I’m a mother of one, and that’s all I’ll ever be. I’m part of a snug, tightly
knit circle of three – mummy, daddy and baby. We will only ever buy one cot,
one baby bath, one pram, one trike. We don’t have to go through the whole
sleepless-nights thing again. We have to consider only one set of schools,
for one sex (a boy). And we can plan for the future with more certainty than
those of our friends who want, or have, more children. It’s a lovely life, a
privileged life; I know people who think it’s a perfect life. But it’s not
the life I chose.
When I was younger, I couldn’t imagine not having children. I thought I
would have two, or even four: not one (lonely only), and not three (wild
middle child). But the very idea of having them scared me so much that I
wondered if I ever would. But here I am, stuck on some ledge between that
ideal family of four and the life without kids I secretly feared. And it is
a common story of too little, too late.
I have never felt maternal or broody, never had that primal urge to produce. I
never baby-sat as a teenager, and I felt uncomfortable if someone brought a
baby into the office. I didn’t know how to pick them up – they were all
floppy. I dragged my feet through my twenties, and then my long-term
relationship faltered after nine years. He had wanted children from the
outset, but I resisted, and my inability to commit was one of the main
issues that spelt the end for us. A brief spell of fun ensued, then I met
and married a man for whom children was a condition of the proposal. After a
year of being newlyweds, we started trying – and I became pregnant after six
months.
Three years on, I have no idea how I got that bun in the oven so easily. My
menstrual cycle had always been weird. I had no idea about ovulation, bodily
fluids, temperature charts or hormone levels. We worked hard and went out a
lot, and we certainly weren’t “careful” – somehow that did the trick.
Early bleeding and a Down’s syndrome alarm put the fear of God into me that I
might actually lose this baby, so I swiftly joined the broody camp. By my
second trimester, at the age of 35, I had willingly given up the fags and
booze and sunk back, surprisingly gratefully, into the chubby comfort of
being an expectant mother.
I loved being pregnant. I developed a passion for wine gums and poppadoms, and
spent a fortune in Topshop’s maternity department. I worried about my
motherly abilities, but as my belly grew, so did my desire to meet this
small, tickling thing who was making my feet and ankles swell and my back
ache.
Jonah arrived two weeks early. The resulting stay in hospital was truly
medieval and helped my descent into the postnatal depression I had always
assumed that I would get. I took mild antidepressants for five months and
had counselling for a year. I got through it, and, as a result, my love for
Jonah and strength as a mother were greater than I had ever imagined
possible. Jonah, of course, is truly beautiful. He slept, laughed, walked
and ate well. We all muddled along, and by the time he was eight months old,
I felt strong enough to do two things: go back to work, and start trying for
another baby.
The months went by. Work was great, but I was part-time, and I began to dwell
on other things, such as the absence of a second baby. When seven months had
passed with no double lines appearing on the test sticks, I found myself
sitting in the GP’s surgery, getting the results of some blood tests. She
pushed a box of tissues towards me and told me, gently, that I had some of
the worst hormone levels for fertility. What she meant was: you won’t be
having any more babies.
How can it be that, in two short years, you can switch from always having
feared something to being wholly, utterly and helplessly in love with it? If
someone had told me how I would be feeling as I limped home from that
consultation with wobbly legs and a heavy heart, I might never have been so
reluctant to get started the first time around. But then, what use is
hindsight to me now?
The doctor referred us for treatment, but the waiting list was three months
long. By the time our first appointment came around, I was far, far away in
a dark place, putting up with uncomfortable investigations, taking endless
negative pregnancy tests and having sad meetings with medics, as my dreams
drifted out of reach.
Over the course of a year, we saw the best and worst of the NHS in action. We
were poked and prodded, had our hopes raised and dashed, and became
consummate experts in the art of waiting. We had one round of
hormone-boosting, egg-growing drugs, a treatment that was aborted when my
dwindling menstrual cycle packed in completely.
No hormone, real or fake, can stimulate the production of brand-new eggs when
you have none. The consultant diagnosed premature ovarian failure and,
politely and delicately, sent me away from his clinic with a packet of
hormone-replacement-therapy drugs to help with the night flushes and
exhaustion.
Luckily, my husband is ruthlessly upbeat. He is an only child and proud of it,
and not remotely bothered that we will be on a table for three from now on.
His attitude is going to make it much easier for us all to move on.
Many things keep me optimistic, chiefly that most simple and obvious platitude
that we are lucky to have Jonah. My husband tells me that being “only” is a
lovely life – and I believe him. And many people I know have not even had
their first child yet; some won’t ever. We are lucky.
But my son will always be known as an only child, with all the connotations
that the label can bring. Will people expect him to be spoilt? Will they
expect him to be insular? Will he be lonely? Will people assume we opted for
a more comfortable lifestyle, rather than go through the bother of having
more? Some already wonder why we don’t do IVF (using someone else’s eggs) or
adoption. Given my past history of worrying about how I would bond with my
own child, the thought of going through it with another person’s is too
daunting to consider.
Mine is a common story: no more eggs.Why it has happened to me at 38 is
something I’ve wrestled with, but, as time passes, it’s not helpful for me
to wonder further. We have Jonah. We have a lovely house and enough money.
We haven’t lost a baby. My husband loves me. Nobody has died.
But still I feel bereaved. I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful. However, it’s fair
to say I am experiencing the death of something – the idea of more children.
A planned way of life, for Jonah and for us, that will never be.
For further information and advice about secondary infertility, contact
Infertility Network UK on 0870 118 8088 or www.infertilitynetworkuk.com
