2010: Blog #6 – Disappearing Cooks.. How to be a Princess.. The delicate Art of Ass-Injections..

I’m rather annoyed by the inconvenience of it all.

It just goes to show, you can’t find reliable servants these days..

Spent from an exhausting trip to a trendy over-priced Delhi district called Greater Kalesh… frequented by diplomat’s wives with an equal measure of time and rupees on their henna’d hands… our fragile bodies weren’t prepared to deal with an obstacle of this magnitude.

Bogged down by our bountiful bags of Bollywood booty, we felt disproportionately burdened by the immense weightlessness of our recently lightened wallets.

And then this?

The pressure was too much!

Beset with hunger pangs the likes of which we’d never felt, we gingerly stepped onto the musty earth beneath our chauffeur-driven Mercedes and made for the house.  We weren’t prepared for the calamity that was to unfold…

Cook wasn’t ready.

The least a weary shopper can expect is for Cook to eagerly anticipate our return, and be ready – in a flash – with freshly-cooked chapatis and dhal.  Lunch was meant to be an hour ago.  All the more reason he should be standing ramrod straight, at attention, patiently waiting to please Mark Sahib (boss) & Brita Memsahib (woman boss) after a long, weary shopping expedition.

He massages feet too, but first things first..

Such a Tamasha – and after such a satisfying morning, too!

Driver had ferried us about town with uncomplaining aplomb; Guard had rushed with eager step to welcome us back through the gated fence; Cleaner had left our room in tip top shape; Washing guy had taken our clothes to be pressed.. a good morning’s work (by all), I’d say. All except Cook, the missing hired-help piece. He’d buggered off.  We called out, he was no where to be seen.  Perhaps Professor Plum would find him lurking in the pantry with a candlestick (board game ‘Cluedo’, for those with no clue :>)..

What were we to do… serve ourselves?

Being the youngest of three sisters, my elder siblings claimed I was the “Princess” of the Cloghesy household. Why? Because my parents ran out of steam by the time they got to me – 6.5 and 9 years later – and by default, they let me get away with near-murder (call me Miss Scarlett – watch out for the spanner..), things my sisters could only dream of.  Sometimes I could see the burning fire of indignation exploding from their ears, as they screamed “Mum, that’s NOT fair – how come SHE’S allowed to do that when we never got to, and we’re older?!?” – and I’d sit there, batting my eyelashes, smiling sweetly…

To be fair – I’ll admit this only once..  they’d better be reading this blog! – there may have been a grain of truth to their collective declaration… (gulp, may need to go to therapy now that’s out..)

SO, on the note of Princesses, I’m pleased to say the fertility clinic does not treat us like royalty. We’re the same as all the other couples in the waiting area. Adiva has some of the best marketing I’ve ever seen, and their doctors are world-renowned, foreign-trained medical experts.

Our doctor, Dr. Banerjee, is excellent!

The ‘experience’, however, is very Indian.

Appointments take place in the evening here – usually between 6-9pm.  As we arrive for our standard 7.30pm slot, the waiting room teems with patients from around the globe (Indian, African, Danish, N. American) – there are far more bodies than chairs.

Support staff multiply like rabbits. Mark and I reckon there must be seven staff to complete the jobs of two.

Waiting to be called for our appointment, we watch these neatly-dressed pink uniformed bodies scurry purposely about.  On completing their task – there’s time between each – one might assume they’d disappear “behind the scenes”.  Not in India.  Staff congregate in the already crowded reception, chat amongst themselves, lean against a door frame and openly scrutinize the waiting masses. It’s rather disarming, to be stared at in stereo – but it’s very typically Indian.

I’m practicing my I-can’t-see-you-and-am-trying-to-ignore-you skills.

We’re constantly reminded of the dichotomy between the professional face of Adiva, and the reality that we’re in India. Things are done differently here. Case in point:

CANADA: the Vancouver clinic held our figurative hands through the entire injection process.  Set in a sterile office, an ice-cold table between the nurse, Mark and I, we meticulously reviewed the injection process for the better part of an hour. We discussed the part of my belly into which the needle would plunge and practiced many times over on a soft foamy sponge ball. IU amounts, times and dates were methodically documented on a templated form, handed to us, and referenced during the course of our 12-day treatment.

INDIA: Dr.B calls one of the reception guys on his Blackberry, he strolls over to Mark and I, and hands me the phone. Doctor says she’s running late, will be down shortly and suggests I go with nurse for training. Neatly-clad nurse (she who was recently standing in the doorway, just feet away, staring..) now had a job to do! We followed her down the corridor, she led us to a room where she proceeded to carry out ‘training’ on a bumpy bed where the saline vial kept falling over.  A flat-surfaced desk was feet from the bed, might have been an idea to use it .. just a thought?!  Training consisted of a 10-minute FSH (follicle stimulating hormone) powder/saline mix-and-match demonstration, followed by a real person injection directly INTO MY BACKSIDE. No squishy red sponge balls here; no tummy tickles.. no messing about. Let’s get right to it!

Whether I like it or not, these pointy metal rods are destined for a daily dance with my backside flesh.

And the “sharpie” container for disposing needles – looks like something out of a 1930’s Hitchcock film – you be the judge..?!

Given the awkward location, I’m afraid this squeamish poking business falls to Mark. After 5 of 12 days, he’s become quite a target-practice expert at it really…

Oh and injections aside… did I mention that we’re on our THIRD surrogate? Pinki Baby has been has been cast aside – apparently we were cyclically un-symbiotic (who knew?) – we’re  now on to Leena. Wow, unlike the other two delicate 100lb carrier frames, this woman is built like an ox! As my mum rightly pointed out, she has “excellent child bearing hips”…

So, at risk of repetition, “Third time lucky” not only applies to our number of IVF attempts, but it’s also the number of surrogates with whom we’ve been matched.

I feel good about Leena, I hope she stays. Besides, it’s a bonus that her name has nothing to do with a tuneless rendition of Santa Baby..

And lastly, it goes without saying that the beginning of this post was a bit tongue-in-cheek.

It’s true that we have a mass of servants at our disposal.. and it’s also true that the Princess in me is loving every bit of this privileged, domestic-help environment. But it’s NOT true that Cook – who’se name is Ahmed – is a slacker, nor can I claim an ounce of dissatisfaction with the fantastic, spicy meals he tirelessly prepares.

Even better, he’s made of stern stuff, and didn’t blink an eye when I squawked about the 6-inch long, hairy rat I spied in the kitchen.

“Ah” he chirped in broken English, rolling up his sleeves to expose his large bare knuckly hands, “we catch & throw”.

Hope it’s not making a guest appearance in tonight’s masala chicken curry pot…?!

A few other pictures – pls.click on image to enlarge (Flickr link to follow soon..):