This limited series Eggs contains discussions of fertility, IVF and ableism. What would you tell your younger self? In truth, I think my younger self would be appalled by thirty four year old me and a little sad. Probably she had life figured out and I haven't stuck to the plan. My younger self wanted the world Now, I just want what everybody else wants. I want to tell my younger self. I think I might have changed my mind. I have never been that maternal. I have really never adored children. It's not something you hear that often, the thing that women are not supposed to say. But there had been many yard six or moments in my life that had confirmed to me that children were not for me. Over summer holidays in my teens, when the sun made things hazy and it was burning your skin to a crisp, I was with my childhood friend Melissa, in a time before the Internet, when our mobiles went out of range and texts were fifty cents each. We would walk to a neighbor's house to help with their four boys. Even back then, Melissa was a born mother, effortlessly placing one baby on her hip and guiding another down the hallway. I, on the other hand, was completely out of my depth. I had just been educated to why we must not ring the doorbell. The kids were asleep. I was assured we were not being rude. We could just open the door and walk in. This family was busy and happy and had their hands full with four boys who had arrived in quick succession. As a wheelchair user, to this day and then, I wasn't often able to access people's houses. I am hyper vigilant moving through someone's home, trying to not scuff walls or hit furniture. This house was the first house where I started to compute how children a tricky match for somebody in a wheelchair. While Melissa was cooing on the floor with a baby doing tummy time, I felt like I had a hundred land mines to maneuver through. The toys felt endless, brightly colored plastic strewn across the floor. I would always try and spot a space on the wooden floor and treat it like my bunker, turning off my wheel chair, sighing with relief that I had not broken anything by running them over with my chair. The seeds of polodcast Peter began to be planted as I tried to be a valuable presence in the house by making thoughtful conversation. But deep down I knew Melissa's help was what the family needed. How could I help anyway? I was terrified to hold a baby, worrying I would drop them, never letting myself practice, knowing full well how precious that little life is. This was the first time I remember feeling uncomfortable and inadequate around children. I couldn't even manage to make my face look like I was excited by a piece of lego being held up by toddler, their blue eyes wide with wonder. I was too distracted by the little toes so near my wheels, and the little fingers attempting to find the on button for this big toy that I was sitting in. Later in my twenties, whenever I was in a cafe with friends, everyone else would seemingly point out how cute that baby was sitting in a high chair on the next table. I instead would see a child that was overtired due for a sleep, not pouring down their face mingling with the mash that the baby's mother was spooning into their mouth. I clearly was missing that mothering Jean. At this stage of my life, I was deluded and arrogant. I remember thinking how very boring that mother's life would be as I paid for my share of the bill, pulling my car keys out of my designer handbag. I believed that because I was not born normal, not the standard, I was not going to have a regular life. I was going to have an amazing life. In fact, I was going to be success, maybe a CEO, a hotel inspector five Stars only of course, or the head of Tourism Australia. My life was going to be filled with work and I couldn't wait. On reflection, I think this was my way of protecting myself from heartbreak. I was unable to confront the fact that I had no examples of how someone like me could be a mum, knowing that if I raised the topic, questions would be asked and I had no answers. As my mother would say, there's no book telling you the absolute right way to parent a child. But if there was, there was definitely no chapter of how to parent a child when you have cerebral palsy. Then one single day changed my mind about motherhood. My father, Clive, was in ICU after having his second stroke in six months. This was not my first radio with hospitals and health, but it had never been dad before. The shock was so pronounced it made it hard to breathe. Nothing was guaranteed. My dad was not bulletproof. Life might not end like a movie. Like my younger self had presumed. My thinly veiled bravado that I liked being single evaporated after my dad's strokes. A strong pull that I had never experienced before was now ever present. It forced me to be brave. I decided life was not a dress rehearsal. It was time to take life more seriously. Can you have sex? This was one of the most common questions I got asked by straight single males whenever I went out to party with my friends. Most of the time, the tone of this question was not gentle, but abrasive. It was not done in a whisper, but loud enough for his mates to snigger behind him. It was designed to humiliate. This was not a pick up line, but if it was, I would have sat would you like to find out? I have also been asked by a man if I own a bed, equally perplexing, I have been asked if I have a vagina. I am not Barbi. I am a woman. I did not come in a box, but I have a box. I was so naive to beauty standards. I thought, once someone got to know me, the fact I have cerebral palsy would be a non issue. But as I attended more and more engagements, weddings, and then baby showers, I realized people didn't see me how I saw myself. I had done the carry Bradshaw single years. I lived in a beautiful little place near the city. I was independent, I was happy, surrounded by friends, and every outfit aimed to reflect the fact that I was the picture perfect girl most of the time, even if I couldn't stand up. And yet my puzzle piece was not making