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harshly, one day, “it’s because you’re not relaxed.”
I came home in tears and that night we signed up
for private treatment. The GP had to write the
referral letter: ‘She’s hysterical’, it claimed.
Luckily the consultant was incredible. He ran
tests and gently told me my egg reserve was
“surprisingly low” for my age, so advised me to go
straight to IVF, rather than waste time doing less
invasive treatments. He arranged for me to be an
NHS patient, to save us money.
I was very optimistic for our first round. It was
surprisingly intensive; I set alarms on my phone to
remember all the different daily stages. I had to sniff
a hormone suppressant every four hours; take pills;
go for scans every two days, then inject myself in
the stomach once a day. I finally relaxed a bit; at
last getting pregnant wasn’t down to me – it was
someone else’s responsibility. But it didn’t go well.
My follicles only released three tiny eggs, even
when I was put on a double dose of all the
medication to stimulate my ovaries more. When
I eventually had my egg collection operation, there
were still only three (they hope for around 10),
and only one fertilised into an embryo.“You only need one!” everyone told me. But one
wasn’t enough. Five days after the transfer, I started
bleeding. We were devastated.
IVF is a postcode lottery: where we live, you can
only get one round free on the NHS (other counties
will pay for up to three). But we mentally committed
our savings and went back to the clinic. I’ll never
forget that meeting. “You didn’t do very well,” the
doctor said bluntly, as if I hadn’t tried hard enough.
“Your odds of having a baby are less than 1 percent.
I suggest you give up.” We were stunned by her
cold delivery of such shocking news. My husband
asked if it was worth trying a few more rounds.
“Some people think it’s worth wasting thousands
of pounds on a flash car,” she replied. “I don’t.”
Reeling, we returned to our private consultant,
who was again amazing. He advised us to go
abroad for more specialist treatment, and we flew
to Barcelona a few weeks later. Bizarrely, having
treatment in Spain was more relaxing than in
the UK. Yes, I had to jet back and forth, have
undignified and often painful procedures, and it
was all hugely expensive (we spent over £40,000 in
the end), but whereas English clinics tell you the
minutiae of every stage, the Spanish method was
excellent, but detached. ‘Don’t worry’, they told us.
‘We will get you pregnant.’ And they eventually did.
When I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl,
we couldn’t have been more overjoyed and grateful.
Over the years my husband, family and friends
were endlessly supportive, but I was also helped a
lot by a fertility counsellor. With her, I could voice
the things I was ashamed of feeling and she’d
normalise them. Fertility struggles are tough
because we grow up being told that getting
pregnant is easy and natural, she said. It’s true.
Every time I did a negative pregnancy test (dozens
over the years), I felt like a failure as a woman.
I always wanted a big family, but although ours
is small, it is full of joy. The journey here was tough,
but when I look at my daughter, I’d do it all again.Liz and Jon enjoying life
with their beautiful baby
girl – though the journey
was difficult, Liz would
do it again in a second.In the end Liz travelled
back and forth to
Spain for treatment,
and eventually
became pregnant.