MY OTHER PROJECT • by Helen Beaumont
I always knew that I wanted children over a career. A big family appealed to me, it really was the dream, so at 21, in my first serious relationship, I wanted to start trying for a baby. He was more practical and thought we should wait. Oh, if only I knew then that I’d be waiting another twenty odd years.
At 36 when I got together with E I pretty much knew that we’d have to get cracking on the baby front;I felt time was ticking for my dream of a big family, and I already suspected I might have to do more than “just relax” to fall pregnant. I was right. After trying for a year, we were stuck on a long NHS IVF waiting list, until I didn’t want to wait any longer. So off we went to Brno in the Czech Republic to start a much cheaper private IVF package than what was on offer in the UK.
Maybe my naivety about the whole process helped because I somehow got pregnant on my first transfer. Phew, I could breathe again. After all those years of trying and diagnostic operations to deduce that I had unexplained infertility, here it was, the positive pregnancy test! What an amazing sight. This is what I’d been working for. The light at the end of the tunnel.
Alas, ten weeks later the light turned into a hideous mess of miscarriage, disbelief and depression. The rug was well and truly pulled from under me.
My coping mechanism was to carry on, have a plan and try, try, try again. Too-many-to-count flights and far too many nights holed up in a small, unfamiliar Czech town, I tried another 5 times with no success.
The pressure ruined our relationship, it was over. I wasn’t prepared to wait around for (another) Mr Right to come along, or to give up on my dream, so I resorted to my coping mechanism; to carry on, have a plan, And try again.
I picked a sperm donor from The States for various reasons - there’s a much bigger pool of donors and I wanted to see photos. As time went on these things became less important. In the end I literally didn’t care who the donor was, but this was only the beginning. And so, a matter of weeks later my very special delivery winged it’s way over to the UK. I decided to try a London clinic this time. Three times more expensive than abroad, but maybe without the travel it would be less stressful experience and less stress is good, right?
Right. Pregnant again. Hot footed it to the acupuncturist, supplements galore, relaxing break in France....None of it helped, I had miscarriage at ten weeks, again. Ooph. Back to square one.
Fertility treatment had become my life now. I worked solely to pay for it. I’d always loved my job, but now I was distracted, juggling doctors appointments, injections, scans, travelling to clinics, it not only spoiled my work life but my social life was affected too. I tried to treat my body like a temple. Cigarettes and alcohol were long gone, swapped for probiotics and yoga. I was basically a bore.
I couldn’t afford UK prices anymore and cheap and cheerful Czech Republic wasn’t an option as I was a single woman and their fertility laws would prohibit my going it alone. So I found a new clinic in Athens. Great, I thought. I’d never been to Athens before and I love Greek food. I went 6 times in the end. I know it pretty well by now.
I tried one last time with my own eggs before making the decision to move onto donor eggs. It just made sense to back a winning horse. The odds were against my old eggs and I just couldn’t face another negative pregnancy test or miscarriage. I really believed donor eggs were the answer and they were definitely going to take me over the finish line, but it didn’t quite work out like that. Twice it didn’t work. On my third donor egg cycle I got pregnant, but it wasn’t to be and I miscarried again.
I’m not sure where I got the strength or the resilience from, but I returned to Athens for the sixth time. By now I’d started investigating further into my miscarriages and that had led me to find Professor Brosens, who armed me with a prescription of mega steroids to keep my pesky “natural kill cells” at bay, something he says I had too many of and that was a bad thing.
With a new clinic, a new egg donor, a new sperm donor, a new doctor and a week on the island of Hydra, to relax, I trod the familiar route home once again…but this time - the thirteenth time - I was coming home with my miracle baby on board.
She’s 5 months old now and, of course, she was worth it. I named her Marcella. It means Little Warrior.