himself known. I was realizing the men I was attracted to were not necessarily attracted to me. Cred men somehow smell desperation. I didn't feel desperate, but equally with each year I was surprised to have not found him yet. COVID for everyone was like a big full stop on all our lives. It felt like overnight, my friends, who were in settled relationships decided to move the schedule forward and start a family. The party was over. Now what felt like every conversation with my girlfriends was no longer lighthearted, but instead made me want to bite my nails with anxiety. Epic stories of late night excapades were replaced with talk of the prospects of getting pregnant and how statistically unlikely that can be. My age was now seen as a negative. Time was a rare resource that we had seemingly squandered. The pressure felt immense. After high school sex ed had drilled into us not to get pregnant. It felt like whiplash to be now considering the opposite doing the unsettling math in my head that I was single and that I had to factor in the time to find the person, date them for a while, and then get pregnant. The math wasn't mathing. My mother's story then came into sharp focus for me. I knew my mother, Lorraine, had struggled with infertility. After all, I was the result of years of trying, failing, losing. I was her miracle, the person she'd been trying to meet for over ten years. Now I saw her story differently. I realized it might be my story too. I had always been the baby in the story, the happy ending. But now I had to face the fact that I might be the mother struggling to get pregnant. This handful of years in my thirties was like it or not, going to define a big part of my life. Would I have children? Would I become a mother? Then, like clockwork, a nagging reminder to those unanswered questions by mother Nature arrived every twenty eight days. The month's opportunity was not taken. That egg was now gone. Sitting in my IVF doctor's clinic on the first day of consultation, I had no idea the hidden challenges on the road ahead. I knew I was about to confront my fertility, but I had no idea I would have to confront the issues of access, dignity, and equality. There were many more eggs I was yet destined to lose. Thank you for listening to Eggs, a limited series from the creator of the I Can't Stand Podcast. This series was voiced, written, and produced by me Peter Hook. If you've faced similar barriers with IVF, or you work in the healthcare system and want to share your story about ableism, I'd love to hear from you. Links in the episode description, and all stories can be shared anonymously. Just let me know if that's your preference. Your support truly means so much. Thank you for listening, Take care. I would like to respectfully acknowledge they were wondery and Bunner wrong people of the call and nation of which I record the podcast today, and I pay my respects to both elders past and present, along with and especially to those in the First Nation's communities who are disabled themselves.

This limited series Eggs contains discussions of fertility, IVF and ableism. What would you tell your younger self? In truth, I think my younger self would be appalled by thirty four year old me and a little sad. Probably she had life figured out and I haven't stuck to the plan. My younger self wanted the world Now, I just want what everybody else wants. I want to tell my younger self. I think I might have changed my mind. I have never been that maternal. I have really never adored children. It's not something you hear that often, the thing that women are not supposed to say. But there had been many yard six or moments in my life that had confirmed to me that children were not for me. Over summer holidays in my teens, when the sun made things hazy and it was burning your skin to a crisp, I was with my childhood friend Melissa, in a time before the Internet, when our mobiles went out of range and texts were fifty cents each. We would walk to a neighbor's house to help with their four boys. Even back then, Melissa was a born mother, effortlessly placing one baby on her hip and guiding another down the hallway. I, on the other hand, was completely out of my depth. I had just been educated to why we must not ring the doorbell. The kids were asleep. I was assured we were not being rude. We could just open the door and walk in. This family was busy and happy and had their hands full with four boys who had arrived in quick succession. As a wheelchair user, to this day and then, I wasn't often able to access people's houses. I am hyper vigilant moving through someone's home, trying to not scuff walls or hit furniture. This house was the first house where I started to compute how children a tricky match for somebody in a wheelchair. While Melissa was cooing on the floor with a baby doing tummy time, I felt like I had a hundred land mines to maneuver through. The toys felt endless, brightly colored plastic strewn across the floor. I would always try and spot a space on the wooden floor and treat it like my bunker, turning off my wheel chair, sighing with relief that I had not broken anything by running them over with my chair. The seeds of polodcast Peter began to be planted as I tried to be a valuable presence in the house by making thoughtful conversation. But deep down I knew Melissa's help was what the family needed. How could I help anyway? I was terrified to hold a baby, worrying I would drop them, never letting myself practice, knowing full well how precious that little life is. This was the first time I remember feeling uncomfortable and inadequate around children. I couldn't even manage to make my face look like I was excited by a piece of lego being held up by toddler, their blue eyes wide with wonder. I was too distracted by the little toes so near my wheels, and the little fingers attempting to find the on button for this big toy that I was sitting in. Later in my twenties, whenever I was in a cafe with friends, everyone else would seemingly point out how cute that baby was sitting in a high chair on the next table. I instead would see a child that was overtired due for a sleep, not pouring down their face mingling with the mash that the baby's mother was spooning into their mouth. I clearly was missing that mothering Jean. At this stage of my life, I was deluded and arrogant. I remember thinking how very boring that mother's life would be as I paid for my share of the bill, pulling my car keys out of my designer handbag. I believed that because I was not born normal, not the standard, I was not going to have a regular life. I was going to have an amazing life. In fact, I was going to be success, maybe a CEO, a hotel inspector five Stars only of course, or the head of Tourism Australia. My life was going to be filled with work and I couldn't wait. On reflection, I think this was my way of protecting myself from heartbreak. I was unable to confront the fact that I had no examples of how someone like me could be a mum, knowing that if I raised the topic, questions would be asked and I had no answers. As my mother would say, there's no book telling you the absolute right way to parent a child. But if there was, there was definitely no chapter of how to parent a child when you have cerebral palsy. Then one single day changed my mind about motherhood. My father, Clive, was in ICU after having his second stroke in six months. This was not my first radio with hospitals and health, but it had never been dad before. The shock was so pronounced it made it hard to breathe. Nothing was guaranteed. My dad was not bulletproof. Life might not end like a movie. Like my younger self had presumed. My thinly veiled bravado that I liked being single evaporated after my dad's strokes. A strong pull that I had never experienced before was now ever present. It forced me to be brave. I decided life was not a dress rehearsal. It was time to take life more seriously. Can you have sex? This was one of the most common questions I got asked by straight single males whenever I went out to party with my friends. Most of the time, the tone of this question was not gentle, but abrasive. It was not done in a whisper, but loud enough for his mates to snigger behind him. It was designed to humiliate. This was not a pick up line, but if it was, I would have sat would you like to find out? I have also been asked by a man if I own a bed, equally perplexing, I have been asked if I have a vagina. I am not Barbi. I am a woman. I did not come in a box, but I have a box. I was so naive to beauty standards. I thought, once someone got to know me, the fact I have cerebral palsy would be a non issue. But as I attended more and more engagements, weddings, and then baby showers, I realized people didn't see me how I saw myself. I had done the carry Bradshaw single years. I lived in a beautiful little place near the city. I was independent, I was happy, surrounded by friends, and every outfit aimed to reflect the fact that I was the picture perfect girl most of the time, even if I couldn't stand up. And yet my puzzle piece was not making himself known. I was realizing the men I was attracted to were not necessarily attracted to me. Cred men somehow smell desperation. I didn't feel desperate, but equally with each year I was surprised to have not found him yet. COVID for everyone was like a big full stop on all our lives. It felt like overnight, my friends, who were in settled relationships decided to move the schedule forward and start a family. The party was over. Now what felt like every conversation with my girlfriends was no longer lighthearted, but instead made me want to bite my nails with anxiety. Epic stories of late night excapades were replaced with talk of the prospects of getting pregnant and how statistically unlikely that can be. My age was now seen as a negative. Time was a rare resource that we had seemingly squandered. The pressure felt immense. After high school sex ed had drilled into us not to get pregnant. It felt like whiplash to be now considering the opposite doing the unsettling math in my head that I was single and that I had to factor in the time to find the person, date them for a while, and then get pregnant. The math wasn't mathing. My mother's story then came into sharp focus for me. I knew my mother, Lorraine, had struggled with infertility. After all, I was the result of years of trying, failing, losing. I was her miracle, the person she'd been trying to meet for over ten years. Now I saw her story differently. I realized it might be my story too. I had always been the baby in the story, the happy ending. But now I had to face the fact that I might be the mother struggling to get pregnant. This handful of years in my thirties was like it or not, going to define a big part of my life. Would I have children? Would I become a mother? Then, like clockwork, a nagging reminder to those unanswered questions by mother Nature arrived every twenty eight days. The month's opportunity was not taken. That egg was now gone. Sitting in my IVF doctor's clinic on the first day of consultation, I had no idea the hidden challenges on the road ahead. I knew I was about to confront my fertility, but I had no idea I would have to confront the issues of access, dignity, and equality. There were many more eggs I was yet destined to lose. Thank you for listening to Eggs, a limited series from the creator of the I Can't Stand Podcast. This series was voiced, written, and produced by me Peter Hook. If you've faced similar barriers with IVF, or you work in the healthcare system and want to share your story about ableism, I'd love to hear from you. Links in the episode description, and all stories can be shared anonymously. Just let me know if that's your preference. Your support truly means so much. Thank you for listening, Take care. I would like to respectfully acknowledge they were wondery and Bunner wrong people of the call and nation of which I record the podcast today, and I pay my respects to both elders past and present, along with and especially to those in the First Nation's communities who are disabled themselves.