Photog
raphy^ Liz^ S
impsonmy experience
CalmMoment.com 51J
ust as some people can pinpoint what
they were wearing on a particular
occasion, my memories have been linked
to infertility for years. Nicki’s hen do?
I wasn’t drinking in case it helped me
conceive. That holiday in Suffolk? Miserable; our
third round of IVF had just failed. The Christmas
party? I injected hormones in the ladies’ toilets.
Even now, looking at photos of that time is painful.
When my husband, Jon, and I started trying for
a baby when I was 33, I assumed we’d be a family
within a year or so. I’d been diagnosed with
endometriosis in my twenties, but I’m one of four
children so I assumed prime fertility ran in my
genes. It took a few months, but I did fall pregnant
and we were thrilled... until I miscarried four weeks
later, on holiday in Portugal. We were sad but
philosophical – one in four pregnancies ends in
miscarriage – and started trying again. Not exactly
a hardship.
Until it became a hardship. With every month
of soaring hope and crashing disappointment
I became more obsessed with getting pregnant
again, convinced it was my ‘fault’. I Googled for
information, and started giving things up. Coffee,
occasional cigarettes, then alcohol. After two years
I bought ovulation sticks and insisted on scheduled
sex. As much as possible when I was fertile, none
the rest of the time. Or sex every day throughout
the month. Or every other day. It all depended
which article I’d read about ‘conception secrets’.
My husband was incredibly understanding but
the pressure took its toll on our relationship. We
stopped having fun together. He’d suggest we went
to the pub; I’d say, “I can’t drink”. He’d want to buy
tickets to a music festival, but I’d refuse in case
I was pregnant by the time it rolled around. He’d
suggest we went on an adventure to Costa Rica,
but I’d say we should save money in case we
needed IVF. All I cared about was having a baby.
It wasn’t just my relationship that suffered; my
friendships were very affected. I became depressed,saying no to most social things, or going along but
not letting myself have even one drink in case
abstinence was the answer. I found it impossible
to relax or switch off. I rarely laughed.
Worse was how I reacted when friends got
pregnant. I was so jealous, I had no filter. I’d end up
in tears when someone told me their happy news.
I’d text friends before social occasions to ask if they
were planning an ‘announcement’ so I could steel
myself. I knew I was behaving appallingly, but
I couldn’t help it. It felt so unfair, especially if it had
happened easily for them. My husband couldn’t
understand that. He’d say, “But it’s not our baby, it’s
nothing to do with us!” Rationally, he was right. But
I was far from rational.
Because I had got pregnant once, the GP
wouldn’t refer me to a fertility clinic for a long time,
even though I begged. “You’re capable,” she said,Liz and her husband
Jon started trying for a
baby when she was 33
and both assumed it
would be plain sailing.