Anonymous UK

I had always wanted to be a mother. As a teenager, I babysat and volunteered at children’s groups, doing crafts and drama. I wanted to get married first and settle down. I was never too ambitious in work because I knew I wanted a family first and might want to give up work for a few years (this was back in the days that seemed financially possible!)

My twenties ticked by with a series of long, but unsuccessful relationships. At 28 I was left heartbroken after been cheated on and lied to. I needed a few years it turned out, to recover and feel like I could trust again. By my thirties I was in a better place. I moved to a new town, made new friends, tried a new career and met a lovely man who was serious about me, and everything was finally possible. We moved in together, got engaged, got married. He wasn’t in a hurry, and I later felt like I was the driving force behind everything, and I was essentially pushing him into each life stage. When we started trying for a baby, I had just turned 37. I wasn’t worried at all, I knew fertility became an issue after 40, but that was years away. Then the pandemic hit. We were trying to conceive, and nothing was happening. As we emerged from Lockdown 3, I went to the doctors and started having tests. Suddenly everyone was concerned about how old I was. “Because of your age…” was the start of most sentences. I was confused, I didn’t consider myself old, I didn’t feel old, or look old. Yet every health professional made me feel ancient. And also fat. Due to the NHS requirements in my area, I needed to be under a BMI of 30. I was BM 30.2 so I kept being reminded to lose those “extra” few pounds. I’m happy with my body, a dress size 12, very average for the UK, yet I was told I wouldn’t be allowed treatment until I reached that magical BMI 29.9. I had weeks where I lived off salad and herbal teas.

I hated being in the clinic. How slow the process was. How every date you’d be given for results would be incorrect and you’d have to spend weeks making follow up phone calls to figure out what was happening. I got the green light for IVF when I was 39. We were entitled to one round because of the NHS postcode lottery (ironically, if I’d stayed in my hometown, I’d have been allowed three rounds.)

All my stats were low. I’d go on the clinic’s online forums and compare my data with everyone else. It seemed full of other women, all desperate and looking for hope and comfort. Everyone online was kind and reassuring but it all felt a bit helpless. By my final scan I had 4 follicles and only two of a viable size. I sat in the chair and thought about my baby. I said their name in my mind and prayed they would make it.

On the day of the egg collection, I was nervous about the anaesthetic. I had never been under general anaesthetic before but remember feeling like I had just gone peacefully to sleep. When I woke up, my husband joined me, and we were told they hadn’t been able to collect any eggs. I remember saying I never wanted to go through that process again. I couldn’t speak on the journey home, I just groggily stared out of the car window. A follow up appointment took place the week after my 40th birthday. They told me that my eggs didn’t have the correct cell structure to make a baby. There would be a 5% chance of success if I tried IVF again with my own eggs. They said it would go up to 50% if I used a donor.

I looked into egg donation, adopting, fostering, all kinds of alternatives. I had hated the whole process and couldn’t bear the thought of going through it again and not being able to use my own eggs. I kept looking at old family photos and seeing the resemblance of us all moving through the years. I feel so connected to my family, I couldn’t get beyond the idea of my DNA not being part of my baby. I also couldn’t get past the shock of it. Finances were a big factor - everything would cost thousands of pounds from this point onwards and we didn’t have enough savings.

I wanted to take control of the situation and make the choice myself. It felt like a relief after being dragged through the system. I read stories of women who endured multiple IVF cycles and don’t understand how they did it, I’m in awe of them. What amazing strength they must have.

My marriage didn’t survive, cutting off any chance of trying again. I’m still finding my path with grieving. I tell myself that I did all I could cope with. A huge life-changing event happened to me and the path I wanted to follow isn’t open to me. I told very few people and now I know I need to remedy that. I don’t know what the future holds and I have to accept a dream has died. I’m trying to see the next part as a new chapter, blank pages to fill with whatever I wish. I’m trying to relocate that youthfulness I felt. I’m looking forward to finding new dreams.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash