Bruises

The injections are regular, timed for when my 2 year old is eating breakfast in his highchair. I take the alcohol swab and choose my site, cleaning it carefully. The Puregon Pen rests in the hard, blue case, along with the needles. I take off the lid and rest it on the coffee table. I choose one of the needles and peel back the covering, revealing the needle and its casing inside. I take the pen and screw it down into the needle, piercing the cartridge as I do so. I remove the pen, needle attached, but still covered by a small, white plastic lid. I remove the final casing to reveal the sharp steely tip. Holding the pen upright, I tap the cartridge three times, encouraging any air bubbles to come to the surface. A single glistening bead appears on the needle tip. Dialling up the pen, the click-click-clicking leads me past 150, 200, 250, 300, 350, 400 and comes to rest at 450, the highest dose possible in a single injection. Pinching the sterile skin just below my belly button, I press the needle gently against my tummy. A hint of pain urges me to move the needle ever so slightly to the left to a less sensitive spot. Happy with the position, I press the needle firmly against my skin until it pierces and disappears into the subcutaneous layers. I gently depress the dial on the end of the pen, conscious of the need to hold the pen at right angles and to go slowly, methodically, until I reach the end. Counting, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, I make sure the fluid is absorbed before removing the needle so as not to lose a precious drop of this most expensive drug. The needle is removed, and the protective covering once more replaced, then the unit is discarded into the sharps container. Turning my attention to the injection site, I notice a small droplet of bright red blood forming. I take the swab and press firmly for a few seconds, before the cries of "Mummy, finished" resonate from the highchair in the kitchen. I replace the pen in its case and return it to the fridge, removing any evidence from the loungeroom. My day continues and regains its momentum, until a few hours later I look down and discover a deep purple bruise, next to the slightly less purple bruise from yesterday, and the greenish/yellowish one from the day before...

I am reminded that
yes, I am on IVF
yes, I have injections everyday
yes, I am infertile
yes, I am longing for another baby

The bruises remind me of the ugly process.

Then I look into my 2-year-old's face as he gives me that impish look and says, "Mummy, catch me!".

In that moment, I am reminded of the many, many bruises I suffered to conceive him and I know I would do it all again in a heartbeat. Bruises? No, they are promises, badges of honour, of a life yet to come. These bruises are the colourful beginnings of a masterpiece in progress.