Читать книгу David and Me: My path to solo motherhood - Esther Robinson - Страница 10

‘And suddenly you know: It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.’

Meister Eckhart

Choosing a new clinic was a curious process. I was not so interested in overall success rates as I was in the degree to which the clinic was willing and able to take a personalised approach to its clients. Following evidence-based treatment protocols is box-tickingly easy; taking each woman as an individual case is not, and it requires time, effort and an open mind.

Harry drove me to my first appointment. It was January and it was already getting dark as we left. The clinic was over an hour’s drive away and I was grateful to be chatting freely, unconcerned about the appointment. This second clinic was also in a hospital – NHS this time. Clustered around the entrance was a group of heavily pregnant smokers, in their twenties at most, clutching dressing gowns around their bumps against the January evening air. There was a smokers’ shelter close by but it was unused, and for some inexplicable reason the hospital seemed to tolerate the entrance being crowded with pregnant smokers. It was the same entrance used by women attending for fertility treatment, for viability scans, for surgery following miscarriage and any other appointments concerned with conception and pregnancy. More than once I witnessed the distress this sight caused some women.

The clinic was markedly different from the hospital that housed it. Recently opened, it was new, clean and comparatively high-tech, and all the members of staff I encountered were friendly and welcoming. There was the usual admin to go through but they had already requested my notes from my previous clinic. When I saw the consultant he had evidently read through the notes and picked up a few omissions that would need to be corrected before I started treatment there.

I felt so relieved to be there. Attitudes were upbeat and although I did get the now-familiar ‘age speech’ it was done with a very light touch and a heavy dose of hope. Here was a clinic that looked at the whole person and kept their eyes on the prize. I couldn’t help kicking myself for not choosing this clinic in the first place.

The consultant and I devised a plan – a medicated cycle of IUI – and I had some of the blood tests that the previous clinic had neglected to do. Everything had to be paid for; making babies is big business and if you’re not fortunate to be in a group that’s funded by the NHS you will pay for every last blood test and swab. Opportunities for making money are rarely missed in this business. You have to let it go or the inequity rankles.

The medicated IUI cycle involved more drugs than I had taken so far. I was prescribed a drug to downregulate my menstrual cycle and a mild stimulant for my ovaries. Both needed to be injected. I was daunted, despite never having had a fear of needles, but I received excellent training from the staff and a few days later I had a call from the company supplying the drugs requesting payment.

When I started injecting I felt only excitement. I was so much happier about the new clinic and had a growing sense that I would have a baby; that one day it really would happen. I had no issues with the injecting at all and when the day came for insemination I was thrilled to work out that if the treatment was successful, the due date would be my birthday. It had to work. On that basis alone, it had to work.

Choosing a new donor was so much easier at this clinic. I was given a wide choice and sufficient initial information to be able to make a shortlist. I chose who I thought would be a best match based on CMV status (CMV is the Cytomegalovirus, a common virus which causes complications if contracted in pregnancy – as I had tested negative for the virus, I needed a donor who had tested negative too; a precaution that those who conceive in person don’t get to take), colouring, height and then additional information such as occupation and educational background. Clinic staff were extremely understanding of how significant this process is. It’s a decision that cannot be taken lightly.

Once I had my shortlist and had selected a favourite, I was given the donor’s pen portrait. This is a document that any children conceived in this way can read at an appropriate time to find out more about the donor. Pen portraits can vary tremendously, but I was delighted that the one my donor had written was full of detail about him, his work, hobbies, childhood, family life and reasons for being a donor. He also wrote an incredibly touching note for any child conceived as a result of his donation, complete with his advice for life. Most significantly for me, however, was his assertion that he would be delighted to meet any children that resulted from his donation if they would like to meet him when the time came. In terms of ensuring that any child I had was supported as much as possible through this less-conventional path into the world, I was convinced that this was the donor for me. His reasons for being a donor seemed entirely altruistic and I felt an instinctive peace with the whole process. This was, in part, down to the care the clinic took to ensure I was happy, and also in part due to the support I received from my family and friends.

The last injection I had was the shot to trigger ovulation. Appointments at that clinic are timed carefully so that egg and sperm have the greatest chance of meeting at the optimum moment. The appointment for treatment was lighthearted; I was relieved there was laughter. The nurses and embryologist involved were supportive and interested. It was good to talk about choosing to be a solo mum and to have such a positive response from the team helping to make that happen. All of that had been missing at the previous clinic, which had made treatments feel like impersonal business transactions.

Despite the auspicious timing of this treatment, the positivity around treatment day and the additional progesterone support I took as a result of suspicions that I may not be producing enough myself, I began a heavy bleed ten days later.

There’s a mystery about pregnancy and the birth of new life that we simply need to respect. I have spoken to women who have been told there is absolutely no reason why they cannot conceive and yet they remain childless, and others who were told at some stage that there was no way they could ever have a baby and yet they conceived and carried to term. It seems that to be realistic is to proceed with humility and an acceptance that, ultimately, what will be will be.