I was trampling yours.

Or maybe you don’t want to know now? Just make up your mind so I can get to work on more ways to pummel your freedom with other personal decisions about my body.