Victoria’s Infertility Story
“Friends were making happy pregnancy announcements, some even on their second, and as much as I wanted to feel happy for them, all I felt was sadness, pain and injustice. ”
I always knew I wanted to be a mum; there was no light bulb moment; it was just always there in my heart and soul.
At twenty-two years of age, I became a flight attendant. I travelled the world and had the time of my life, but every year till the day I left, I’d tell people in our annual exams that it would be my last because I was going to meet my Prince Charming and go on maternity leave.
I met Tom (not his real name) when I was twenty-six, he was a firefighter, handsome, funny, and had a motorbike. Having just got my bike license we had a shared passion, and it wasn’t long before we moved in together, and trying for a baby felt like a natural step. I came off the pill, and we did our bit to make one.
Like most women of that age, I had been on the pill for many years, so when my periods returned and they were irregular, I just put it down to my hormones taking time to settle. However, after months of trying and my periods still erratic, I decided to visit the GP for some help and advice.
Getting a PCOS diagnosis
I was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) after cysts were discovered on my ovaries, and it felt like someone had knocked me sideways. My GP tried explaining to me what PCOS was, but all I heard was, ‘You might not be able to have a baby’.
I went home and cried.
I never had any of the symptoms that I’d known to associate with PCOS, like acne, weight gain, and hirsutism (excessive hair growth). I just had infrequent and excruciating periods, but I’d been taught to think that the pain was ‘normal’.
The doctor didn’t offer me much information on how to manage the condition or point me in the direction of help, so I took to the internet for information. I made a plan around nutrition and exercise in the hope of lessening the condition and regaining some of the control I felt I’d lost over my body and my future.
In the months that passed, we continued to try for a baby, but I had no idea what to think or do. I felt alone, and that no one understood me. I tried explaining it to my family and boyfriend, but nobody seemed to grasp the diagnosis’ impact on me. This was my lifelong dream, potentially being taken from me.
Sadly, my motorbiking Prince Charming turned out to be a dud, so my hope of becoming a mother got put on hold, and I re-entered the world of dating, hoping that my ‘happy-ever-after’ was still out there somewhere.
My IVF journey
Fast forward to now, I am forty-three and on my third round of IVF treatment as a single woman.
My IVF journey started when I was forty-one with a visit to a Fertility Clinic with the plan to have my eggs frozen.
At the appointment, I was advised against this because at my age unfertilised eggs would be less likely to withstand the freezing process. Instead, it was suggested that I create fertilised embryos using a sperm donor.
Two years passed as I struggled to come to terms with using a donor. It felt too faceless and detached. I needed to feel some connection with the donor profiles, and the limited descriptions and baby pictures didn’t do that for me. I decided once again to put dating back on the table and hoped Mr Right would want a family immediately.
Covid then hit and I lost my job. Financially I could just about keep my head above water, so sadly IVF was no longer an option.
Eventually, I got a new job, but sadly no new Mr Right, so I decided to move forward with a sperm donor and hot-footed it to Greece for IVF Treatment.
I practically skipped into the clinic full of hope and happiness at the prospect of becoming a mum. Even the thought of innumerable self-injections didn’t phase me; strangely, I looked forward to them since they were going to bring me, my baby.
Treatment was straightforward, textbook, if you will. The two-week model of going to Greece and returning pregnant almost seemed too easy. As it turned out, it was.
I looked at the digital screen on the pregnancy test and clutched my chest. ‘Not Pregnant’. My heart broke. I kept repeating to myself ‘no, no, no’. I couldn’t even cry; I was in total shock and denial. I kept rechecking the test. Had my eyes deceived me? Was it wrong? I just couldn’t believe it. Then the tears came, and I sobbed for days. It wasn’t just the loss of the embryo; it was the loss of what had been mapped out in my head and heart since I was young enough to know what being a mum was. All the dreams and fantasies of holding my baby were destroyed in a second.
Life took on a bleak and depressing air for the next few weeks. It was hard to find sense, hope or joy in anything. Since a ‘failure’ appointment with my doctor wasn’t possible for another two weeks, I bumbled around without any explanation or opportunity to ask, ‘What went wrong?’.
I examined every action and decision I’d made, from lifting my suitcase the day after embryo transfer to walking briskly up a hill with my dog, as a reason for why I didn’t get pregnant. I knew it wasn’t my fault, and yet I still couldn't help but blame myself for it.
It seemed like everywhere I looked; there were new babies. Friends were making happy pregnancy announcements, some even on their second, and as much as I wanted to feel happy for them, all I felt was sadness, pain and injustice.
A few months later I returned to Greece for another round of IVF which sadly didn’t result in a pregnancy, so I decided I needed a new approach and sought the help of a well-renowned fertility clinic in the UK.
Hopes for the future
As I write this, the future is still unknown. I start stims again next week for my second egg retrieval, but the financial impact that comes with IVF is challenging, and I am concerned that I’ll not be able to afford the third, which was originally agreed with my doctor. This means an embryo transfer could be closer than I had originally expected. But with this comes fear. Fear and hope, all wrapped up in one conflicting ball of emotion.
Making embryos is relatively ‘safe’. You do your bit; take your meds and supplements. Don’t drink caffeine or alcohol, get good rest, eat well, leave the stims to work their magic, and pray your hardest that you get a few good embryos that make it to blastocyst and beyond.
An embryo transfer is a whole other story. It’s the day that you most look forward to, but at the same time, you get scared. With an embryo transfer, you become vulnerable to having your heart crushed again. And even though life could suddenly become all you ever wished for, and every penny well spent, there is also the chance that you might have to pick yourself up from one of the darkest, saddest, and most loneliest of places and be forced to consider what your life would look like if you cannot have a child.
Let’s hope this story finally gets a happy ending because, quite frankly, so far this fairytale has been a bit of a letdown.
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