To get pregnant, it helps to have an egg

In the quest for fertility, Kate Edwards shops for Easter eggs of a slightly unusual kind

CERTAIN bizarre yet closely guarded practices exist in infertility circles that are rumoured to have worked for some people, though most won't actually confess to having tried them. These include homeopathic remedies, superstitious rituals (like buying tampons to make sure that your period won't arrive) and little science experiments that "just might work".

This is how I found myself at the supermarket, contemplating putting egg whites in my vagina. I have heard that using egg whites as a lubricant can aid errant sperm to their proper destination. This is particularly important for users, like myself, of beginner-level fertility drugs which stimulate ovulation. Such drugs sometimes have the perverse side-effect of drying up cervical mucus, the normal medium through which sperm travel to the egg.

Other methods exist; some women swear by simply drinking more water. Others recommend the mucus thinner found in decongestants. Herbal remedies, on the other hand, will potentially trigger other irritating reproductive problems. The traditional remedies therefore explored without avail, I turned to egg-whites.

I gleaned some helpful advice from a woman who participates in an infertility bulletin board who had tried egg whites; she said to use them at room temperature (I make a mental note of this, grateful that I didn't have to discover it for myself). Someone else mentioned salmonella (which hadn't crossed my mind), so I think "pasteurised". Since I don't know how to pasteurise an egg, I fervently hope that such a product already exists.

At the supermarket, it strikes me that there isn't a sexy way to apply the egg whites. Does he wear them, like normal lubricant? Sounds messy. Do I use a turkey baster? Too cliched. A spoon? Too metallic.

Finally, I decide on a medicine dropper. Same idea as a turkey baster, but smaller.

On to the eggs aisle, where they do, in fact, sell little cartons of pasteurised egg whites. "Does this look right?" I ask my husband. "How should I know?" he says. The carton says: "Great for cakes, icings, biscuits, French toast, quiche, batters and coatings for baking or frying! Wonderful scrambled, and for tasty protein drinks! Due to pasteurisation, not recommended for meringue or angel food cake."

In the checkout line, I remind myself that there's no way the check-out assistant could put together what I'm going to do with a medicine dropper and egg whites. She's probably not even paying attention, right? I have a flashback of buying condoms in college - the surge of adrenaline that is both pride in and embarrassment at my own sexuality.

At home, I take an ovulation predictor test to make sure tonight's the night. Sure enough, Operation Egg White is ready for take-off.

As I write, I'm waiting for the egg whites to get to room temperature. I poured out a few tablespoons from the carton, and put the rest in the fridge (might as well leave some for later). The crucial dollop is currently downstairs on my kitchen counter, in a Pyrex dish, covered with cling-film. My plan is to fill the medicine dropper before things get started, so I can whip it out at just the right moment, if there is a right moment for egg whites during sex.

I am absolutely certain that the only way to get through infertility is by being able to laugh about it once in a while. I am constantly plagued by clueless people who say: "If you'd just relax, you'd get pregnant," "Stop thinking about it, and it will happen," or, worse, "Well, you're lucky, really ... I'm so fertile that if my husband so much as looks at me, I get pregnant!"

I take my temperature every morning, I take at least one pill a day to regulate my hormones and I've already been through more than one humiliating and uncomfortable test. But even though we've been trying for almost a year, I'm still just a beginner at infertility. I'm several months and a half dozen tests away from anything as expensive or invasive as in-vitro fertilisation.

So I'm trying to look at this egg white thing as fun, an adventure, an opportunity to make it interesting. Besides, having a plan, however ridiculous, takes some of the pressure off thinking about the next step, and it feels like a good omen - after all, eggs represent fertility.

Whatever. It will be a great story for the grandchildren.

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