When I left Dr. M's office, I was happy but still sick, exhausted. I think I slept until work the next day — and it would be our last day few days of work. Everyone now knew that the novel Coronavirus was in our country — everyone knew nothing, really, except that it was highly contagious — and we still had to physically be at work.
I was relieved when I would go home those last few nights; relieved of constantly holding my breath; relieved of wiping computer screens, credit cards, and pens; relieved of straining to hear people without getting close. It had become difficult to do anything; everything had to be done differently. There were so many steps, and so many people.
On March 16th, I finally woke up having slept well for the first time in a long time. And I think I was almost fully recovered on March 17th. However, now we were in lockdown.
Seeing a fertility specialist or any kind of doctor wasn't possible. You couldn't even see a doctor if you suspected you had the virus, unless you were at high risk of death. The hospital system was overwhelmed, clinics were closed, and virtual doctor consultations were still something of the future. No one was prepared.
After two weeks extended into at least six more, I started to worry that I'd lose any potential life inside of me. Perhaps my thoughts were irrational, but what if my insides were done before I could see the specialist? So I held on to my good news, my hope, for a very long time. The future was unstable. I kept my eggs and my follicles to myself, hoping they would survive; they were my little secret.
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