MY OTHER PROJECT • by Bianca Presto

Ten years ago she chose us. We wished for her, for years and years we tried, we hoped hard and often, but like all good things, she took her sweet effing time. From fourteen chances down to just the one. One egg. One Shot. One basket. Which kind of makes me the Michael Jordan of IVF,  a self-anointed moniker I wear with pride.

I had an inkling I’d struggle to conceive from an early age. My teens to be exact, but it wasn’t until I moved to the UK that I was finally diagnosed with severe endometriosis in my early 20s. Endometriosis is a condition in which the layer of tissue that normally covers the inside of the uterus grows outside of it. With one of the worst cases the consultant had ever seen, I spent the next few years undergoing numerous laparoscopy treatments (a procedure where a laser is inserted through your belly button to burn away scar tissue), having my internal organs separated from each other as a result of years of internal bleeding which had caused them to fuse together including my bowel which was attached to my back like a sort of macabre puzzle.

My husband and I were told that the likelihood of us ever conceiving naturally were abysmally low but we gave it a good ol’ go for two years. I look back fondly on that time and think, ‘god I wish I still had that level of energy.’

After two years of scheduled sex, tests, charts and graphs, we were both mentally and physically exhausted and required a much-needed time out in the fertility sin bin. We sought medical advice and intervention and not long after a local GP referral, we were well on our IVF way. LOL, plot twist, if by ‘well on our way’ you think I meant it was smooth sailing from that point, you’d be optimistic, but wrong.

From severe highs to the lowest lows, for a year we went through what can only be described as a “vetting” process as every aspect of our health and lives was assessed before we were granted the go ahead. Getting that elusive approval from the clinic became harder and harder, it seemed that every time we went for an appointment I’d walk away in tears with yet another suggestion to cut something out of our diets, to exercise more, to be more positive before we would be given the final (all important) appointment with the head consultant who would ultimately approve our treatment.

I will never forget when it finally happened. It was the end of the day, we were one of the last appointments and we were listening to yet another well-meaning nurse make the suggestion that we cut out wheat, sugar, caffeine, fun, life etc when the consultant doctor strode in, perched at the end of the desk, flipped through our notes, asked a few questions and said “well what are you waiting for, let’s make these guys a family.” I still can’t think of his words without crying. 

We began our journey to become a family with 14 eggs. By all accounts a hugely successful treatment, however as the days progressed, one by one they started to die off until we were left with just one. One perfect, grade A egg. 

But one was enough. A few months after meeting the consultant doctor I was pregnant. Our daughter was born at 36 weeks weighing five pounds, covered in lanugo and resembling a capuchin monkey.

How many kids you have, or don’t have, is so personal and the road to conception is not always straightforward or successful for everyone so please, never ask us why we have only one kid. Instead, you’re welcome to ask us how we made someone so utterly, fucking awesome.

So there you go. One story, my story. Just another one out of millions of mothers and all our stories are different. To the ones who have raised us, who are waiting, who are trying, who have lost and may never be. I hope your stories are heard too.