“Alright,” she said. “Now we’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound. It’s going to feel a little uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t hurt. I just need to check your ovaries and uterine lining to make sure everything’s ready.”
I nodded.
She handed me a paper. “You can undress from the waist down and cover yourself with this. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The door closed.
I stared at the sheet.
Then I undressed.
Folded my jeans.
Set them on the chair.
Climbed back onto the table and covered myself with the paper sheet that felt too thin to cover anything.
Dr. Beaumont knocked, then came back in with the ultrasound machine.
“Okay,” she said, pulling on gloves. “Feet in the stirrups. Try to relax.”
I put my feet in the stirrups.
Tried to relax.
Failed.
The gel was cold.
The probe was worse—intrusive, clinical, a reminder that my body wasn’t mine anymore.
Dr. Beaumont moved the probe slowly, her eyes on the screen.
“Everything looks good,” she said. “Your ovaries are healthy. Uterine lining is nice and thick. You’re a perfect candidate.”
I didn’t feel perfect.
I felt exposed.
She finished, pulled the probe out, and handed me a towel.
“You can get dressed.”
I got dressed as fast as I could.
Dr. Beaumont sat back on the stool and pulled up a diagram on her tablet.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s talk about the protocol.”
She walked me through it—fourteen days of hormone injections to stimulate my ovaries, daily monitoring with bloodwork and ultrasounds, then egg retrieval under sedation.
“The injections are subcutaneous,” she said. “You’ll do them yourself at home. I’ll show you how before you leave today.”
“Myself?”
“Yes. It’s easier than it sounds, I promise.”
She scrolled to another screen.
