Two Follicles
Today we had another visit with Dr. Parikh. Now two follicles, and four more days of Menogon. I am really getting tired of being stuck with a big, fat needle twice a day! All this for two follicles. Wondertwins divide! We are keeping our hopes up, and have gone over the contract we will be signing, changing a few crucial details, like removing the sentence that gives the Surrogate the right to terminate for non-health reasons, and conversely inserting a line that gives us the right to terminate if, upon genetic testing- which would happen with amnio- the fetus is found to be abnormal. I got the feeling from the very informal forms, that Surrogacy actually happens rather infrequently. Or maybe this is a hallmark of the more relaxed legal situation (and less legal expense) that was a factor in our decision to come here. Dr Parikh has continued to remind us that all we need is one embryo to implant, but I do know enough about the process to know that older eggs are less likely to fertilize properly, and more likely to miscarry if they do implant. Not the best of news! But, we remind ourselves, this is why we are doing this here, so that we might try this more quickly and more inexpensively. Realistically, our odds in the states would be exactly the same in that we would have had the same number of follicles. And since one cannot just sit and wait, everyday we have been exploring new parts of the city. Yesterday in the morning we decided to go to the fabled Fabric Market. Indian fabrics are famously beautiful and exported all over the world, and I like the fact that India actually started to grow cotton to supply the British mills when American cotton production was disabled during the Civil War, another crazy-little-world outsource story. When we first stepped out of the cab at the general market we were met by a taut- I believe he was Muslim because he was wearing a round white cap, and a long white flowing rope that zipped up the front. He directed us up some crazy narrow stairs to his designated store, which didn't have what we are looking for- material to re-cover my Grandmother's dining chairs- but I did buy a pillow cover out of sympathy, and he did learn what it was we were looking for. Next he took us across the street (and again up the stairs) to an upholstery fabric shop which had almost the right fabric. I think when he had run out of “his stores”, or realized we were going to be tough customers, he raised his hands in “sorry”, so we gave him a Rs100 bill ($2.50) and were off. And so we went to find the Mangaldas Market, and, after several more tauts and wrong directions, we stepped inside its narrow opening. It was exactly as I'd seen in Victorian Odalisque Bazaar etchings. The market is a two-story enclosed building about a square block big, full of cubbies on the ground floor about eight or ten feet square with narrow futons, meticulously covered in clean white cloth, spread on the floor, and bolt after bolt of fabric crammed into nooks on the sides, and piled in a small backroom with a curling staircase that allows access to the loft- presumably where the rest of the fabrics are kept. In the middle of the stall sit two of three men, cross-legged, with several younger men hovering- standing – in the back or in the aisle. The man in charge will ask what you want, “Miss” or “Madam” in my case. Fortunately, we had some swatches from the first store as a beginning point. And then out tumbled the fabric. After about five stalls in heat so pervasive and stifling, that time was marked by the beads of sweat that ran down my back- and not a Coke in sight- we decided we had better come another time when we could spend more time and were better hydrated, and headed back to the Hotel to get ready to see the Doctor. At night we went to Lower Patel and the Big Bazaar to one of the only Sports Bars in town. A “big” cricket match between Pakistan and India was being played in Glasgow and it sounded like it would be a fun cultural experience. Big Bazaar turned out to be a large shopping mall with a Marks and Spencer (British dept store), Lacoste, and lots of other Western stores. A lot like the Beverly Center. We went to The Bowling Co.- yes, the people there were bowling- we played some video games (Fast and Furious anyone?) and then went to the bar to wait for the match to start. Unfortunately, the game was called due to rain, but we hung around, drank a couple of happy-hour 2 for 1 beers, and watched as the room filled with young well-to-do people on their way home from work. Bombay has so many different hierarchies of wealth and education, just like LA, but everyone seems like they are relatively happy. It seems every corner is a jumping off point for an outrageous story or a common one. One of our favorite things to do is to look out from our window at the hotel, (a pigeons-eye view from the eighth floor), at any hour and watch the tiny dramas unfold, rush and pulse on our street. The other day, a woman spilled a bag of flour from off the top of her head all over the sidewalk on the other side of the street. As she knelt to scoop into a bag all that she could save, almost every passer-by either helped her or shook their head, undoubtedly telling her that what she was doing was unsanitary. Along came a woman whose cow tried to eat some of the flour, and even the corner’s resident dog came out from his storefront to take a look. Then, when she was almost done (woe be it to the people that get the dish made with that!) a car backed up through the driveway, and the drama was over.
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